WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

It's a haunting, daunting question.  We usually use it to challenge someone's overly inflated ego, their high opinion of themselves, when they're "getting too big for their boots."  Do I remember it from a John Lennon song?   (Yes, it's Instant Karma... "Who on Earth do you think you are?  A superstar? Well, right you are.  And we all shine on, like the moon and the stars and the sun...")

And of course that's all we are, stardust, accumulating moment by moment into the constantly shifting forms we assume for the journey through our lives.  As to the rest, we are who we think we are--no more than the fabrication of our minds, a projected image on the screen of who we want to be, or alternatively fear we might be.  The flesh and blood part of us is transitory, no matter how long it lasts, the reality of at most a hundred years or so--or, in the thirteen point something billion-year history of the universe, by a factor millions of millions less than the blink of an eye.  A fast fleeting reality, then; and as such, the illusion of an illusion.

Still, the question popped unbidden into my head as I woke this morning.  Who do you think you are?  The context?  With my assistant, Maggie's help I have been sending out emails to museums and colleges, some on the East Coast, some on the West, hoping to attract interest in the presentation I have devised for a public lecture/demonstration, based on the One Hour/One Painting experience.  The latter, for those unfamiliar, is an hour-long exploration of single painting, combining the time-tested skills of meditation (closed-eye) and contemplation (open-eye) skills.

I have been offering these sessions for years now, in museums and galleries, mostly in the Southern California area.  I think--there I go!--that it's a great teaching piece, something I have learned for myself and am eager to pass on to others.  It's not only a great way to look at art, it's also a great way to learn the value of paying that kind of mindful attention to everything else in one's life.  Those who come to a session invariably have good things to say about the experience, and it's gratifying to know that I have managed to open a door for them.

But "One Hour/One Painting" works best only for relatively small groups.  How many people can sit in front of a single painting on the gallery wall, with the kind of sight lines needed to explore its surfaces as exhaustively as I intend?  The maximum, I've found, is a couple of dozen participants, give or take.  So something in me (ego? altruist? teacher? attention-getter?) wants to take this visual adventure further, to reach more people, and expand my reach to the East Coast, particularly New York, still the epicenter of the art world...

Call it ambition, call it intention, I don't know.  It's just something I have in heart and mind to do.  So I have devised a way of bringing the "One Hour/One Painting" experience to larger audiences, in this lecture/demonstration called "Slow Looking: The Art of Looking at Art."  As I envision it, it will allow me to use the technology of power point and a big screen to project images, rather than an original painting.  Pixels, I know, lack the substance of oil or acrylic paint, so the experience will necessarily involve more preaching than practice, more teaching than experience; but at least I should be able to convey something of the benefits of slowing down and paying attention (in this case to art) in a culture that seems too often to value speed and surface.  I believe it's wanted and it's needed.

But here's where the "who do you think you are?" conundrum sneaks in.  I think I have something of great value to offer and put out the offer into the world, and in response receive... silence.  I encounter the great, echoing void.  Though I have been writing articles and reviews for national magazines for decades, I can't pretend to have the "name" that generates instant--or even slowly dawning!--recognition.  Even in my own small corner of the art world, where I have somewhat greater name recognition, eliciting a response is problematic at best.

People everywhere are busy, naturally, with their own preoccupations and priorities.  And in part, of course, it's the competition.  There are so many brilliant minds out there in the public speaking market who have something of real value to offer.  Then there are the financial contingencies to be reckoned with: everyone is strapped for funds in the cultural world--schools, college galleries, museums... The steady withdrawal of public funds from the arts since the 1970s, has let to an increasing reliance on other than public resources--private patrons and supporters whose priorities must now include world poverty and hunger, medical research, and other pressing issues.

In which broad and increasingly urgent context, of course, I am brought face to face with that question: Who do you think you are?  So this was what I was wondering about this morning as I lay in bed, after waking with those words echoing in my mind.  Who do I think I am?  Which brings me back--my mind keeps coming back to this--to the question raised not long ago in my exchange with Ken McLeod: "When you say you see Peter, what exactly do you see?"  First thought: I see an image of what I imagine myself to be.  Second thought: well, actually, nothing.

Here's an invitation: try it for yourself.  Who do you (really) think you are?

THE BOAT

Re-reading "Reflections on Silver River" in accordance with my promise to myself, (the link is to my review,) I have worked through the Invocation, the Homage and the Intention, and have arrived at Verse I, where I meet a daunting challenge.

I'll paraphrase the predicament  briefly, and far less eloquently than the author.

I am standing at the end of a pier, looking out over the dark ocean.  A well-provisioned boat  is tied up at my feet, ready to carry me out on the great adventure into the unknown, the realm of total freedom and, perhaps, eventually, enlightenment.  Behind me lie all the enticements of the life I have built for myself, all the things I like to think I own, all the experiences I treasure, the identities by which I have made myself known, my pleasures, my relationships, my addictions...

What will it take to step into the boat and cast off, on a voyage with no return?

(Is this, I wonder, Rimbaud's Drunken Boat?)

I think I'm honest in saying that there's not much I could not give up at this stage of my life.  I have come to understand that the "possessions" are all temporary anyway, not truly "mine."  I am fortunate indeed in having acquired so much in the way of material comforts along the way and they are not unappreciated.  But I think it's true to say that it is not these that prevent me from stepping into the boat.  I could let them all go.

The same with pleasures.  In meditating on this challenge, I could think of nothing in the way of all the worldly pleasures that I would not be ready to sacrifice for the adventure of complete, unfettered freedom.  I pondered long and hard about my most valued identity, the one I cling to most obstinately, the writer, and concluded that I have reached a point where even this is something that I'm able to release.

What, then, would it take to step into that boat?  What's the attachment that still holds me back?  It was clear to me, as I reflected on the image of the boat and the great ocean out ahead, that the one thing I am not yet ready or able to surrender is the attachment to family and friends, those closest to me.  It's the love I have for them, and the sense of obligation that I feel I owe them still that I can't let go.

I returned, in meditation this morning, to the understanding that death will come along to resolve this issue for me--and that, in view of the accumulation of years to date, it will not be overlong in coming!  Still, in the meantime, while not yet ready to step into that boat, I am happy to have been challenged to find the clarity in this, and I take it that the point of the exercise was to work toward that clarity rather than step headlong into the boat.  The more I am clear about the attachments that keep me on the shore, the more I'll be ready for the inevitable voyage when it's no longer an invitation, but an imperative.

Reminding myself of the subtitle of Reflections, "Thirty-Seven Practices of a Bodhisattva"--the title of the original 14th century text that it translates, I harbor no illusions about achieving that eminence myself.  The true bodhisattva would have no hesitations about the sacrifices his dedication requires of him--sacrifices that the Buddha himself made in setting out on his own journey, leaving family along with everything else behind.  At least I have the clarity of knowing what I find myself unable to give up. 

An Exchange

I had a question for Ken McLeod about Reflections on Silver River and he was kind enough to respond.  Here is the full exchange.  

Hello, Ken,

I'm immersed in your enormously helpful book.  Can I ask you a question?  Perhaps it's the most common and basic of all.

Reading the book, I am constantly--often distressingly--aware of how far I have to go.  Here's the (a) sticking point for me: when I ask, "Who is doing the giving?", "Who is doing the thinking?" as you suggest, I still persist in seeing… not nothing, as you say, but me, Peter.  I keep trying to remind myself, This is not me, this is not mine, this is not who I am.  I keep looking and looking and hoping to arrive at a sense of no-self, but there I am, always, obstinately in my own way.  

I may have missed something along the way as I read, or passed over it, but I have not found a passage in the book to walk me through this all-important transition.  That sounds too easy, "walk me through."  I mean really, to guide me.  I have the feeling that it's one of those thresholds that, once passed, look simple and obvious.  

I suspect your answer will be that old Carnegie Hall advice.  Or: keep looking.  

I trust you're well, and that my question is not an intrusion.

With warm wishes, Peter

No intrusion at all. But let me ask, "When you say you see Peter, what exactly do you see?" K

Oh, nothing.  I see.   Or rather, I don't see.  Got it.  So obvious.  Thank you! Cheers, Peter

I guess, actually, I see what I think I see.

You were right the first time. When you look at "Peter", you see nothing. But that "nothing" is deeply terrifying, so we lapse into thinking almost immediately. That's when you see what you think you see, because you have lapsed into thinking. Look, and then rest immediately. Then look again. Don't try to sustain looking once thinking has started. Just drop it all and start again. In the beginning, the looking will last for only a fraction of a second, but you will gradually build capacity and be able to rest there for short periods, i.e., a few seconds or so. Once you can do that, then you can start resting in the looking and looking in the resting. Okay? K

Okay, something to work on.  You don't make things easy!  I noticed, by the way, that it made sense immediately at the moment I read your first response.  I looked, saw nothing, and actually laughed in relief because it was so obvious.  But then it was only a split second before the thinking started and "Peter" showed up again.  I do value this additional guidance, thank you.  Cheers, Peter 

You are welcome. "Peter" is a thought. It's not a thing. You might open to the body sensations that accompany "Peter" and rest there. K

I'll work on this… and will continue to work on "Reflections."  Thanks again, Ken.  Best, "Peter"