A piece of work can catch our attention before we know what to say about it. An image stays with us; an idea feels right. The explanation comes later. For creative professionals, that first response has to sit alongside more practical questions: who is the work for, what is it meant to achieve, and does it succeed?
Creative director Giorgi Kvlividze sees taste as something shaped by childhood impressions, cultural influences and years of learning from other people’s work. Finding a voice of your own takes time. Experience helps, but it can also make familiar approaches feel so reliable that unfamiliar ones become harder to recognise as valuable.
We spoke to Kvlividze about the relationship between instinct and judgement, the search for a distinctly Georgian creative voice, and why the pressure to produce something brilliant can get in the way of making anything at all.
M: What separates judging a piece of work from describing your reaction to it? What do we draw on when we move beyond ‘I like it’ or ‘I don’t’?
It is very difficult to draw a clear line between good and bad taste. When I’m working with people, I try to give them time to express what they have in mind, without labelling an idea good or bad too early. What someone wants to say isn’t always apparent in the first attempt. A piece of work needs time to take the form they intended.
In our profession, the main point of reference is the task itself: what is this work supposed to do, and does it do it? Alongside that, there is personal taste, which begins developing very early and acquires different influences over time.
For me, the strongest work brings together the demands of the brief and the author’s own voice. You can answer the brief while expressing something that matters to you. The ability to bring those things together is a large part of what I understand by experience and professionalism.
M: How does that personal voice emerge when so much of learning a creative discipline involves studying other people’s work?
Taste has an early foundation, formed in childhood. As we meet people and enter new environments, more layers are added. Music is a useful example: what we listened to as children is joined by other genres and artists, sometimes through the influence of the people around us or the circles we want to belong to.
Something similar happens professionally. At a certain stage, we emulate people we admire. We see work we love and try to make something like it. That can be a useful way to learn. Understanding someone else’s approach helps you develop your own abilities.
But that stage has a lifespan. Eventually, you have to work out what you actually like and what you want to express. The difficult part is bringing together those early inclinations, everything you have learned since, and the demands of the job. Your own voice gradually emerges through that process.
M: What makes work valuable to a professional audience, and what makes it connect with the wider public? How do you see the gap between those responses?
Work can have an effect on a particular audience, get a message across quickly and satisfy expectations people already have. That is an achievement, but I think our industry can do more.
We can give people a new impression, make them laugh in an interesting way, or prompt a feeling they weren’t expecting. Although we don’t work directly in the arts, we can learn from art’s ability to offer a new experience and awaken an interest in life. I think that gives our work a degree of responsibility.
I would like to see more discussion within the profession about what we make and how we assess it. Those conversations are gradually developing across different fields in Georgia. We need more of them in our industry too.
M: How much does our environment shape our taste? Is looking at work within our own industry enough?
Our environment matters enormously. Urban planning, cultural life, everything we encounter day to day affects our creative state of mind. Working in Georgia can sometimes be difficult in that respect. Our surroundings don’t always give us the range and quality of experiences we need to develop.
That makes it important for people in our field to explore as much as possible outside the industry. You absorb those experiences, process them and find ways to use them in your own work. They help you answer a particular brief and contribute to the quality of what you make.
M: How much does knowing who made something, or knowing their reputation, influence our judgement?
It certainly affects our response. That is true of a book or a film, and it is true in our field. But I wouldn’t say it is decisive in the Georgian industry. Our market isn’t so large or established that professional hierarchies determine everything.
For me, strong work stands on its own. An experienced judge should be able to focus on the work itself. A good professional can produce something disappointing, or reach a new peak. Their name cannot tell you in advance how good a particular piece will be.
M: When everyone draws inspiration from the same international references, how do we find a language of our own?
Many people go through a period of working in the manner of someone else. You see it in art too: an artist can spend a long time under another person’s influence while gradually developing their own voice. Our industry is relatively young. I think we went through that process collectively for a number of years. More recently, individual voices have become easier to hear. That is encouraging, and it gives others something to learn from.
Our work competes with everything happening globally, but it also needs to speak to the people who live here. The language we use with one another in everyday life matters to that connection.
When I talk about a Georgian language of communication, I mean more than words. Language expresses deeper, sometimes unconscious processes: how we think, how we present ourselves, how we relate to one another. I think that is a valuable source for Georgian creativity to draw on. It offers a way to connect naturally with the people around us.
M: How useful is it to set out to make work that will outlast trends?
I wouldn’t advise someone working in this field to place that kind of demand on themselves from the start. Telling yourself that you have to make something brilliant can create an expectation that gets in the way of working.
Perfectionism often comes from a lack of confidence. You don’t quite trust your own voice, so you compensate by demanding an extraordinary result. You end up constantly dissatisfied with your work and making fewer attempts. If it won’t be perfect, it starts to feel as though it isn’t worth doing. But mistakes and unsuccessful attempts are part of making progress.
I think we should work to solve the brief and find enjoyment in the process. Bringing things we love into the work is one way to do that. Something exceptional may emerge along the way. The constant demand to produce genius, though, can obstruct the work and take the pleasure out of it.
M: Experience teaches us what doesn’t work. Can it also make us reject ideas we aren’t yet equipped to judge?
Yes, that is one of its dangers. Over time, you create a safe working space. You find approaches that suit you and begin to feel you know the right way forward. Finding a direction of your own is valuable, but becoming too comfortable with it can distance you from what is happening around you.
You can see how often major artists have changed their visual language. Picasso’s different periods are an example. In our field, we have to respond to the outside world as well as our own internal processes. The work has to relate to the circumstances in which it is made.
AI is one such change. I think it will have a substantial effect on our industry and require people working in it to adapt. Relying exclusively on familiar methods won’t be enough.
M: How do you see AI fitting into the creative process, and what would you be reluctant to hand over to it?
I think it will be a very powerful tool. In terms of scale, I would compare the change to the spread of internet access or the personal computer. But the future probably won’t look exactly as we imagine it now. When cameras became part of our phones, you might have expected everyone to start making great films. What emerged was a world in which huge numbers of people make video content, and the volume of information reaching us has changed completely.
AI will probably find different applications in the same way. Some people will combine it with live-action production; others will make work entirely with it. Differences in quality will remain.
What concerns me is handing over too much creative responsibility. If you love this work, the process itself should matter to you. Thinking about where a colour should go, what to change and what to keep is part of designing. If you delegate all those decisions, your own involvement in the work gradually diminishes. Speed is useful, but I wouldn’t want to give up the parts I enjoy doing myself.
M: What separates work that appeals to your taste from work that changes it?
For me, there is a particularly strong feeling when I see someone else’s work and experience admiration alongside a little frustration: that is something I had been thinking about too, something that was taking shape in me, but someone else has already found a form for it.
Film is a good example. Sometimes it is the story that reaches you; sometimes it is the way the story is told. You recognise a familiar feeling in someone else’s work and see it more clearly. I think those encounters have the strongest effect on taste: the work touches something you want to express and manages to give it form.
M: Can someone recognise good work without being able to create it? Where does taste meet the ability to make things?
I think choice plays a large part. You can watch a great many films, analyse them well and write reviews. Or you can watch those same films with the intention of making one yourself. There is a difference between wanting to receive something and wanting to create it.
If you want to express something, you begin looking for a form. You might not have the voice to sing, for example, but still want to make music. You could work electronically, have someone else sing, or learn an instrument. Lacking one particular ability doesn’t close every route.
What matters to me is that desire to express what is in you. From there, you look for a way to contribute something of your own.
M: If two strong ideas answer the brief equally well, what determines the final choice? How much room is there for instinct?
At that point, I would probably return to my own instinctive response. I’ve noticed this when serving on juries. On the first pass, I look through the work quickly. With print work, I might spend two or three seconds on each piece. I’m testing that first impression. A few stay in my mind, even though I can’t yet explain why I like them.
That is an important part of judging. Then comes a more rational stage: I examine the details, draw on experience and knowledge, and try to imagine how someone else would see the work. The final judgement comes from those two processes together.
If two pieces still seem equally strong, I will probably revisit that first impression. You may never be able to explain completely why one affected you more. Judging creative work isn’t an exact science, and we cannot expect complete objectivity.
M: A creative director’s taste influences the whole team. How can a leader help others find their own voice?
A degree of resemblance is natural at first. I emulated other people and learned that way myself. We learn a great deal through imitation from childhood, so I don’t see anything wrong with going through that stage professionally.
What matters is recognising when someone needs the freedom to go their own way. Just as a good parent lets a child follow their own path, a mentor should support someone’s independence. Learning from others should ultimately help us find a voice of our own.
