Blank Canvases
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No matter how beautiful a painting is, it is still painted. Paintings are not
made on painted canvases. They are made on blank canvases.
No matter how inspiring a poem, it is still written. Poets do not write
poems which are written. They write poems which have not been
written.
No matter how impressive a sculpture is, a sculpture cannot be sculpted.
A sculptor needs an uncarved block.
We live in a consumer culture. People view paintings and sculptures,
they read poems and attend plays. This is not a full life. It is a shadow
life - a halflife.
In a way, a blank canvas is ruined by the paint. It is ruined by the
painter.
Then again, what is a blank canvas for? It is for painting. In the end,
what does a painting become? It becomes a painted. What regard may
we have for the painted canvas, if we do not, ourselves, pick up a brush
and look for the unpainted canvas? How sorrowful the lack of
possibility in a painted canvas, how sorrowful the blank canvas never
touched by its transformer. The painter, the paint, the brush, the
canvas, all alive in a dance, in the doing. And when the dance is done?
There is a well known Zen story about a full and empty cup. A student
approaches a master who begins to pour some tea. When the cup is full,
the master keeps pouring. The student alerts the master as if the master
did not know. The master said, "The mind is like this cup. When it is
full, I cannot fill it. If you wish for me to fill your cup, you must bring it
to me empty."
Fill it, drink it, fill it up again. Fill it, drink it, fill it up again. When does
it end? It ends when you are no longer thirsty. As long as you are
thirsty, you will be bound by these laws. How deep is your thirst? How
empty are you? When do you no longer go through the routine? When
do you sit beside the cup, neither filling nor emptying?
There are three basic states: doing, done, and non-doing; becoming,
being, and non-becoming. When there is no coming and no going, being
and non-being are one.
It once occurred to me that I have started painting many canvases in my
life and have finished none. I wonder if there is anyone besides God and
I who knows the size of the canvas I am painting. With my life, I have
painted in the lower corners and I have painted in the upper portions. It
is just one canvas, I believe and it will be finished precisely at the time of
my death - a single stroke on a larger canvas yet.
Who decides when a painting is done? Who decides when the blank
canvas has been sufficiently ruined by the irretractable deeds of our lives
in time? Who decides when it is time for a clean slate? Who does not
ask this question? There was only one blank canvas. There will never
be another.
We are covered in paint and there are brushes in our hands. What now
do we do? What now can we do?
Christian Wolff, Psy.A, Licensed Psychologist Associate
Copyright, 2003
made on painted canvases. They are made on blank canvases.
No matter how inspiring a poem, it is still written. Poets do not write
poems which are written. They write poems which have not been
written.
No matter how impressive a sculpture is, a sculpture cannot be sculpted.
A sculptor needs an uncarved block.
We live in a consumer culture. People view paintings and sculptures,
they read poems and attend plays. This is not a full life. It is a shadow
life - a halflife.
In a way, a blank canvas is ruined by the paint. It is ruined by the
painter.
Then again, what is a blank canvas for? It is for painting. In the end,
what does a painting become? It becomes a painted. What regard may
we have for the painted canvas, if we do not, ourselves, pick up a brush
and look for the unpainted canvas? How sorrowful the lack of
possibility in a painted canvas, how sorrowful the blank canvas never
touched by its transformer. The painter, the paint, the brush, the
canvas, all alive in a dance, in the doing. And when the dance is done?
There is a well known Zen story about a full and empty cup. A student
approaches a master who begins to pour some tea. When the cup is full,
the master keeps pouring. The student alerts the master as if the master
did not know. The master said, "The mind is like this cup. When it is
full, I cannot fill it. If you wish for me to fill your cup, you must bring it
to me empty."
Fill it, drink it, fill it up again. Fill it, drink it, fill it up again. When does
it end? It ends when you are no longer thirsty. As long as you are
thirsty, you will be bound by these laws. How deep is your thirst? How
empty are you? When do you no longer go through the routine? When
do you sit beside the cup, neither filling nor emptying?
There are three basic states: doing, done, and non-doing; becoming,
being, and non-becoming. When there is no coming and no going, being
and non-being are one.
It once occurred to me that I have started painting many canvases in my
life and have finished none. I wonder if there is anyone besides God and
I who knows the size of the canvas I am painting. With my life, I have
painted in the lower corners and I have painted in the upper portions. It
is just one canvas, I believe and it will be finished precisely at the time of
my death - a single stroke on a larger canvas yet.
Who decides when a painting is done? Who decides when the blank
canvas has been sufficiently ruined by the irretractable deeds of our lives
in time? Who decides when it is time for a clean slate? Who does not
ask this question? There was only one blank canvas. There will never
be another.
We are covered in paint and there are brushes in our hands. What now
do we do? What now can we do?
Christian Wolff, Psy.A, Licensed Psychologist Associate
Copyright, 2003
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