Perfection Within the Imperfect

Asymmetry takes the eye off balance, even creating a sense of anxiety. The natural response is for the eye to resolve the imbalance or to discard it as utterly inconsequential. Yet asymmetry gives space for the unexpected to occur and for perspective to be altered. It allows revelation to transpire.

Asymmetry (Fukinsei) - not adhering to perfection or purposely breaking away from formed perfection

The story of Paul Potts (winner of the 2007 Britain's Got Talent competition) is well known to many Internet surfers by this time. A less-than-handsome, poorly dressed man with a reluctant smile, he was all but dismissed by the judges, especially for wanting to sing opera. No one could have been prepared for the first note he would sing. By his last note, Potts had stunned the judges and audience, disarming whatever expectation they might have had of him.

Had he dashing features, was well dressed and with impeccable manner & breeding, would Potts' talents been recognized in the same way?

Imperfection is what the uninformed eye observes and judges by. For me, “not adhering to perfection” implies giving appropriate time and space for perfection to express itself, as one would give to a butterfly to emerge from the caterpillar. It is to hold to a meditative patience and simply bear witness to what is transpiring.

“Purposely breaking away from formed perfection” allows me to appreciate things just as they are, letting perfection guide itself. Just because I have my own ideas about how things could be better doesn't mean I have to let them out of my mouth or act on them. Only when I can stay out of the way of things will the depths begin to be revealed to me.

Emily Dickinson suggests that ”the soul should always stand ajar” to leave ourselves available to the unexpected possibility. That can happen if I can let myself become comfortable with being off balance as my normal way of being. In interview, Potts would say that from that first audition he would discover that he really was somebody, that he was himself. That is the revealing of perfection.


© Richard Aquino, 2007

The art of Rodney Thompson can be see at his online gallery.

The Muse

Note: The following was extracted from a review written for an art history class years ago.

Reality resides not in the external form of things but in their innermost essence. This face entails the impossibility to express anything real while lingering on the surface of things.

- Constantin Brancusi

I viewed Constantin Brancusi's The Muse After 1918 at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art's Encounters with Modem Art: Works from the Rothschild Family Collection exhibition. It was the last of three such versions of The Muse created from polished bronze; the first was created in 1917, the second in 1918, with this final sculpture completed shortly after the second. These bronze pieces were preceded by the original work done in marble, finished in 1912.

On first impression, the personality I encountered in The Muse was one of indifference. The faceless being refused to betray an expression, refused to betray what was on her mind. The face stared blindly at (perhaps through) me. Her taunt lips served only to make me even more uncomfortable in her presence. I felt distrust in this cold, calculating, almost unkind being.

But a muse is a guiding spirit and a source of inspiration. Considering this, the persona of sculpture began to shift for me. Instead of indifference, the gaze of The Muse became one of wonder! Her forward lean indicated a keen interest. The tilt of her head spoke of a sense of curiosity (even amusement) in what she was beholding. Taunt lips transformed into a smile of understanding and perhaps compassion. What I mistook as eyeless I now knew to be wide-eyed, all seeing. Unlike her sculpture-ancestors, Brancusi's renditions of The Sleeping Muse, this muse is an alert observer! And I saw her figure as having a more kindly disposition. Is this because I had taken a more kindly interest in her?

Looking into that polished surface, I could see her mirroring the scene of the gallery space all that time, ultimately revealing the source of her inner energy for inspiration and awakening: it is life in all its forms. Her reflection embraced me, the gallery and all that could be captured by her presence. Though immobile, fixed upon her pedestal, the sculpture began to take a dynamic role, reflecting an ever-changing wisdom. Now it was as if The Muse was poised like a sage, reversing roles to challenge my understanding of wisdom and the understanding of others who would stand before her.

It's noted that Brancusi included in his studies not only the art of Southeast Asia and India, but also the teachings of the Tibetan Buddhist monk Jetsun Milarepa. One could guess that he was influenced by polished bronze statues of the Buddha which he had invariably encountered. The wisdom-pose struck by The Muse becomes reminiscent of seated statues of Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion. With these influences, it is likely that Brancusi was familiar with the idea of shunyata, that nothing can be seen as having an independent, long-lasting form.

Brancusi's simplicity no longer seems as a mere artistic technique, but as the only way he could achieve a true expression of nature. Like haiku poetry, his work functions not in relating a thought or story that occupies his mind, but in compelling the viewer to attempt to directly experience the sculptor's own insight.

The Muse has become a meditation that moves me to discover that source of inspiration, that essential Self that lies both within and without, the guiding spirit which is constantly redefining itself. She continually offers an invitation to share that understanding, which is Brancusi's.

© Richard Aquino, 2007

Zen Characters of Living

Many years ago, I borrowed a video tape from the public library. It was about Zen Buddhism, a practice that I was just entering into. It covered the history of Buddhism, monastic practice and aspects of Japanese culture influenced by Zen. I was intrigued by what was described as the “seven Zen characters of beauty,” aesthetics that have come to be the hallmarks of the art and craft of Japan:

• Asymmetry (Fukinsei) - not adhering to perfection or purposely breaking away from formed perfection
• Non-attachment (Datsuzoku) - to be open-minded and detached: this is freedom because being without form is of every form
• Naturalness (Shizen) - that which is artless in its natural form; without pretense
• Simplicity (Kanso) - neither complicated nor gaudy; artless simple beauty
• Silence (Seijaku) - limitless silence; the inward looking mind
• Wise Austerity (Koko) - wizened, solitary and stern; dignified like an old tree
• Profound Subtlety (Yugen) - a lingering memory hidden deep inside; limitless implication

These are the exact descriptions from the video. The images of artwork and craft that accompanied the narration were especially haunting. Three years later, I participated in a Jukai ceremony, where I formally became a lay Zen Buddhist practitioner. There one “receives” the Bodhisattva precepts, the precepts being guidelines of sorts that help the Zen student in their training toward enlightenment. Further, it provides a common reference for one's daily conduct and the spiritual evolution of the Zen community.

At some point I felt that the community stopped talking to me. Maybe I stopped listening to it. It is many years later and while I still value the Buddhist precepts, it is no longer a preferred language of understanding. I'm finding that it's useful understand many languages because you never know who you are going to meet and how they would prefer to communicate. What I've noticed is that most people at least have a feel for the language of art aesthetics.

So when I consider the Zen characters of beauty, it is like I'm considering precepts. Not as guidelines per say, but as a way by which I can recognize that I'm growing toward the light and not simply aiming at a reflection.

I would like to think of my life as artwork of the kind described by these characters, or at least moving toward it. It doesn't require that I be a follower of a specific belief system (although I'm not like those would fear religion). Instead, it asks me to become an artist…and there is great stimulation in talking and sharing about art with other artists of all types.

The community I connect to is now a little bit larger; it's a little easier to hear them.

© Richard Aquino, 2007

Strangers, Friends, Community and Giving Thanks

In past years, I would open up my home during the holidays. Not just an opportunity for friends and family to get together, these gatherings were really meant for strangers and displaced souls who didn't to have a a community to share this time with. They were times for engaging interesting conversations, eating international dishes and to making a fair bit of noise. My mother, roommate and I would invite the different people involved in our lives, strangers to each other, to see who would show up and how they would mix it up.

And then like everybody else, I got too busy.

I had taken a job that leveraged off of my workaholic tendencies (again). My connections to friends and family became more tenuous until I no longer had time to participate our usual activities. The workplace became a surrogate for the community I was leaving. My personal experience of community at work was authentic due to the unique relationship I had with all departments and company clients. But a looming specter of fear and lack of staff empowerment diminished that sense of community from being a global corporate experience.

I have a very basic way of knowing when you and I are in community: it's when you and I are in each other's laps, when we are intricately involved in each other's lives. In that sense, "community" is a foreign experience to most people. We only seem to draw to each other under times of acute, regional distress, or when we're forced into it (that's where corporation's idea of "teamwork" comes into play). Otherwise it is much more convenient to commune with our Internet connection and TiVo box. It's not that we've become totally incapable of engaging as community, its just that it has become less obvious why it is necessary to do so.

I now find myself with free time on my hands (having left the workaholic-inducing environment) and with a renewed ability to give myself to these gatherings and other things again. And in this Thanksgiving season, I find myself thankful for particular things: With the recent fires here in San Diego and the losses that some have experienced, we all came through it safely; With the passing of my favorite uncle I was reminded of the importance of generational experience and wisdom, and how it prepares us to meet our future; Even though some of us are moving into "interesting times," we can be utterly surprised by who will walk back into our lives to keep us company through it all.

My cousin's husband defines a friend as someone you are willing to invite into your home. So if you happen to be in the North County San Diego area next week, I invite you to come over for Thanksgiving dinner. By tradition, it's a potluck deal where we supply the meat and you bring something that can keep the mouths of 3-4 people busy. The planned highlight will Mark's famous smoked turkey. This year I thought I'd try something different. The "Main
Event" will be held the Sunday before Thanksgiving Day, with the "Leftovers Event" held on Thanksgiving Day. Come on Thursday and you may not have to worry about bringing a dish! Because people do get busy during the holidays, having two gatherings gives people a chance to stop by.

We run an open house, so arrive at your own leisure. The door opens at 1:00pm and closes when the last person leaves. Invite your friends and family along (children are welcome). Drop by for a few minutes or stay the whole evening. Bring your swimsuits because the Jacuzzi is all warmed up. Bring an appetite. Bring your laptop (I'll have a wireless Internet connection available).

Community is created when at least one other person shows up. Let me know if you need directions.

© Richard Aquino, 2007