Blank Canvases
A painting is a misnomer. It should, once finished, be called a
"painted". 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 do not ask this question. What then do we do?
"painted". 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 do not ask this question. What then do we do?
Christian Wolff, MA, Licensed Psychologist Associate
Copyright, 2003
Copyright, 2003
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| CHRISTIAN WOLFF, MA Licensed Psychologist Associate/Consultant 820 NW 21st Avenue, Suite B . Portland. Oregon . 97209 . 503-284-4501 . christian@christianwolff.com |
