Tuesday, April 22, 2014


I remember what my mother used to say: "These things are sent to try us."  I think it was my mother.  I think that was what she used to say...  Anyway, a Christian sentiment.  I have been spared this peculiar--yet familiar!--agony for quite some time.  I attribute the respite to a friend's suggestion, years ago, to sleep with a pillow between my legs.  Whether it's that now nightly habit or not, I have no way of knowing.  But I do know that, aside from the occasional twinge, soon passed, my back has held up remarkably well.

Until now.  This present pain was heralded several days ago by warning signs--an unease in the lower back, a quick signal to the brain.  When it came, it was not sudden as it sometimes is: I've put my back out.  No, this time it was slow in its arrival, taking its good time to blossom into its full, unquestionable presence. As always, the dilemma is this one: whether it's better to exercise the back gently, to "warm it up" and trust that movement will keep it lubricated; or whether to lie flat and remove the pressure entirely--and for how long!

My mother's wisdom is not out of line with Buddhist teaching.  It's just that the lesson is different.  The back pain is not some kind of punishment sent to test our faith, but rather a simple fact of life to which it's better not to get attached.  I try to remind myself of the old saw, that pain is inevitable, but suffering optional.  Just notice that it's there and let it slip away.  As with all teachings of the dharma, it's easier said than done.  Simple, as I often tell myself, but usually very hard to do.

Friday, April 18, 2014


No, that's not a typo.  It is "Hillywood."  Which is a thriving creative movie-making center set in the hills of Rwanda--hills, as this inspiring documentary shows, whose astonishing beauty stands in stark contrast to the country's all-too-familiar recent tragic history.  How, we wonder as we watch this footage, could such a travesty of all that's good and beautiful have happened here?  It's a question we repeat to ourselves constantly through Leah Warshawski's hour-long film as we watch the faces of the Rwandan men, women and children, whose radiant beauty rivals that of the land in which they live.

Finding Hillywood is a film about the redemptive power of the creative spirit; about forgiveness and restitution, about acknowledging the past and learning to shape the future.  The dreadful history of the genocide is never far from the surface.  The film's story tracks its main character, Ayuub, a man racked with regret and guilt for his absence from his native country at the time of the genocide, for having failed to save his mother from the slaughter, and having for a while abandoned his obligation to his wife and five sons as he sought release in alcohol.

He is pulled back from the brink, first, by a minor film crew job on the making of "The Last King of Scotland."  Falling in love with film, Ayuub decides that this, against all probability, will be his life's calling--and finds Hillywood, an organization devoted to the support and promotion of the work of Rwandan filmmakers.  We follow them from village to village, despite all obstacles, braving tropical heat and rainstorms to set up their inflatable screen and delight rapt audiences with their films.  Many have never seen a film before; all are inspired with pride in the achievements of their compatriots, and share in the healing they bring to the still-raw wound of fratricidal violence and hatred.

"Finding Hillywood" observes all this with a sympathetic documentary eye.  It honors the courage and tenacity of a people ravaged by genocide, and their profound humanity.  It dwells unabashedly on the beauty of the children, their eyes aglow with wonder, their faces shining.  It revels in the lush colors of the landscape, the rich fall of rain, the slow flow of red rivers.  It asks, always beneath a surface of joy and celebration: how could it happen here?  And, more importantly even than that question, it reminds us that the human spirit is boundless in its capacity for redemption, and that it is our creativity that provides us with the means.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014


It hit me, not for the first time but with a sudden clarity, as I was following the long, slowly descending arc of an on-ramp from the 133 to the 405 north: while already of necessity adapted, the human body-mind has not yet fully evolved to the extent that it is capable of driving the freeways without experiencing--most frequently at the unconscious level--some significant psychic damage.

I had reached that point along the arc from which I look down on a long stretch of the freeway reaching out in front of me.  Each one of the six lanes--including the merging lane and the carpool lane--was nose-to-tail with multicolored speeding vehicles, none traveling less than fifty-five miles per hour and most barreling along at seventy or eighty.  (I was reminded of the Hot Wheels little two-and-a-half year-old Luka already loves to play with; or, more dramatically, of Chris Burden's "Metropolis" at the L.A. County Museum, with its crammed arteries and the unremitting buzz of tiny, racing autos.)  From this vantage point, my task seemed hair-raising: to accelerate across those speeding lines of traffic, one by one, and edge into the next entry into carpool lane, a quarter mile ahead.

Crazy, when you stop to think about it.  Like most of us, I suspect, I don't often stop to think about it, and might drive myself literally crazy if I did.  You just go ahead and do it, and trust that all your fellow drivers share the skills that you possess.  It's not that complicated, adjusting your speed to that of the cars in the adjacent lane and waiting for that half-second's break in the stream of traffic to apply just the right additional pressure to the accelerator and make your move.  What's astonishing is that most of us are skilled enough to manage this process with little disruption to the flow.

But when you do stop to think about it--preferably not until after the fact!--you can't help but realize what a toll it takes.  Seen in the perspective of our long evolution as a species, these past few decades of our adaption to the motor vehicle are but a millisecond.  It's not long since we were driving oxcarts along muddy tracks, or at best taking the carriage or riding horses from one town to the next.  A journey of sixty miles would have been a major undertaking.  Now we do it, barring accidents, in less than an hour.

Still, what we generally take for granted does take a toll.  The brain and the reflexes, I think, adapt more readily than the human body-mind, which is still not ready to rest easy in the experience of speeding along at seventy-eighty miles per hour encased in a ton of metal, in the immediate proximity of dozens of other, similarly careening coffins, many of them of far greater size and tonnage.  We pay for the convenience in the often unnoticed stress on a brain that, aside from all its other tasks, must process millions of bits of information per second as we drive the freeway; and a body-mind that is constantly, whether we're aware of it or not, on survival alert.

As it has evolved thus far, the human body is also ill-suited to the task of sitting for hours on end in pretty much the same position.  With their long periods entrapped in the sedentary position, whether in automobiles or airplanes, our twenty-first century lives would have been unthinkable two hundred years ago.  These days, an hour's drive is enough to lock my aging knees into a state of acute discomfit and send pain shooting down my legs.  Having reached my destination, I unbend from my seat in spasms of agony that last until I've had the opportunity to warm up the lower extremities with some welcome movement.

All in all, I'd be happy never to have to climb into the driver's seat again, let alone board an airplane for a ten-hour flight.  But there you go.  Would I choose not to visit my grandchildren, in England?  No.  The wonder is, that it's possible to do it.  And that it's possible to drive down from Los Angeles to our cottage in Laguna Beach in the space of a single hour.  It's just that the doing of it drives a person crazy.

Monday, April 14, 2014


(Thanks to Marlan Globerson for this image!)

We enjoyed a great “Slow Art Day” at Laguna Art Museum.  This event differs from my “One Hour/One Painting” series (now “Slow Looking: The Art of Looking at Art”) in several respects.  First, it takes place at more than two hundred venues in locations throughout the globe—museums, galleries, art centers, studios…  Then its basic premise is to take in five works of art in the space of an hour—ten minutes each, unlike the single work we sit with at a “Slow Looking” session.  And it concludes with a convivial discussion session over lunch or coffee at a local cafĂ©.   But the principle is the same: spend some good, concentrated time with the art work, rather than rushing past it at the usual museum/gallery trot.  So, pay attention.  Think about what you’re looking at, and about the looking process.

My co-host for the Laguna Art Museum event was the painter, Hedy Buzan...

(here she is, center...)
... whose approach is very different from my own; she talks participants through the compositional aspects of the painting—line and shape, color and value, texture, and so on, offering an artist’s education in how it’s all put together, how it works as a structural entity.  My approach is based in the time-tested skills of meditation and contemplation, applying them to the process of looking; it attempts to engage the perceiving mind, settling it into a state of pure stillness and receptivity and demanding from the eyes the hard work of registering every detail of the work.  I act as guide to the process.

I did not do a head count of our Slow Art Day participants.  I believe there were up to sixteen at any given moment—“up to”, because one or two of our number tended to wander off and follow their own inclinations.  Which was fine.  But we had reliably a dozen people at each stop along the way.  Our original plan was for Hedy and myself to introduce our different approaches and invite group members to choose between the two.  But then… we thought, well, we can start together and see where we go from there; and things turned out differently from what we’d planned.

First stop was a Millard Sheets painting, “Night of the Dead”, a complex work evoking the presence of both living and dead in a Mexican graveyard.  Here, Hedy did such an excellent job of guiding the group through her structural approach that I thought, why not let’s alternate?  Let’s encourage the whole group to experience both approaches.  So we all went on to a landing on the museum’s stairway, where a group of small, dazzling Frank Cuprien sunset/seascapes was installed--quite typical of this California Impressionist's magical play with light and space.  There was enough continuity between each of the paintings to allow group members to select of their choice; and I realized, as I led the process, that my vision—and presumably theirs too—had already been much enriched by Hedy’s analytical approach.  We brought that along with us into contemplation.

So we decided to alternate, keeping the group together for all five of the paintings, and derived enormous benefit from the way the two approaches fed into each other, enriching both our skills and the experience as we went.  From Cuprien, we moved on to a beautiful William Wendt landscape--again typical, with its rich interplay of greens; and from there to a small Wayne Thiebaud painting of a cigar, still burning, laid across an ashtray; and to a remarkable, large-scale drawing by the contemporary artist Dana Harel, “Gatekeeper,” with its skillful juxtaposition of grey graphite values evoking three partial images--a chair, and a seated figure holding an indeterminate animal.  Our final two minutes with this work were spent in silent contemplation.

Across the street, we settled down to coffee—and, some of us, lunch—in a shady garden corner set aside for us at Madison’s.  Here we enjoyed the opportunity to compare notes about the experience and get to know a little more about each other.  From feedback, it appeared that all our guests had been as happy with the “Slow Art Day” experience as were Hedy and I.  A great day, and one which I hope will lead to better art-viewing habits for us all.

Thursday, April 10, 2014


I found myself contemplating the mind in my morning meditation.  I have a metaphor I've used in the past, imagining the brain as the engine of a car traveling through the landscape...  and thought this morning that I could revise and refine that metaphor if I thought of the brain, instead, as the onboard computer, connecting to and controlling all the moving--and multiple non-moving--parts.  The engine, then, would be the heart; it was the heartbeat I was feeling as I contemplated all this, because I saw the heart as the driving force...

Mind, then, would be not only the whole machine, but the road ahead and the road behind.  It would be the changing landscape, and the cityscape behind.  But it would also reach to every horizon and beyond; up to the sky and beyond the sky, to the ends of the universe.  As I imagine it, mind has to be that big.

And then, surprising me as I thought about all this in retrospect, after meditation, my mother's voice returned to me from childhood: never mind, she would say.  Never mind.  She meant, of course, "don't let it worry you"; or, sometimes, "don't cry, the hurt will go away."  Never mind covered every adverse circumstance, every accident of boyhood, the scraped knee, the fall from a bicycle, the hurt feelings...  Never mind.  Using the word as in "I don't mind if I do."  Or "do you mind if I…"  Or "Mind your Ps and Qs."  Very polite, very English!

My mother's intention was a good one: to soothe, to wipe away the pain.  But of course it's always mind.  It's "all in the mind."  As I was saying, mind is everything I can imagine, and then much, much more.  It's infinite.  That big.