Festival of Books

A heads-up, if you're in the Los Angeles area and plan on attending the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books: I'll be sharing a booth there with my friend, the artist Mark Strickland, who has a big new book out, The Art of Mark Strickland, documenting his work.

I'll be representing my publisher Parami Press and, of course, Persist. Our booth is in the Arts section, not far from Tommy Trojan. (I'll try to remember to post the actual booth number in the next couple of days, but we should be easy enough to find.) I also have a book-signing session lined up for 2PM on Saturday, in a location designated for that purpose. I'm sure there will be plenty of information available on site.

If you're a reader of The Buddha Diaries or Persist: The Blog, be sure to let me know!

IMPATIENCE

Please check out my entry on "Impatience" at The Buddha Diaries today. I think it's relevant to the creative process, and will likely feature as a chapter in the book I'm working on, Nurturing the Artist Within.

PRACTICE

(A chapter from the book I'm working on.)

Most any attentively practiced discipline will serve as a vehicle to train the mind. But the one that has provided the most reliable model for my writing practice is meditation. Understand that it’s not my intention here to proselytize on behalf of Buddhism. It does happen to be the only religion that makes sense to me, but that’s beside my point. The meditation that is a part of Buddhist practice is, to my mind (excuse the pun!) the ideal model for a creative practice. It requires four simple steps: you learn to show up, sit down, focus and concentrate, and persist.

Simple does not mean easy! Anyone who has tried to build a creative practice knows how hard that first part is: to show up. Waking up in the morning after a hard day yesterday and, perhaps, not too great a night’s sleep, the temptation to take another half hour in bed is almost irresistible. If you wait until a little later, the mind is already in fast forward gear, making plans, taking care of the immediate needs, thinking through problems. The telephone rings. The bills are sitting on your desk, waiting for your attention. That light bulb needs changing… It’s endless.

So it becomes a significant challenge, just to show up. If you’re serious about your meditation practice, you learn to do it without question. It’s the only way. If you ask your mind or body for permission, you’ll never get there. No matter how good your intentions, if you “try to” meditate, it doesn’t get done. You don’t “try to” feed the dog. If you keep trying for long enough, the dog will starve to death before it gets its dinner. No, you feed the dog. By the same token, you show up to meditate. You choose a time, set the alarm clock if you need to, and get yourself to the appointed place. It’s that simple. It’s that hard.

Now apply the same practice to your creative work. If you don't show up in the studio or at your writing desk, the work does not get done. It may sound harsh, but you can’t call yourself a writer or an artist if you don’t show up. It is the most basic necessity. And if it sounds obvious, check in with yourself and ask yourself how many wonderful excuses you have. My own list is a long one!

Okay, so you manage to show up. Congratulations! I mean it: take a moment to congratulate yourself. You deserve it, and this may be the hardest part. And now sit down.

Sitting down, for the meditator, is quite literal. You have a meditation cushion or a favorite chair, you may have a small shrine in some corner of the house; sitting down, when you have done it for a while, becomes a delightfully familiar and comfortable feeling. It’s like coming home after being out in the world all day. It’s like heaving a big sigh and letting go of all the weight you have been carrying around with you. If you make a practice of it, sitting down to work can bring up the same feeling.

You do need to have created the space in which to do it, and that space will depend on what is available to you. For the artist, if she’s lucky, that will be a studio. For the luckiest of the lucky, it will be a wonderful, open, light-filled space where the only thing that everything happens is art. For others, it may have to be an annexed spare bedroom or garage, or even a cramped corner in the family room. Writers have it a bit easier. A laptop can function anywhere, from a home office to the local library or Starbucks.

Harder for some to find than the physical space is the mind space. “Sitting down” is more than the physical activity involved in turning to the next blank page or setting up the easel of the drafting table. Sitting down involves clearing the mind of all its other commitments to make space for the art to happen. Once again, meditation provides a useful model. The hardest thing for me in my meditation practice is to clear the mind of all the debris of the past and intentions for the future and ready it for real concentration on the present moment.

And than, once it begins to sense that clarity, my own mind does a joyful leap into its favorite activity… writing. Silence! Serenity! A clear space! It’s almost irresistible. I start to write. Words start flooding in, they sound so perfect. I can't risk losing them. But I’m meditating, I can’t write them down, so my mind begins to memorize them. In other words, I’m soon not meditating at all any more. I’m not training my mind, I’m giving it license to take over.

This is where focus and concentration come into play. (The difference between focus and concentration, as I see it, is that focus describes the attention on a single, precisely defined object, and concentration is the protraction of that focus through time.) Meditation, as I understand and practice it, is not about blissing out and journeying across the endless spaces of the universe. It’s work. It’s about being awake, aware, alert. Different forms of meditation suggest different focal points. Some use a mantra—a word or phrase to be repeated constantly. With eyes open, you might use the flickering flame of a candle or a blossom, a picture on the wall, or even the surface of the wall itself.

For many, myself included, the breath is the focal point. I watch the breath as it enters the body, and as it leaves. Once the focus is established, I move into concentration. As an aid to concentration, I use the body scan, directing the breath on a path that leads from the lower torso to the chest, from the chest to the head and down the back to the legs, and finally from the shoulders down through the arms to the finger tips; all the time watching the full length of the breath, from the beginning of the intake to the very last moment of exhalation.

This intense attention to detail, again, is a fine model for the kind of attention the artist needs in the creative process. It’s the source of another familiar and delightful feeling, as the self disappears and the process itself takes over, so fully engaging that, by the time you’re done, hours may have passed without your noticing—not because you have been inattentive but precisely because your awareness has been so sharply attuned to the work in hand. You have persisted in your focus and concentration.

Which, of course, brings us back to the last of the four steps: persistence. In meditation, that’s the effort it takes to keep bringing the mind back to its object of attention every time it strays. Mine strays a lot. Where does it go? Back into the past and off into the future. If I’m to do right by my meditation, I must watch it carefully and, every time it wanders, bring it gently back to the breath. Back to the present moment, where the work gets done.

And that's the practice.

"The View From the Studio Door"

I am a late-comer to Ted Orland's The View From the Studio Door:How Artists Find The Way in an Uncertain World. It was published in 2006, and I'm only just now getting around to it. More's the pity... or maybe it arrived at just the right moment, since I am writing and speaking around that same topic these days, and am finding not only much common ground between us, but also many new thoughts and insights that are truly valuable. It's one of those books in which I pause at every page with the wish that I'd been able to say it quite so well.

Ted Orland is an artist who works with photographic media and the co-author, with David Bayles, of Art and Fear (1993), a book which continues to be widely read by artists familiar with the fear that inevitably arises in their lives--and who are wise enough to learn how to use it rather than allow it to stand in their way. Orland's new book--well, not actually new--is addressed to the working artist; hence the reference to the studio in the title. This is a book about the creative process, not merely "creativity." The latter, as Orland is at pains to point out, is an abstraction. Work in the studio is about the experience of doing it.

As I suggested, Orland covers a good deal of the same material as myself: why bother to make art in a world already saturated with the work of others? What is it that drives the artist, despite the obstacles put in her way by a society that worships money and celebrity and heaps more success on the already successful few, even while ignoring the (sometimes greater) talent of the many? How do the rest of us, to use the word from my own title, "persist"? Orland also writes with sardonic humor about a system of education that does everything it can to squelch the creative spirit, and offers his own thoughtful perceptions on how to teach art--and how to learn. He has a light touch with some weighty material.

I also share Orland's conviction that art at its best is not a solitary act of self-expression nor one of technical accomplishment. It's rather a vital and passionate means of communication. For me--and as I read his book, I believe for Orland, too--it's about what makes us human. It's about believing with such passion in my own vision that I am compelled to find ways, through art, to understand and enrich it more completely, and through that process to be able to share it with my fellow travelers on this planet.

Orland also writes persuasively about the need for community. Too many artists, once they leave the privileged and sheltered life of art school, find themselves thrust out into a society that generally ignores them. But art hungers for, and thrives on feedback. Lacking this, the creative spirit can speedily wither and die. Optimally, if we lack this community, the thing to do is go out into the world and create one. Readers of "Persist: the Blog" will be aware of the virtual community to which they already belong. That's another way, for some, though it can encourage even greater isolation. It misses the warmth of actual, living, breathing, face to face, hand to hand human contact that can feed us. It's my impression that Orland's books have created a kind of community of readership. For those who have not yet encountered his work, I'd suggest a visit to his website, where you'll find links to "The View..." as well as to "Art and Fear." Both are valuable handbooks for the working artist (I mean that to include writers, too, and musicians, actors, dancers, and the rest). No matter who you are, or how successful, if the creative process is an important part of your life, they will restore some of the juices to your practice.

Did I mention that they're also a pleasure to read?

A Follow-Up...

... on my "Waiting for Hockney" exchange with Cynda Valle. She wrote:

Dear Peter, thanks for all. As Glenn said when he read your reply: "There's alot of wisdom here". I have to agree that the art itself was pretty anti-climatic once we finally got to see it. But despite that (or because of it!), I think the man himself could represent all artists. Billy believes that what he thinks and feels is worthy of the world's attention. He than spends years developing the technical virtuosity to express it. Despite the result, this seems to me the art-making formula that all artists have in common; the "I" plus practice over time equals art. Of course nobody works in a vacuum; the surrounding culture and history provide the visual language that the artist uses. The way the art is received doesn't really fundamentally dampen our conviction that we have something to say. In fact if it is not well received we are part of a long tradition and can always comfort ourselves with the Van Gogh defense ("People will want my work after I die.") Or my personal favorite by Rollo May (should have it tattoed backwards on my forehead so I see it whenever I look in a mirror!): "Creative Courage is continuing despite your doubts, not quitting because of them." So even failure in the eyes of the world doesn't have to shake our conviction that we are worthy.

Billy also has in common with all artists a personal yardstick with which to measure success. For Billy it was Hockney (yeah, i agree a STRANGE personal yardstick), but all artists have one; be it gallery representation, big sales or a teaching gig. And finally Billy (like all the artists I know) has to get a day job. I was tickled that it was the same job that kept me afloat when I was his age (waiting tables!!!). So despite what you, me or Hockney's assistant thinks of his work, he, for me, represents "every-artist". To open up another can of worms I wanted to ask you what you thought of Hockney's comment to his assistant: "There's still that damn photograph". I thought it ironic that he validates the use of photography in Secret Knowledge, yet sees the photographic root of the drawing problematic???? And on a personal note: you have always been a compassionate advocate/ champion of artists and have NEVER been scornful or elitist ! I'm enjoying the dialogue ! Love, Cynda

(Whooops! I just reread your reply and I think you already answered my photography question; To assume the photograph is the ultimate arbiter of accuracy is a BIG mistake!)

To which I wrote back as follows:

Here's the thing, Cynda: suppose that what Billy thinks and feels--no matter his conviction or intention--is really NOT "worthy of the world's attention"? (Not everything is!) Suppose that his thinking/feeling never gets past the initial, trite cliche? Suppose he has never taken the trouble to deeply question what he thinks and feels, or to ask himself what lies beyond the surface of his assumptions? Suppose he has never really given a thought to the paths open to an artist in the current cultural reality, how an artist functions, what the task of the artist might be--other than to make a magnificent, photographically correct drawing?

For me, being an artist requires all this, and more. Making art is not an accomplishment, it's an investigation. It seems to me--sadly--that Billy discovers nothing in the course of his eight-year odyssey. This is why I question your notion that he "could represent all artists." I don't lack compassion for him as a human being. I just don't think he has yet discovered what it means to be an artist, and therefore can not "represent" them. A good and difficult discussion, though. Thanks for provoking it. Love, P

And Cynda, again:

I do see what you're saying: From my own kids I know a toddler is as excited about his first creation (poop in the potty) as he is of anything else... And just because HE's excited and passionate doesn't make it art. Yeah, I guess alot of art is "shit"!!!!!!!! I hope you have by now gotten the email i wrote you this morning (subject: writer's remorse). Just to reiterate ; What i will remember is not Billy's story, but your validation of my own working process..THANK YOU, it means alot to me. I will share our dialogue with my advanced painting students and tell them of your books; the topic being near and dear to the heart of every artist, and the next time i'm feeling discouraged i will take our your blog and reabsorb it, thanks again. Love Cynda

To Be an Artist...

I thought this exchange with my friend, the artist Cynda Valle, would be of interest. It concerns the movie Waiting for Hockney—the story of Billy Pappas, a young man whose eight-year, single-minded obsession with a single graphite drawing of Marilyn Monroe—and with the British artist David Hockney as his ultimate judge and mentor—led him, finally, only back to the fast food restaurant where he had worked previously as a waiter…

Cynda wrote: I just watched the movie "Waiting for Hockney" and thought of you (both as Hockney’s biographer and a person who thinks much about the purpose of art and artists)... As I watched it, I thought it was going to be like any other Hollywood movie in that there would be trial and tribulation, but at the end all would be happily resolved. How much more interesting it became when at the end I realized it was telling a much truer (in my opinion) story of the typical artist's (my) life: the exciting build-up to the moment the artist dreamed of and then, instead of "happily ever after" comes nothing. The artist continues to work and the energy slowly builds to another crescendo, followed by another disappointment, until this cycle all to quickly eats up an entire lifetime.

I'm thinking there must be in the artist (and me) an incredible ego and a certain relentless naivete that allows them (me) to always have faith that the next painting will be the one to change everything. Contrast this with the jaded scorn of the art elite and it's not a pretty picture! Hopefully I have some years left on the planet so I don't know yet how the story ends for me, but sometimes I'm terrified that the cycle will never change, and sometimes I feel confident I can free myself from the burden of desires...The only thing I know for sure is that I will always paint. Would love to hear your thoughts. Sincerely, Cynda

My response: Dear Cynda, I certainly honor (and share) your compassion for poor Billy, whose story this movie tells. And yes, the cycle you describe is an unhappily familiar one: the slow build-up of anticipation and hope for recognition, and the let-down that follows when the response to your work does not meet up to expectations. And the hope that the next piece of work will turn out to be the great one that shakes the ground we all stand on! I’m sure that every creative person knows that pattern—and I sure do not exclude myself!

Still, having watched the movie at your suggestion, I think that Billy’s story is significantly different from the one you describe. His obsession with what is perhaps the hardest subject to handle—essentially a cliché, with apologies to Marilyn!—with no apparent understanding of the risks and challenges involved, suggests from the start that he will never be the artist he so much yearns to be. Worse—again from the start—he mistakes sheer technical proficiency and photographic accuracy for art. He has the (admittedly naïve) intellectual arrogance to believe in his own genius without the knowledge and perspective that a smattering of education would afford him. The limits of his understanding are underscored by his elevation of David Hockney to the role of St. Peter, the arbiter and keeper of the keys to heaven’s gate.

In short, Cynda, unlike yourself, Billy is no artist. He has a lot more tray-carrying to do before he even reaches the threshold. I don’t want to be ungenerous to a young man who seems to me, honestly, more pathetic than authentic, but to be an artist, as I understand it, generally implies a responsibility to know what you’re about. Obsession alone (as in the case of, say, a Henry Darger, or any number of other “outsider” artists) can sometimes, rarely, cut it, especially if the vision itself is obsessive; but not, I think, the obsession with technique. There is a kind of arrogance in assuming that all mainstream art is elitist and that ignorance necessarily leads to a fresh vision and fresh ideas. More often than not, sadly, it leads to cliché.

So I celebrate the artist in you. You are no Billy Pappas. Yes, there’s the struggle. And yes, indeed, there are the disappointments along the way, there’s the sense of despair, there’s the constantly recurring question: is it all worth it? But you, Cynda, are not about technical proficiency (well, only in part!) You’re not about attracting the attention of a David Hockney. Your work, in my judgment, springs from an inner depth, a necessity, a quest in which our Billy shows no sign of being interested. That artist in you keeps coming back to the work because you have to, that’s who you are, not who you’re trying to be.

As you can tell, I did find the movie quite fascinating, but in a different way from what your letter led me to expect. For me, this was not, as you suggest, “the typical artist’s life,” but rather the life of one who unhappily did not begin to understand what art was all about and wanted to be an artist anyway. That his astounding, eight-year dedication to this project did not pan out came as no surprise, given its misguided premises. The message, for me, was this: to be an artist—writer, musician, actor, dancer—requires more than dedication to the acquisition and practice of skills. For most of us, it also requires vision, informed intelligence, historical perspective—and the kind of modesty that sparks the most important of all ingredients, curiosity. The need, not only to perform, but to discover the unknown.

I hope this doesn't read like "the jaded scorn of the art elite!" I do thank you for urging me to see this movie, because I did in fact both enjoy and learn from it. I just don't believe that this is "your" life! I know that you--despite all discouragements and despite even yourself!--will move on to the next picture and find our more about yourself, your life, your vision. Rightly so.

Woe Is Me

Do you ever wake up with the feeling that you've been working like mad all night but have no idea what you've been working at? This happened to me last night. I think it might have had partly to do with that bum knee. For exercise this week, I have avoided walking, as per the doctor's orders, and using instead the prone-position bicycle at the gym. Last night, since we had theater tickets, we parked in downtown Laguna Beach and walked about three blocks to the restaurant where we had booked dinner, then five of six blocks to the theater, and a couple more back to the car. Then I woke several times during the night with shooting pains in the knee and had a hard job finding a comfortable place to get back to sleep. (I blame George, in part, for this. He insisted in sleeping right down in the place where I extend my foot, and refused to budge despite several hearty kicks. George sleeps just fine.)

I think this blog is another contributor to those hard-working nights. My head starts to write before it even hits the pillow and persists in thinking/writing while I'm trying to get to sleep. That is, it keeps trying to line up the words just right, then going back over them in a kind of rehearsal, to be sure they'll be remembered exactly when I wake. My theory is that it keeps working away at the same stuff while I'm sleeping. But then, when I wake... nothing. It's all gone anyway, and I have to start afresh.

Does this sound familiar to anyone? It has taken me years to build to the kind of daily writing practice that is, pretty much, my life today, and I'm grateful for it. I have perhaps been a bit too successful, though, because I'm clearly finding it hard to hit the "off" switch. The past few days, it has been the same with meditation. Than Geoff's familiar advice resounds in my head: Not now. But my head has either not been getting the message or choosing to ignore it. I sit and make up words. I write...

This morning I have decided to reverse my usual process: write first, then meditate. This is it, the writing part. I'll report back on the results. In the meantime, metta to all. Here goes.