Zen and Creativity 08 10

7/27/2019 Zen and Creativity 08 10

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This file is the work of Stan Rosenthal. It has been placed here, with hiskind permission, by Bill Fear. The author has asked that no hard copies, ie.paper copies, are made.

Stan Rosenthal may be contacted at 44 High street, St. Davids,Pembrokeshire, Dyfed, Wales, UK.

Bill Fear may be contacted at 29 Blackweir Terrace, Cathays, Cardiff, SouthGlamorgan, Wales, UK. email [email protected].

Please use email as first method of contact, if possible. Messages can besentto Stan Rosenthal via the above email address - they will be forwarded on inperson by myself.

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Zen at least offered a means of finding temporary peace of mind in the praciceof zazen, and had a 'contempt' for death which the samurai would haveappreciated. Furthermore, whilst the samurai were undertaking training in theschools and monasteries, they knew that they were safe from attack, at least

from their hosts.

There were other, and even more pragmatic, reasons why some of the samuraiundertook Zen tuition. Many of the Zen monks were skilled in the techniques ofunarmed combat developed originally in the Shao-Lin temple in China. Thesetechniques were used as a means of self-defence against the bandits and othermarauders who plagued the area around the original Zen monastery some sixhundred years previously.

Although they were probably unaware of it immediately, whilst the samurai werelearning the skills and techniques of unarmed combat, they were also beingtaught, if only by example, many of the precepts by which their Zen teachersconducted their lives. They would have seen how the Zen practitioners coped

with the seeming paradox that one should be prepared to defend oneself, yet havea contempt for death. They would have been told that the Zen view is that thetwo issues do not contradict each other, the one issue being that we have anobligation not to encourage aggression, even by default, and the other having asits concern, the transient nature of life itself, and the view that what we calllife is only a part of something more.

They doubtless also learnt of the precept concerning compassion, which is commonto all forms of Zen, and even if it was allowed by law, a samurai who hadtrained in Zen would certainly not have struck down a bystander merely becauseof a derogatory glance. He may have wished to do so, but would have refrainedbecause he knew that such an act would have met with the severe disapproval ofhis Zen teachers.

There are two reasons why this disapproval would have influenced the behaviourof the samurai. The first of these is pragmatic, for the samurai would haveknown that further instruction would not be forthcoming if they acted againstthe code of conduct which their Zen teachers taught and according to which theywere expected to behave.

The second reason, although less practical, was likely to have been just asinfluential. This is the fact that the samurai had considerable respect fortheir Zen teachers. This somewhat strange liaison was due in no small part to


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the fact that the Zenji (those who practice Zen seriously) were not afraid ofthem. This was of course a rarity, for the samurai were not used to beingaccepted 'for what they really were'. Their own exercise in 'image building'had been so success- ful that they were feared equally by the general populaceand by their 'paymasters'.

In Zen, the samurai had found a philosophy which did not, on the one hand paythem, and on the other, condemn them for doing what they were paid to do. Inthe Zenji themselves they found others who were as honest as themselves, andwith equal integrity. They had of course also found another group of'outsiders' who had little respect for the authority vested in titles, and notime for 'conformity for its own sake', for Zen was not then, and is not now, aphilosophy for those who have a need to conform. The Zenji of that period wereno different in that respect from their counterparts of today.

At another level also, the samurai found a 'philosophical home' in Zen, for theworld of the warrior at that time in world history was a world in which life anddeath were separated by the thinnest of lines, and the lines were drawn bysharpened steel on a backdrop of space. Within the conundrums of the koan,there are many references to time, space and emptiness. Such concepts wouldhave been real to the samurai, who knew of their importance in terms ofsurvival. It is with regard to such concepts as these, and to the fact that theart of our time draws much of its imagery from the 'natural world' that we findthe relationship between Zen, the martial arts, and the creative or fine arts.

If we wonder at how a sword-fighter becomes a painter or calligrapher, perhapswe should not, for as Bokutaku said,"The line of the brushis no differentfrom the line of the sword."

CREATIVITY

Be both creative and receptive,and so transcend the boundarybetween the subject and the object.

Whilst the concept of 'myoyo' is initially somewhat complex to understand, it is

well worthy of the effort required, for in 'myoyo' we find the key to one of themost baffling of the Zen precepts, 'Transcend the boundary between the subjectand the object.'

Although it is not easy to explain this phrase without prior knowledge of Zenand its Taoist origins, it is helpful to think of it in terms of its constituentelements, these being,

transcend: 'to overcome or rise above',boundary: 'that which divides or separates'subject: the part of speech most frequently

represented by the pronoun I,and

object: the 'thing' being referred to;

'the object of perception'.(in the phrase, "I saw the forest",the word 'forest' is the object;and in the phrase, "I painted apicture of the forest"',theobject is 'a picture of the forest').

Using these elements, which constitute the phrase, 'Transcend the boundarybetween the subject and the object', referred to in Zen as 'funi', or 'non-duality', it now becomes easier to appreciate that the phrase implies overcoming


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the division between ourselves and that which we see or do. In fact, the termimplies even more than this, for it refers also to the division which existsbetween ourselves and the 'artifact', that is the tool, implement or weapon weuse in our 'chosen art'. It is with regard to the techniques involved in usingthat artifact that we are told,

"To learn 'technique beyond technique',first learn all techniques,then learn the one techniquewhich still remainswhen all techniques are learnt."

(Ishida)

Knowledge of techniques, and the ability to apply them, are of course necessaryto any creative act, but technique improves with learning and application, andthe technical quality of the end-product improves with time and work. Ittherefore seems that the essential precursor to any creative act is somethingother than technique, and Zen teaches that it is a combination of attitude andmotivation.

Whilst the influence of Zen on the creative arts does of course include varioustechniques of working, it is in fact much deeper than this, for in Zen we findmany concepts which refer and can readily be applied to creativity, forming aframework which is in essence a practical 'philosophy of creativity'. It is

through the application of this philosophy that the motivation was found by suchmen as Musashi and Tesshu to use their energy and considerable talents forcreative purposes, for, as Morihei Ueshiba said,

"Of what use is it to do battle with another;today's victor is tomorrow's vanquished.How much better to use our energyto defeat our own ego."

These lines, combined with the verse by Bokutaku, (telling us in effect that'the sword and the brush are one') give us the clues to the conceptual frameworkof the creative philosophy offered by Zen. It is true that Bokutaku wasreferring to 'line', but it is equally true that there is no line without space.

It is in the Zen concept of the relationship between space and time that theclue to 'Zen and creativity' becomes a little more obvious.

Although very different in outcome, Sword fighting and dancing obviously consistof 'dividing space' by human movement. Ceramics provide another example inwhich the division of space is easy to see, if only because of itsthree-dimensional nature, even though the end- product is static. Drawing andpainting also rely upon the division of space, although being both static andtwo-dimensional, these examples are perhaps somewhat less obvious to theobserver.

Less obvious still is the linear nature of music and poetry. Whereas we can seea whole picture or piece of pottery in 'an instant', time is of the essence in

the 'observation' of a poem or piece of music. This is of course equally truefor the observation of a sword fight or dance, but the reason why it is moreobvious in the observation of sword fighting and dancing is that in these twoexamples, it is the performers' division of 'real time' that we observe, as wellas their division of space.

We can of course observe the movement of the poet, painter or composer whilstthey are producing their end-product, but this is not to say that poetry orpottery are of themselves 'performing arts'.....


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('no mind' or 'the mind of no mindedness').

Of all the 'technical' Zen terms, these two, 'mu shin' and 'mu shin no shin',are the most easily (and frequently) misinterpreted and misused. The term doesnot mean that we should simply 'do our own thing', nor that we should 'actwithout thinking'. What it does mean is that we should become sufficientlycompetent in the use of technique that we can apply technique without consciousthought, and without consciousness of ourselves applying it. However, this isnot to say that we can be creative without technique, for it is very much theZen view that without technique there can be no art......

The 'hitsuzendo' (Zen paintings) of Ishida are considered to have great merit,most people who see them declaring themselves to be envious of his ability.

However, even at the age of thirty-five, Ishida knew that his poor calligraphymarred his work. Reading through an old Chinese book on the subject, he foundthe following instructions,

First tie a cord to a beam, so that the free end of the cord forms aloop, and hangs a few inches from the floor. Place your hand through theloop, and having placed paper underneath, and charged your brush with ink, holdit in the prescribed manner and allow it to swing to and fro. Do not try tomake your hand move in any particular direction, but 'allow it to move' with'wu-wei'. Simply throw your hand outward every now and then in order to keep up

the momentum.

Eventually you will find that a line will have appeared on the paper. If youhave followed these instructions, the line will be a 'natural line' for it willhave been painted with wu-wei.

As time progresses these lines will become stronger, but they should stillappear fresh and vigorous, more fluid and stronger. When you are sure of this,allow the hand, wrist, arm and upper body to form the shape you desire. As you'dance' the shape, so it will appear on the paper.

After twenty years of progressive practice, the art of calligraphy will beyours, and even the most complex of characters will not defeat your wu-wei.

Ishida followed the instructions, and he could see for himself that hiscalligraphy did improve quite rapidly. By the time he was fifty-three, he hadtranscended technique, and his work was acclaimed, pictures which took him onlyten minutes or so to produce, changing hands for more than twice as much as hehad previously earned in a week.

Although straying a little from the matter of technical competence, there isanother short story which illustrates well, Ishida's own attitude to hispainting, and which also tells us a little of the Zen attitude to creativitywith respect to the time which one can expect to spend 'training'.....

Although his work has not achieved international acclaim, it has been

exhibited alongside that of major artists. At an exhibition of his work, avisitor pointed to one of his paintings and asked,

"How long did that one take to paint?"

Ishida referred to the date of the painting in the catalogue and replied with astraight face,

"Fifty years and ten minutes."

The eyebrows of the visitor rose in some disbelief. Pointing to another ofIshida's works, he repeated the question. With barely a smile, Ishida replied,


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"Ah! that one is quite recent. It tookfifty-three years and ten minutes.

In much the same way as the Zen swordsman does not fight in order to 'beat' anopponent, but to improve his swordsmanship, so the Zen painter does not paint inorder to produce a masterpiece. He (or she) paints in order to improve his orher ability to paint. In the process, pictures are painted, each becoming apart of the painter's personal history. As techniques become sufficientlyexperienced, they are internalised (become a part of the painter's own 'being'),and the quality of the end-product improves as technical ability increases. Soit is that the painter, usually unknowingly (with 'mu-shin') begins to move'beyond technique'. It is then that there is room for 'something else toenter'.

Whilst not related directly to the 'graphic arts', one of the finest recordedaccounts of how this state is achieved is contained in the book, 'Zen in the Artof Archery', written by the German professor of philosophy, and Olympic pistolshooting marksman, Eugen Herrigel.....

On being offered a post in Japan, the professor decided that he wouldprofit from his time there by making contact with Zen during his period oftenure. Somewhat to his surprise, he was advised to do this through one of thearts most strongly influenced by Zen. Deciding to take instruction in archery,he sought out an archery teacher.

The teacher, Kenzo Awa, at first refused to accept him as a student, having haddifficulties with a 'foreigner' previously, but was eventually pursuaded toteach the professor when he offered to be treated as the master's 'youngeststudent'.

The teacher showed the professor how to hold and draw the bow, but the professorcould only draw the bow himself with extreme difficulty. This surprised him,for having been told that Zen archery is a 'spiritual' pursuit, he had notexpected this simple task to require so much energy. The teacher kept tellinghim that he must relax, but Professor Herrigel still found it impossible to drawthe bow in the prescribed manner.

Although the archery teacher remained calm, some months later the professor lostpatience, and told his teacher he found the task impossible. The teacherexplained to him that his breathing was not correct, then told him about theneed for diaphragmatic breathing, emphasising the need to press the breath welldown into the abdomen, and then, after a short pause, allowing it to escapeagain.

Being assured that if he did this, drawing the bow would become easier andeasier, the professor practiced 'right breathing', and was eventually allowed toresume his practice with the bow. The teacher showed him how to 'attach thebreath' to the archery movements, first when grasping the bow, then how to placethe arrow, and next, how to raise the bow, then how to draw it to the point ofhighest tension.

The professor ached and ached, and when he told this to his teacher, Kenzo Awareplied that the reason was because he thought too much on drawing the bow,rather than just concentrating on his breathing. Being assured once again thatthe rest would come in due time, practice was resumed once more. Eventually theteacher's words came true, and at the end of a year's training, the professorwas able to draw the bow in what he himself described as a manner which'felt different'.

Professor Herrigel asked the friend who had introduced him to Kenzo Awa, why had


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the teacher not told him about the breathing right at the beginning. His friendtold him that had this occurred, he would not have believed it to be anecessity, and that by experiencing it for himself, he now had no doubt as howessential 'right breathing' was to 'drawing the bow spiritually'.

The next stage in Professor Herrigel's training was 'loosing the arrow', themoment when the bowstring is released. Once again the professor found thatthere was far more to this than he had previously thought. Each time he let goof the bowstring, his whole body reverberated and shook as the tension in thebow was released. He noted how different this was from the steady, relaxedappearance of his teacher when doing what had appeared to be the same thing.

On asking the teacher the 'secret', he was told it was a matter of waiting for'the right shot at the right moment'. When he said that it did not happen forhim, Professor Herrigel was told that the reason was his inability to allow itto happen independently, and that he should not concern himself with letting goof the arrow, but should 'let go of himself'.

From Professor Herrigel's beautifully written account of his 'Zen experience' itis obvious that his teacher went to great pains to ensure that he learnt tobecome an artisan, a craftsman, before he attempted to become an 'artist'. Fromoutside the situation, it is apparent that the teacher recognised that hisstudent had become so pleased that he could draw the bow in the correct mannerthat he was 'full' of his ability to do so, and that this 'fullness' was

inhibiting him from 'allowing' his hand to open naturally.

Professor Herrigel tells us that the instruction continued with the teachertelling him to stop thinking about the shot, and just let go of himself. WhenProfessor Herrigel spoke of the pain of holding the bowstring drawn back, histeacher told him to be like the bamboo leaf when it is weighted down by snow.He said that the leaf does not shake off the snow, but eventually the snowjust slips off, and that if the archer is sufficiently 'empty', the shot willfall from the archer, just as the snow falls from the leaf.

After more setbacks and frustrations, whilst loosing a number of shots, theProfessor was surprised to hear his teacher exclaim that his last shot had'loosed itself'. When he had overcome his feeling of great delight, the

Professor tells us that he shot again, and again, but to no avail. Eventuallythough, it was confirmed that another shot had 'loosed iself', and then again,without the weeks of waiting in between.

The time came when the pupil archer was allowed to use a target, and as with theearlier stages, he recognised and was able to overcome the personal barrierswhich this latest stage enabled him to discover. Eventually the target was hitby the arrow, without a feeling of great accomplish- ment on the part of thearcher, and missed without a feeling of great disappointment.....and then it washit far more frequently than it was missed. Some five years later Kenzo Awaacknowledged Professor Herrigel's mastery of the 'Great Doctrine'.

In the story of Professor Herrigel, the term, 'Great Doctrine' refers to the

fundamental principle of archery, and equally, in painting, it is thefundamental principle involved in painting a picture, just as in poetry it isthe fundamental principle from which a poem is composed, and in pottery it isthe fundamental principle which underlies the production of a pot or vase.

Since what is being considered is the 'fundamental principle' (or 'principles')it seems legitimate to ask why the teacher of an art does not simply tell thestudents of that art what its 'fundamental principle' is. It would be grosslyunfair to say or imply that even 'good' teachers do not know it themselves, butZen argues that because of their very nature, fundamentals, like the 'absolute'


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as described by the early Christian mystic Plotinus....."...cannot be known or described;only experienced."

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Zen and Creativity 08 10