Anticipation

Anticipation is the big part of the overall experience. For example, Tim Ferriss repeatedly made the case in his podcasts that planning a family vacation is at least as pleasant as the vacation itself. In the illustrated story that I have been sketching, following the games of my daughter, I have been prolonging the incubation period as long as I could. Next time, we are going to have a new character.

“One day, the Girl noticed that the Egg started shaking. Then, tiny cracks appeared on its surface. The Girl held her breath in anticipation.”

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On collaboration

In sketching up the plot of my daughter’s make-believe games, I am actually collaborating with a four-year-old. The process is fascinating for both of us. I like observing the way a child’s mind weaves the storyline, and she is curious to see the next sketch and realize that she already knows the story – it is the one she made herself.

Here is today’s episode.

“The Girl was always there to protect the Egg. The Cat had to retreat, leaving the Egg alone.”

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The plot thickens

It is fascinating to see that children are often drawn to rather stylized drawings and minimalistic storylines. Some of my daughter’s favourite illustrated books are those by Oliver Jeffers and Genevieve Cote. There are many commonalities between these authors. They both explore imaginary worlds created by children and they both tell the stories visually, through illustrations that are made to resemble children’s doodles. As I explore their style, it becomes clear that the apparent simplicity of both the writing and the drawings is actually hard to achieve. The challenge is to capture only the essential elements and not let the unnecessary details detract from the clarity of the image.

My daughter’s make-believe stories often involve a nemesis, in the form of a mischievous cat, from which the main character, played by herself, needs to be protected. So here is the continuation of the illustrated story of the Girl and the Egg.

“It was not an easy job – taking care of the Egg. It had to be kept warm. Not too hot and not too cool, but just right. Bit most importantly, the Girl had to watch out for the Cat, who was always looking to steal the Egg when the Girl was not watching.”

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Character development: a make-believe approach

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Playing make-believe is a big part of my four-year-old daughter’s life. Her stories and games about the Baby Chick or the  Baby Dinosaur (anything involving hatching from an egg) become more elaborate as the days go by. The main plots repeats over and over again, but the details are added as she matures. At the same time, a lot remains unsaid and left to the audience’s (most of the time consisting of her mom and dad) imagination. This reminds me of the storytelling style of Oliver Jeffers. In fact, I became a fan of his artwork by reading his (I can only assume, autobiographical) books about the Boy and his penguin friend to my daughter.

I thought that it would be a pity not to capture the development of my daughter’s make-believe games, so I decided to add a bit of focus to my short motorcycle rides by sketching some of the episodes as I drink my cappuccino. So today the story starts, as my bike is parked in view of Mt. Baker, on a fantastic sunny afternoon at the Oak Bay Marina cafe. 

“Once there was a Girl, and on a particularly sunny day, she had a very important job: to take care of a great white Egg. The Egg was smooth and shiny, and the Girl didn’t know what was inside. She could hear tiny tweeting noises coming from the egg, and she hoped that it was a chick, who would become her friend.”

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A glimpse of the sacred

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Cal Newport makes an interesting argument in his book Deep Work that craftsman mindset is so appealing in the modern days because it provides an opportunity to engage with something that has an intrinsic value. Specifically, the value, the meaning of the craft is not created by us but is already there, in the material, in the purpose of the final product, in the process of creating it, in the setting in which the process takes place. The craftsman simply cultivates a skill of uncovering this meaning through her daily practise.

I am writing this on a ferry on my way to a kendo tournament – the largest annual competition that I attend. For amateur kendoka like myself, there is always a question of whether the shiai experience (which often ends after a single lost match in my case) is worth all the inconvenience of getting there, not to mention the stress of the competition. I was thinking about this again this morning, sitting in the dark, waiting for my ride to the first ferry sailing of the day. I think that the reason we do it (practice kendo and go to tournaments) is to experience The Way (the ‘Do’ in “kendo’). It has an unmistakable flavour of the sacred, something deeply spiritual. Just as craftsmen, we do not need to create the reason to follow the way – it is already imbedded in the process itself.

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Why fiction is better than non-fiction

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Lately, I changed my view of fiction literature from a somewhat time-wasting entertainment to a rather efficient form of teaching. I think the usefulness of fiction stems from human ability to relate to good stories. Perhaps, our liking of storytelling is a result of evolutionary adaptation to quickly and widely spreading information within the society in the most efficient way – a way that employs our capacity to relate to emotional content. We like a good story, and a good story can teach us, in an implicit way, something that would take libraries-full of scientific literature to describe analytically, i.e. by defining every term, concept and rule.

I recently came across an example of this while re-reading Tolstoy’s “War and Peace”. There is an episode, where a charismatic Russian commander (prince Bagrtation) raised and maintained morale of his troops during and uneven battle against French forces that vastly outnumbered the Russians. When receiving reports from his aide-de-champs about the disastrous events that were unfolding one after another in all parts of the battlefield, Bagration created an impression (through his remarks and body language) that everything was going on exactly as he had expected it and that everyone, even the routed units, were doing a good job.

I believe that this scene, which took Tolstoy a couple of pages to describe, might be worth a couple of shelves of modern non-fiction books in a bookstore’s “Leadership”. This battle scene is a succinct description, through an example, of a fairly complicated leadership principle, rooted in stoicism (another fashionable non-fiction area these days): faced with the circumstances that were beyond his control, Bagration did not let them alter his way of relating to his men.

I am sure that this leadership approach can be very effective in the far less dramatic circumstances of everyday lives of most people (in the first-world countries, anyway). From coaching a kendo team to leading a research group to directing models during a photoshoot – projecting confidence and remaining calm is undoubtedly a useful skill.

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Substance vs. method

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“The Chairman said, “What is your substantive field?”
Phaedrus said, “English composition.”
The Chairman bellowed, “That’s a methodological field!”
Robert Pirsig, “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

We tend to define ourselves by what we do for living. This is particularly true in North America, where the stereotype is that people live for work. Perhaps, this is how North Americans like to think about themselves more than how they actually live, but apparently, Europeans are a bit more relaxed in this regard. One way or another, this relationship with work surfaces in many forms, including the dilemma of whether to specialize in a narrow field or to strive to be a polymath.

Robert Pirsig’s brilliant “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” has an interesting insight into the root of this issue – a discussion of the difference between the substance and the method of work. He says, “Substance doesn’t change. Method contains no permanence.” Perhaps, there is hint there, that we should not let the methods that we use define the substance of what we do. Also, no matter how much we work on diversifying our arsenal of skills and techniques, this doesn’t automatically mean that the underlying direction of the work has to change.

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Deliberate study vs. intuitive experience

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Continuing reading Cal Newport’s “So Good They Can’t Ignore You”, I realized that most points that resonate with me are the ones that I have come across before, sometimes several times, but that have fallen off my radar (not forgotten exactly, but I stopped being actively aware of them). This reinforces the idea to keep notes of the main points from the books I read.

One of these good/interesting points in the Newport’s book is the notion that not only the quantity of practice matters (e.g. the 10,000-hour rule popularized by Malcolm Gladwell in “Outliers”), but also it’s quality. Of course this is a bit of a truism, and more than that, it has been specifically brought up by Hayashi-sensei (kendo 8th dan hanshi) at a seminar a few years ago. As most kendo-related teachings, it applies not only to kendo to nearly everything else in life. Newport is being a bit more specific by introducing a classification of practice into serious study (“deliberate practice” in Anders Ericsson’s terms) and intuitive practice.

Since time is a non-renewable resource, everyone who wants to develop a skill faces a dilemma – to do a serious study “for the sole purpose of improving specific aspects of an individual’s performance” or to practice intuitively by applying whatever skills one has at his/her current level of development. Newport’s example is related to chess: studying the books with a teacher vs. playing in tournaments. This is a true dilemma (i.e. there is no single right answer), but the studies across various fields apparently show that serious study is necessary (although maybe not sufficient) for becoming a “grand master”.

The problem with intuitive experience is that in real-life, applied situations such as chess or kendo tournaments, routine photo shoots, academic research, etc., the challenge is either decidedly above or decidedly below your current ability. In both situations “skill improvement is likely to be minimized”. In deliberate study, on the other hand, there is an opportunity to choose a challenge that is appropriate for the skill level (incidentally, this is typically a teacher’s job).

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Practice vs. play

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Many Japanese kendo sensei call kendo practitioners “players”. Intuitively, I always thought that something is wrong with this word in the kendo context, something was rubbing me the wrong way when kendoka were called anything other that this Japanese word. “Swordsman” seems to Westernized, and “kenshi” is somehow too pretentious.

Now, as I am reading Cal Newport’s “So Good They Can’t Ignore You“, I think I understand the reason for this fidelity loss due to translation. About 1/3 of the way into the book, he explores the difference between playing and practicing, as it applies to becoming a craftsman. The difference is that practice implies “constantly stretching your abilities”. This also implies discomfort, or rather, training to become used to discomfort. Playing, on the other hand, is pure fun.

When I read it, at first I thought that this contradicted the hypothesis that a “gamers mindset” is highly beneficial for developing a skill. Thinking about it a bit further, perhaps there is no real contradiction. The gamers mindset also involves challenging oneself, only the stakes are not high and the learning curve is not steep – both of these factors keep the process enjoyable.

In fact, even in kendo, a seventh-dan sensei at a recent seminar explained that being able to anticipate the opponent’s action allows his to remain relaxed, because the whole match becomes like a game. It goes something like this: there are only so many ways a human can move once he/she is committed to a particular type of attack. Once the opponent’s attack is recognized and categorized into a particular kind (which happens subconsciously, due to an incredible amount of practice), there is no need to rush to make a decision or flinch – the correct action (counter-attack) has already been pre-determined and all is left is to let it happen as if by itself. The process actually becomes fun in some sense.

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Craftsman mindset

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I have come across Cal Newport’s book “So Good They Can’t Ignore You” for the second time in the past year. First time, it was through his blog on study hacks, second – through an inspiring interview with Derek Sivers. So I finally decided to read the book, although I have become largely disillusioned with non-fiction literature (I think, storytelling is the key to transmitting really fundamental ideas, but this is beside the point).

This book is surprisingly interesting. It’s about career-building, and the main idea is that trying to find a dream job by following one’s passion is bad idea; instead, one should become remarkably good at whatever he/she is doing for living, and the passion will follow.

One curious point at the beginning of the book is the contrast between the craftsman mindset, where one is concerned with adding value to the product of the work, and the passion mindset, where one is focused on maximizing of the value that the work can bring to him-/herself. In the case of the craftsman, the action precedes the passion. Interestingly, this is in line with the main recommendation of Robert Boice to university professors – start writing before you are ready, certainly before all experiments are completed and the data is analyzed.

There are some definite advantages to adopting the craftsman mindset. It removes the psychological pressure to be completely satisfied with the job, which is impossible to achieve anyway, considering the wide ranges of work subjects, conditions, contexts, etc. Instead it affords a kind of stoic clarity: this is what I get, so I will work with it to polish my skills (altimately, myself). Basically, this comfort comes from conceding control (which we didn’t really have anyway) over the fact whether we like every single detail of the work and every particular moment.

It is almost redundant to explain how this principle applies to photography. Photography is a craft by definition, so it pays off going out and shooting, instead of questioning whether you have the right gear, the right conditions, or whether this is the right calling for you. Especially if you are a pro, the questions will be rendered moot because you will soon be out of the job if you are not constantly working on developing your skills.

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