grasp…

Monday, October 3rd, 2011

grasping hold

T’ai Chi taught me many things but perhaps nothing quite as useful as the unlearning of the reflex to grasp. This reflex – to grab hold of something, most often with the dominant hand – becomes a liability in any kind of fight. One problem is that it focuses the mind on the grasping hand: thus focused, the mind loses the ability to see ‘the bigger picture’. Another is that an attempt to grab some part of an opponent is a necessarily difficult procedure: he is most likely to be in motion, and the desire to coordinate the grasping hand with the moving target absorbs altogether too much of your attention. Further, even if you succeed in grasping your target you will become attached to the other person by your own grasp in a way that can be used against you. While all this is going on, much of what your opponent is up to will most likely elude you, and, because of your focus, you are open to essentially ‘surprise attacks’ from those parts of your opponent that you are not monitoring. All in all this is not a brilliant tactic.

Thus T’ai Chi seeks to disarm the ‘grasp reflex’, instead training you to remain in a state of overall awareness, and using, for example, the back of the hand, the wrist and the forearm, to make contact with your opponent. This is not done randomly, but with an interest in the areas above or below joints, elbows and knees, the hips etc. Once contact is achieved it is allowed to slide across your body as you roll into your opponent, sensing the movement of his body in space, the dynamics of his weight shifting, until you feel one of his joints nearing a position of disadvantage, his weight passing near a fulcrum where he is close to losing his balance. Only at this point is focus narrowed and your force deployed against him.

The aim is to remain uncommitted until the last moment. Thus the practice of the ‘forms’ that, to an outsider, appear to be a gentle dance, but that is the attempt to keep muscles and joints relaxed while in constant motion and, with paired work (‘pushing hands’), maintaining this while impacting and being in contact with the other.

I believe this principle is related to the balance of the hemispheres of the brain. What concerns me here, however, is how ‘grasp’ is metaphorically extended to the mental attempt to understand something. It seems to me that everything I have described above can also be applied to this. That when we attempt to understand an issue of any complexity – as the movement of a human opponent in space is complex – any attempt to directly ‘grasp’ that issue will lead only to a clumsy, partial understanding, if not indeed to confusion as it defeats you. When faced with such complexity I have found that it is better to engage it using the ‘edges’ of my mind, to forgo coming to quick conclusions, to keep my mind gently out of focus: understanding naturally emerges from this process, hardening to clarity in its own time.

I applied this recently to my travel plans: delaying the purchase of tickets, allowing other possibilities of routes and timings to emerge. This made it possible for me to change my plans dramatically; returning to Edinburgh to attend the Achaemenid conference and making better use of my time. Some may point out that not everyone has the freedom of action I had here – however I would counter that all situations have their limitations and that, within these, it is always possible to apply this brand of ‘fuzzy planning’…

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the empty buddhas…

Saturday, August 6th, 2011

the empty buddha


the tallest Bamiyan buddha before the dynamite...

I was watching a TV program about Afghanistan where the presenter went to look upon the empty niche in Bamiyan that had once held a 55m high buddha carved from the sandstone cliff. This and other colossi were dynamited by the Taliban in 2001 because they considered them idols prohibited by the Koran. Being someone who has a profound reverence for history, I found this act of vandalism appalling.

There is serious talk about rebuilding the destroyed buddhas. What do such reconstructions of lost artefacts and monuments achieve? Surely, what makes such survivals valuable is that they have survived, and their authenticity; that those are the actual chisel marks made by people long ago. When we reconstruct something that has been lost – and there is a lot of this going on across the world – we are replacing something real with something that is fake.

Ultimately, everything physical that we make must disappear – that is the nature of things. There seems to me an unhealthy fetishism in feverishly trying to halt the passage of time. I am reminded of the somewhat creepy mummifying of Lenin. Everything has a life span, and then it should be allowed to die.

In the case of the buddhas in Bamiyan it seems to me that we are missing something quite profound. Why, after all, were these colossi constructed in the first place? No doubt it was an act of devotion. Also, a focus for contemplation. My next question is: what has actually been lost that matters? Consider how imperfect a representation of Buddhism the actual colossi have always been as things in themselves.

It seems to me that those empty niches contain far more potent representations of the buddha than the colossi ever were. What is left are buddha-shaped holes that have not lost their buddhas at all: we still see them there; we feel them there. These empty buddhas, that can never be destroyed (except perhaps by rebuilding them), are surely a more pure fulfilment of their purpose than wrought stone could ever be…

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life and art in one gear…

Tuesday, June 28th, 2011
motion blur

motion blur © xaxor.com

In writing, and in other art forms whose expression occurs across a span of time, pace is important, however I feel that we are, as a culture, somewhat obsessed with it, and I would like to lightly explore why this may be so. Let me admit from the outset that some of my work has been criticized as moving along at too slow a pace, and so you may say: I would say this, wouldn’t I…

My key concern is the notion that there is an ‘optimal’ pace, ‘correct’ even, that should reign over all time-spanning artworks (books, films, music, dance). This seems to me akin to claiming that our hearts should always beat with the same rhythm. Of course the pace that is supposed to be optimal is a fast one; the complaint is predominantly that something is ‘too slow’. The corollary of this seems to be that ‘slow’ is equated with ‘boring’ and ‘dull’, whereas ‘fast’ is equated with ‘exciting’. To suppose that everything needs to be exciting (in this frantic, breathless sense) seems to me to be related to the way in which our culture worships youth. Human beings slow as they age. I feel that to see this slowing as some kind of unfortunate diminishment is to miss the point. Travelling in a train, we watch the world rush by; as we slow our progress by driving a car, riding a bicycle or walking on foot, we see, geographically, less and less of the world, but, critically, we see it in much greater depth and detail. Similarly, artworks that possess less pace can allow for greater depth. Western classical music – and probably many older traditions of music – can match the frantic pace of popular music, but deploys many other paces besides, and by this means can explore a much more expansive and deeper realm of musical experience.

In short: I believe that the gearbox of our art and lives has more than one gear…

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clenching…

Friday, March 18th, 2011
elastic band hand

trussed up

Something that I have observed in my body is how I react to stress by ‘clenching’ – not just in the obvious places such as the stomach – but in different parts of my body according to what it is that is getting to me. This can be a very subtle ‘tightening’ and can occur when I hear something about myself I don’t like, or about someone or something else. Or someone singing whose voice I don’t like, or a song I don’t like, or saying something that produces some kind of unhappy resonance. Or doubt, or fear, or worry. And, sometimes, I become aware that this little tight spot is being held; that I am constantly holding it – the way one might try and hold a handful of sand trying not to let it escape. And it occurs to me just how much energy it must take to be holding on to so many little ‘fistfuls’ of stress. Further it occurs to me that each little clenching draws the towards it the flesh around it, pulling on it like tiny blackholes distorting space. And I wonder if these, coming together, and over time, lead to a bowing of the body, a cramping up, a twisting. And I know from yoga – a practice a main benefit of which might be a stretching free of such knots – that misalignment in the body, in posture, leads inevitably to more of the same. It’s as if we were a frame of rods held together by a system of elastic bands that are optimally in dynamic balance, but that if one elastic band begins tightening, it will pull the whole frame out of shape, folding in on itself, limiting its natural movement, until the whole thing collapses into a paralyzed ball…

So it seems to me that it might be wise for me to cultivate an awareness of such clenchings, for becoming aware of one, I can gently ‘let it go’ and this is better done before it has become a knot. After all is it likely that such knots do not have a parallel in my mind…?

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Ming vases…

Wednesday, January 19th, 2011

Wen Zhengming painting

Philosopher by a Waterfall by Wen Zhengming

Even in childhood I was baffled as to why oil paintings sold in auction houses for countless millions, while equally exquisite works of art from other cultures seemed lucky if they fetched thousands. One exception is the ubiquitous ‘Ming vase’… examples of which appear in everything from Tin Tin to baroque palaces across Europe. Another is ancient artefacts, though these again seem to be valued less for their aesthetic qualities than for how close they fall to the traditionally accepted path of ancestry of Western culture.

Surely, what this is all about is some kind of bigotry… There are schools of painting in China, for example, that are as sophisticated, as accomplished, as those in Europe, and yet – though most will have heard of Van Gogh or Rembrandt – who among us can name any Chinese painters?

The strange anomaly of the Ming vase perhaps only helps to further make this point. Chinese porcelain as an object of admiration and desire dates from a time when Europe was somewhat in awe of China – and it seems to me that human beings, when they respect others – and nothing breeds respect quite like perceiving that the other appears to be rich and successful – that they also respect their art; what is art after all but an incarnation of a people’s soul…?

Well it seems that as the ‘developing’ world becomes richer, people there become interested in reclaiming their heritage. Nothing draws attention to something quite as much as someone paying a lot of money for it. No doubt Western art critics will now begin to ‘discover’ this other art and their reappraisal will see it slowly raised to a comparable status with Western art.

About time is what I say!

(I have made a resonant point about ‘manners’ in an earlier post.)

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