the entire month of july went by in a blur of *work*.., (which should imply, infer, and tell you something about before then...!! ;)
the other reason was/is a sense of fatigue - from the noise of my own thoughts, the chatter in the head, the addictive, threatening-to-become narcissistic dopamine shots with every written word read and re-read on the screen - and the threat of an endless pavlovian treadmill-run for it...
the abstaining settled the mind.
and, an accidental viewing of a full session video of Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ukTaodQfYRQ (re)awakened the observer within, and opened the ports to just 'see' - perceive - without imposing or seeking anything from 'it'; and, importantly, without the urge to say something about everything all the time.
*It* - is (a) truth.
a work of art is an *it* - a glimpse, an expression, of a truth.
but *it* is only that, which is *without* the taint of the artist's ego, his/her vanity.
those rare intermittent moments captured as-are, as should be - free of one's mind's projections of/on it, or the smirches of self-consciousness, or a sly mind's eye and its manipulations for some end, at least for praise..
from that point, it seems to me that a true creation is that which *happens* - that flows *through* - rather than *from*, or *by* - the artist.
all the rest must be suspect; to be of a lesser vintage or purity, and must risk mortality, eventual commonplace.
it is apparent that creativity is not, at least as it is to me, at *will* - but only at the pleasure of the happenstance of those, again rare, pristine moments of pure awareness merely reflected on the conscious mind, and captured in/on the chosen medium - of words, or a plain expanse, or pure sound. (curiously though, there is an element of being-at-it, persevering..?!)
i suspect all this is/are known to, and is recognised by, *everyone*, though not consciously; nor articulated but by a very few -
except, interestingly, in/as spiritual literature, which however is prolific! and that, again, is a great curio, inviting some scrutiny.., especially when definitionally the maxim says,
"that which saw (*It*) do not / cannot say (it), and that which say (it) have not seen (*It*)" !! :)
hence the sure judgment and recognition of true art; by all species in creation - not just men.
we know that true art enthrals all - fauna, and flora, and, now when we are thinking deeper, even all the elements, animate or inanimate, of the physical world - as all are but surely only the manifestations of the same spirit, *one energy* that pervades; even as it mutates, giving rise to an illusion of being many, temporal.
how can inanimate elements be considered, expected, to be in thrall, one could wonder. without a 'mover' or at least a 'registrar' inside, what experiences 'it'?
the beauty of it, to my mind, is by all of it as/being energy play. where everything is formed, *directed by principles*; thus connected, held.
also, thus, all of nature is art - by being just *Is*; guileless, 'art'less (LoL!).
hence it also surely derives that every endeavour of art is a meditation - to perceive IT as it is, and finally, to BE, in oneness - free of any/all projections or interpretations, all of which are effortful, whereas artistry must of necessity be effortless, natural and immediate.
a true artist, the so called creator, is thus nothing of that sort - as nothing is to be 'created' in the first place, but is only *experienced*.
the 'performing' artist, on the other hand, would be guilty of transposition and interpretation, and what (s)he 'creates' would not be the true It, but the *Lie* of it - as picasso so unerringly realised, and so teasingly stated.
and here is the delectable contra-intuition in this, that also explains the apparent tease there; that the *lie* here is not a falsehood, but only a 'reflection', as 'That' not being *It*, and yet 'That' would not be there but for *It* !
art, then, is truth in metaphysical, and, intriguingly, it's counterfactual.
the true artist, then, is a *pure* medium, an instrument, a consciousness at rest, that records it, or manifests it as the extension of the spirit - expressed.
all these above bring to my mind a zen story i read sometime ago, from a delightful little collection of such zen stories, titled, "Zen flesh, zen bones" - a pelican books publication, a 1972 reprint of the 1957 source - that i discovered and bought from a second-hand books seller in madhapur, hyderabad, when i had gone there (the books store) with my elder son sudharsan and the loving daughter (in law) nanditha - all of us book-lovers, all of us addicted as much to the joy of discovering the beautiful books we would want to read, from amidst the pellmell piled lots of them there - verily like treasure-hunts..!! :)
the story goes like this..
the zen master hakuin was praised by his neighbours as one living a pure life.
a beautiful japanese girl whose parents owned a food store lived near him. suddenly, without any warning, her parents discovered she was with child.
this made her parents angry. she would not confess who the man was, but after much harassment at last named hakuin.
in great anger the parents went to the master.
"is that so?" was all he would say.
after the child was born it was brought to hakuin. by this time he had lost his reputation, which did not trouble him, but he took very good care of the child. he obtained milk from his neighbours and everything else the little one needed.
a year later the girl-mother could stand it no longer. she told her parents the truth - that the real father of the child was a young man who worked in the fish market.
the mother and father of the girl at once went to hakuin to ask for his forgiveness, to apologise at length, and to get the child back again.
hakuin was willing. in yielding the child, all he said was: "Is that So?"
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