On the Composition of a Proper Blend, and the Conduct Befitting It

It has been suggested to me—more than once, and with a degree of insistence that borders on the energetic—that I ought to set down, in some tolerably coherent form, my views on the making of a proper blend. I resist, as a rule, such suggestions. Not because I lack views (one is rarely so impoverished), but because the act of fixing them in writing lends them a permanence which they do not always deserve.

A blend, after all, is not a theorem. It is a disposition. And dispositions, if they are to remain civilised, must be allowed a certain flexibility.

Still, there are moments—often in the late afternoon, when the light has begun its slow negotiation with evening—at which one feels that some small record might be of use. Not a manual, certainly. But perhaps a set of observations, offered without compulsion, and to be taken up or set aside as inclination permits.

I shall begin, then, not with ingredients, but with intention. For without intention, one has not a blend, but a mixture. And the distinction, though easily overlooked, is the difference between accident and design.

I. On Intention, and the Avoidance of Enthusiasm

The first error committed by those who set out to make a blend is enthusiasm. It is a forgivable error, but an error nonetheless.

One becomes excited by possibilities. One considers what might be added—what could be improved, enhanced, elevated. The result is often a composition in which every element insists upon being noticed, and none consents to be understood.

A blend should not strive to impress. It should aim, rather, to settle.

Before selecting a single leaf, one must decide what the blend is for. Not in the commercial sense—such considerations, though unavoidable, are best left to those with a taste for them—but in the human sense.

Is it to accompany thought? To soften conversation? To occupy the interval between one engagement and another? To console, perhaps, or to sustain?

Until this question is answered—quietly, and without flourish—no useful work can be done.

II. On the Base, and the Question of Character

Every blend requires a base. This is not a technical necessity so much as a philosophical one.

The base is the element that does not seek attention, but without which nothing holds. It is the ground upon which the rest may stand without embarrassment.

One must choose it with care, though not with anxiety. There is a tendency among the inexperienced to search for the perfect base, as though such a thing existed independently of circumstance. It does not.

A base must be appropriate. It must possess sufficient character to sustain the blend, but not so much as to overwhelm it. It should be reliable in the way that certain conversations are reliable—not memorable in themselves, perhaps, but essential to everything that follows.

I have found, over time, that restraint at this stage is rarely regretted. One may always add complexity. It is considerably more difficult to remove it.

III. On Supporting Elements, and the Question of Society

Once the base has been established, one may begin to consider what is to accompany it.

Here, I would advise thinking not in terms of flavours, but of persons. A blend is, in many respects, a gathering. The elements within it must coexist—not merely tolerate one another, but contribute to a shared environment.

There are those who arrive determined to dominate. These must be treated with caution. A strong element, improperly handled, will reduce the rest to a kind of commentary upon itself.

This is not blending. It is annexation.

Better, by far, to select elements that are capable of conversation. That is to say, elements that possess character, but are not defined by it. They must be willing to recede, to allow others their moment, and to return without resentment.

One does not invite a guest who cannot listen.

IV. On Proportion, and the Necessity of Restraint

It is at this stage that most blends fail.

Having assembled a promising company, the blender is tempted to ensure that each element is adequately represented. The reasoning is understandable. If something is worth including, it must surely be worth noticing.

This is a mistake.

Proportion is not a matter of fairness. It is a matter of effect.

Some elements perform their function best when scarcely detectable. They operate, as it were, at the edges—modifying, softening, or extending what is already present. To increase their proportion in the hope of making them more evident is to misunderstand their purpose entirely.

One must be prepared to include things that will not be recognised.

This requires a certain humility, which is not always available.

V. On Time, and the Allowance for Adjustment

A blend, once composed, is not complete.

It must be allowed to rest.

This is not a romantic notion, though it has been presented as such by those inclined to embellishment. It is simply a recognition that elements require time to accommodate one another.

At first, they may appear disjointed. One may detect edges—small resistances, slight incompatibilities. These are not necessarily signs of failure. They are indications that the blend has not yet settled into itself.

Patience is required.

There is a temptation to intervene—to adjust, to correct, to improve. This temptation should be resisted, at least initially. One must allow the blend to declare its own deficiencies before attempting to remedy them.

Intervention, when premature, is rarely precise.

VI. On Tasting, and the Discipline of Attention

When one finally comes to taste the blend, one must do so with a degree of seriousness that may, to some, appear excessive.

This is unfortunate, but unavoidable.

Tasting is not consumption. It is observation.

One must attend—not only to what is present, but to how it presents itself. Does the blend arrive abruptly, or does it unfold? Does it insist, or does it suggest? Does it conclude, or does it linger?

These are not trivial matters.

A blend that begins too forcefully may fatigue. One that concludes too decisively may disappoint. One that lingers excessively may become intrusive.

The aim, if one may use so assertive a term, is balance—not as a static condition, but as a progression.

VII. On Correction, and the Limits of Improvement

Having tasted, one may find that adjustments are necessary.

These should be made sparingly.

It is a common belief that a blend may be perfected through successive refinements. This belief is attractive, but misleading. Beyond a certain point, further adjustments do not improve the blend; they merely alter it.

One must know when to stop.

This knowledge is not easily acquired. It depends, in part, upon experience, but more upon disposition. One must be willing to accept that a blend may be sufficient without being exemplary.

Perfection, in such matters, is often a form of restlessness.

VIII. On Naming, and the Question of Identity

It is customary, having completed a blend, to give it a name.

I approach this practice with caution.

A name has a way of fixing expectations. It suggests a character, a purpose, a tone. If the blend fails to meet these expectations, the fault is not always in the blend.

Better, perhaps, to choose a name that suggests rather than declares. Something that allows the blend to be discovered, rather than announced.

One does not introduce a person by listing their qualities.

IX. On Repetition, and the Illusion of Consistency

There is, in certain quarters, a demand for consistency. A blend, once established, is expected to reproduce itself indefinitely, with minimal variation.

This is understandable, but unrealistic.

Ingredients vary. Conditions change. Even the most careful replication will produce differences, however slight.

One must decide whether to resist these differences, or to accommodate them.

I have found it preferable to do the latter.

A blend that remains identical may be reliable, but it risks becoming lifeless. A blend that allows for small variations retains, if I may put it so, a certain vitality.

One does not expect the same conversation twice.

X. On the Purpose of It All

At this point, one may reasonably ask: what is the purpose of making a blend at all?

The question is not impertinent.

A blend does not solve a problem. It does not answer a question. It does not, in any practical sense, improve the world.

What it does—at its best—is create a condition in which certain things become possible.

Conversation, perhaps. Reflection. A moment of quiet. A slight adjustment in one’s disposition.

These are not negligible outcomes.

A Concluding Reflection

I have written at greater length than intended, which is, I suppose, inevitable once one begins.

If there is a principle underlying all that has been said, it is this: a good blend is not constructed, but composed. And composition, in this sense, is not the imposition of order, but the arrangement of elements in such a way that each may exist without diminishing the others.

This requires attention, patience, and a willingness to refrain from interference.

It also requires, I think, a certain regard for the materials themselves. Not as instruments, but as participants.

One does not make a blend. One allows it to occur, under conditions one has taken some care to arrange.

If this seems unsatisfactory—if one prefers rules, or formulas, or assurances—I can only apologise, and suggest that such things may be found elsewhere.

For my part, I have found that the most satisfactory blends are those that resist explanation, even as they reward attention.

And that, I think, is quite enough.