The Zen of Art
Our growth as an artist, or as a connoisseur, transpires through the same journey as the path of a Zen monk described by the 11th-century Zen master, Dōgen.
The 11th-century Zen master, Dōgen, is reported to have said:
“Before one studies Zen, mountains are mountains and waters are waters; after a first glimpse into the truth of Zen, mountains are no longer mountains and waters are no longer waters; after enlightenment, mountains are once again mountains and waters once again waters.”
This saying describes the arc of human growth as we move through the experiences of life. Here is how I see it reflected in our experience of art.
As children, when we draw a house with mountains, clouds, and a sun in the background, we do so without intention of meaning. The drawing itself, and the joy of coloring it in, is the purpose. Over time, however, we grow clever. Our drawings become tight, our rendering laborious. For many, this is the stage where art ceases to be enjoyable, and so it is abandoned.
Those who persist often discover that mere realism is not enough. “So what?” we begin to ask. At this stage, art becomes a vehicle for meaning — for social commentary, cultural critique, or emotional expression. In modern terms, we call this “self-expression.” The artist finds purpose in conveying a deeply held belief, while the audience takes delight in speculating what the artist is trying to say.
This stage is alluring, and many remain here. Yet a sincere artist, continuing to grow through life, eventually sees the limits of belief. Every conviction — social, cultural, or personal — is only partially true. One person may insist it is night, another may argue it is day. From their individual vantage points, both are correct. But from the moon, one sees that the Earth holds day and night at once — and from a greater perspective still, “day” and “night” dissolve altogether outside this small planet.
With this realization, the need to hold on to cleverness fades. What remains is the same quiet urge that moved us as children and did not need a reason to justify creativity. Once more we draw flowers, or a house with hills and clouds in the background. And once again, we have nothing particular to say through the art. The act of creation, once again, is the delightful end all in itself.
Agents of Creativity
When we extricate ourselves from our day-to-day fixations, we find that we are not solitary strugglers. On the contrary, we are agents of an impulse greater than any individual.
Doing anything worthwhile is hard. The rollercoaster of hope and frustration twists and turns at a dizzying pace. Yet, growth feels so slow that we rarely notice it as it happens. Only in hindsight do we see how far we’ve come. Fixated on day-to-day challenges, we often forget to step back and see the larger picture.
Yet, if we pause and separate ourselves from this personal fixation, it becomes clear that our growth in our respective choosing is not an isolated event. It is part of something much larger than the person. That each person is like a cell in the body of this larger being called humanity. Each person appears for a brief while, contributes to the functioning and development of this being, and disappears.
In arts, for example, the frustrations you and I face are not qualitatively different from those endured by Rembrandt or Van Gogh. The criticisms directed at Monet and Picasso paved the way for us to experiment in ways unimaginable only a century ago. A figurative artist today may not draw a direct link but her impulse to paint the human figure, is inextricably linked with Da Vinci’s obsession that led him to dissect human bodies. Even a modern artist who identifies as a purely spontaneous abstract painter still creates within a lineage, for without realism, abstraction has no meaning.
Holding this perspective in the background of our awareness is transformational. We cease to see ourselves as solitary strugglers, desperately seeking an original voice in fear of being lost in the ocean of attention seekers. Instead, we come to recognize ourselves as agents of a primordial urge to create — the same urge that moved our ancestors to draw on cave walls, and that has been experimenting for millennia in ever-new ways of astonishing itself.
Today, no matter what our undertaking, we carry the baton passed down through countless generations. For a brief while, we bear the honor of being the flagbearers of a tradition far greater than any individual. For a while longer, we get to play and be frustrated, to experiment and be delighted, to create and be amazed, and in the process, inadvertently serve this impersonal impulse that we come from, serve, and return to.