Category: Philosophy

Posted on

On puzzles

I’ve been solving chess puzzles as an exercise to improve my tactical intuition (read: stop blundering away pieces). The method comes from a highly influential book by Axel Smith and Hans Tikkanen, aptly named “The Woodpecker Method” (“tikkanen” means “little woodpecker” in Finnish, and the repetitiveness of the approach also fits the name very well.)

I find it somewhat difficult to work on the puzzles, though. Not because of their complexity, but because of my default result-oriented mindset. I see puzzles purely as training, rather like lifting weights to build muscles, without any potential for creative content. I feel similarly about solving the Rubik’s cube – it is a nice way to spend time and practice concentration but ultimately, the solution is already known, and it has been done many time before.

But it is the process itself that is valuable in puzzles, not so much the final result. Somewhat unexpectedly this fundamental insight comes from the same chess tactics book. I’ll let he quote speak for itself:

“‘Life puzzle’ is a Swedish expression which originates from a political campaign and points out the difficulty of organizing work, social media, household work, ‘quality time’ with family, and ‘time-when-you-do-things-for-yourself’ – another common expression which is shorter in Swedish (just seven letters). The essence is the core of the Swedish mentality: life is a puzzle to be solved, rather than chaos to be endured.”

Posted on

Practice strategies for adults

One particularly neat thing about being a parent to a nine-year-old is that it gives me an excuse opportunity to try various activities alongside her without an expectation of accomplishment. Theoretically, it’s a license to be a beginner without any pressure to improve performance. Still, having this mindset is easier in theory than in practice. Realistically, one still needs to make some progress to maintain motivation. This raises the question: should adult beginners practice differently from children? I don’t know the answer, but I suspect that it is a ‘yes, but only after they’ve acquired the basic skills’.

Take kendo as an example (which my daughter never practiced, by the way, although I had observed other kids’ training). Physical training aimed at improving speed and endurance is a huge aspect of children’s keiko (practice sessions). It is unavoidable for adults  too, but beyond a certain level of  physical ability, the adults are typically directed to shift their focus to other elements of practice, e.g., technique, strategy, psychology, philosophy. It seems that even though there is no hope for an adult beginner to reach a level of mastery that is hypothetically available to children (provided that the kids don’t quit their practice), a better use of an adult’s time would be to concentrate on other, arguably more advance elements of the art, that are beyond pure physical skills.

If we consider violin-playing (which I started studying together with my daughter), an analogue to suburi (empty strike) practice in kendo would be playing scales. The physical skill, i.e. a combination of manual dexterity and sensory perception, which is required for extracting other-than-horrendous sounds from a violin is considerable, and it makes the learning curve very steep. As expected, my daughter leaves me in the dust in terms of the progress. As much as I would like to play the ‘adult beginner’ card and shift my focus to some of the more exciting practice elements, like dynamics of the phrases, etc., the required threshold of the physical skill remains elusive.

Ready for battle. Stll life with chess pieces.

Chess is another example, where adults often strive to improve, but find it difficult. It is a bit different from both kendo and music in that all these activities are difficult to master, but chess is relatively easy to learn. This accessibility is deceptive. It makes people believe that there is no limit to how much they’d be able to improve. While this “everything is possible if you try” attitude is generally admirable, chess is perhaps the most striking example where innate ability (i.e. talent) is dominant over hard work, perseverance and training methodology. Still, there is an analogy to the practice of musical scales and suburi sword swings in chess. The limiting skill there appears to be visualization – the ability to literally see the position of pieces in your mind, without physically setting them up on the board. This ability not only enable the accomplished players do party tricks like playing simultaneous blindfold games, but more fundamentally, to calculate the possible variations several moves ahead.

So it appears that working on the basics, in other words, practicing like a children, is a good strategy for adult beginners too, even if they they are not aiming to achieve great heights in a particular activity. And if they are aiming high, then it is even more critical, because without mastery of the fundamental skills, their progress will always be limited.

Posted on

Bishop’s search for love

Black bishop. Stll life with a chess piece.

I’ve recently discovered for myself a body of writings on chess by a Scottish Grandmaster and philosopher Jonathan Rowson. He is an exceptionally deep thinker, and his books are less about making one a better chess player and more about the metaphors about human life that are contained in the game of chess. I am particularly enjoying the prose he uses and the colourful characteristics that he attributes to various chess pieces, positions and concepts.

Here is an example from “The Seven Deadly Chess Sins” that is so brilliantly funny that I cannot resist capturing it here as a note for myself. The idea is that a bishop pair (the light- and the dark-squared bishops) are more powerful together than their individual point values (~3.5 points per bishop, one point being equal to the material value of one pawn) added together. It is intuitive, of course, because the strength of the piece, and therefore its relative value, changes depending on the position on the board). Still, in the case of the bishop pair in particular, there is an inherent power of the two of them being able to control all the squares, while one of them is capable of only controlling the squares of one colour. To illustrate the point, Rowson evokes Plato’s book Symposium, which describes a banquet attended by Socrates, a philosopher, Alcibiades, the politician, and a comic playwright Aristophanes. In the book these characters give speeches in the praise of Eros, the god of love and desire (strange enough for a chess textbook yet?) I am pretty sure that this classic text would not be able to stand against the modern tides of political correctness and such, but in it Aristophanes argues that men and women were originally not separate beings but hermaphrodites – creatures joined back-to-back and having eight limbs. They perfectly complemented each other and were so powerful, that Zeus feared that they would challenge the gods. So he bisected them and thus created men and women. Since then, they have been searching for each other in order to re-unite, according to the legend. The chess-related metaphor is that the light- and the dark-squared bishops should also be thought of as originally being one exceptionally powerful piece. In this poetic sense, the bishops are in love for each other and need to find a way to be together.

Stll life with chess pieces. Denker vs. Botvinnik. United States vs. Soviet Union, Radio Match, 1945. Move 16.
Posted on

Paying attention

I came across the idea that any activity can be made better by paying more attention in the incredibly inspiring book “Flow” by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. The original concept was that achieving the flow state is possible by focussing one’s attention on the activity in question (the process itself, rather than the goal) and consciously increasing the complexity of the activity over time. If you are studying chess, for example, it would be necessary to play higher- and higher-rated opponents and learn more opening theory to avoid stagnation when your level of understanding of the game increases.

More recently, I’ve started thinking that most problems can be solved by concentrating sufficient attention on them. I could use numerous examples from chess, music or martial arts, but the principle holds even in such mundane context as taking my dog for a walk. A dog trainer once told me that, as far as teaching the dog not to pull on the leash, the most important thing is to constantly pay attention to what he is doing and where his focus is. In my experience, as long as I maintain constant contact with voice, treats and changes of speed and direction, Bruno, my Lagotto Romagnolo, is more than happy to follow the lead and keep the leash lose. The problem is that as soon as my attention goes elsewhere (and it’s very easy to zone out during a walk), Bruno finds something else to entertain himself, which immediately leads to his pulling it the direction of his interest. As the dog trainer said, if on a particular day you are not in the mood of giving the puppy your complete attention, it would be better to skip walking on leash altogether to avoid developing bad habits.

Posted on

Learning from (someone else’s) mistakes


There is a popular advice that one should not pay too much attention to other peoples’ opinions when pursuing something you are passionate about or even when going about your daily life. The idea is that there is a danger that external criticism might suffocate your individuality. Some go as far as to suggest that we should ignore pretty much everything that anybody else has to say about us, the things that we do and the way we are doing them, being unique snowflakes as we are. I think that this trend might be an over-reaction to what’s on the opposite end of the spectrum, namely, the idea that it’s nearly always better to learn from someone else’s mistakes than our own.

On that note, I recently came across an article called “100 tips for a better life“, and despite a clickbaitish title, found it to be surprisingly good. Fittingly, the first tip is specifically related to searching out  other people’s opinions, in that case about a product (googling reddit). This is supposed to take you directly to the discussions by real people, rather than search-engine-optimized marketing hype. I must say that your milage will vary on this one, because for some product categories there is so much marketing hype out there that it’s difficult to cut through it even if you try, as I found out while looking at stationary exercise bikes. On the other hand, the reddit search yields some useful discussions if you are looking to upgrade a violin bow.

Posted on

Bending the rules

“Finite players play within boundaries; infinite players play with boundaries.”
James P. Carse “Finite and Infinite games”

Last week, I missed a deadline for a research funding proposal by several days. Originally, I was not planning to apply at all, but as I worked on a larger research plan, it became apparent that it would be great to add an ultra-high-speed camera to our arsenal. It also became apparent that I wouldn’t get the needed info from the supplier in time to meet the deadline. Being a good academic citizen, I asked the administration for an extension. No answer. Being in addition an optimist, I interpreted the lack of response as a go-ahead. After all, nobody said “no”. Long story short: I wrote the proposal, and it was accepted despite being late. That’s not a guarantee that we’ll get the funds, by the way, but did I mention that optimism is important?

I think that mild disregard for the rules is required for progress, generally speaking. It is very much in the spirit of Steve Jobs’ “reality distortion field”, brilliantly documented by Walter Isaacson. When told by his team that a certain goal was not possible due to various objective reasons, Jobs would still insist on pressing forward, ultimately proving everyone wrong (not always, but often). It is liberating to remind yourself that you are always free to make the rules of the game you are currently playing a mere component of a larger, encompassing game. As James Carse writes, “There are no rules that require us to obey rules.”

It is also easy to assume that the rules are there even when they are not. I am taking a painting class, where we copy a Rembrandt’s self-portrait. The other day, I was transferring a pencil sketch onto a canvas. To check the proportions, I projected the original painting on top of my sketch using a digital projector. In the end, I was quite pleased with the result and showed it to my mother (“Look mom, no hands!” kind of feeling). “Are you allowed to use that?” she asked pointing at the projector. I thought that it was ironic that we assume, by default, that using modern technology constitutes cheating when our goal is to study the work of old masters. I remember reading (also in a biography by Isaacson) that Leonardo da Vinci and his contemporaries went to great lengths to invent and build contraptions for projecting original images on their canvasses for copying. Some even went as far as making sketches of Florentine cityscapes on pieces of semi-transparent fabric stretched across a window. I am convinced that if Leonardo, Rembrandt or Van Gogh had access to an optical projector they would definitely use it.

Posted on

On training and education

“To be prepared against surprise is to be trained. To be prepared for surprise is to be educated.”
James P. Carse “Finite and Infinite Games.”

One of the most rewarding aspects of art, painting in particular, for me is that the outcome is always somewhat different from the mental image of the finished product that I start out with. It is fascinating to see that the little details that initially seem out of place and that I try to fix in order to make them fit my original idea gradually begin to work with each other and eventually form a harmonious image, albeit different from what I imagined at first. This gradually revealed surprise is what makes it worthwhile to spend hours on a painting.

I recently took a figure painting course, and worked on a painting for about fifteen hours on and off, yet it’s far from being finished. Watching it take shape and being constantly surprised is what makes me going. In contrast, I routinely take hundreds of photographs during a single sports match or a dance class. What makes me engaged in that case is trying to become better at taking photos, so that my result is more predictable – I anticipate interesting action moments, compose and expose the shots better, develop a more efficient workflow. In other words, in photography I am mainly working on avoiding surprises, while in art I am working to cultivate them.

Of course, this is only true generally-speaking. In fact, I also work on developing my painting technique and really enjoy the unexpected shots that I capture with my camera every now and then. Still, this difference in how we treat unexpected events in our lives is remarkable. I started noticing it after I’ve picked up James Carse’s book “Finite and Infinite Games” couple of weeks ago. It’s one of the most deeply insightful books I’ve read in a while. Perhaps, it’s at the level similar to Robert Pirsig’s “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,” which is a very high bar as far as I am concerned.

Posted on

Collective experience

Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s book “Flow” is possibly the most enjoyable non-fiction book I’ve read. It makes perfect sense, of course, because the book is about optimal experiences. As I’ve been reading it, I notice the concepts described there everywhere around me. For example, one of the theses is that for an activity to be enjoyable it needs to be autotelic, i.e. deriving the meaning from itself. Ultimately, it all comes down to being present, which means paying close attention to whatever one is doing at the moment. Apparently, it helps if we have heightened expectations of the experience and also if large groups of people participate in the same activity. Csikszentmihalyi gives an example of live music performances, and I think that any kind of group activity or event works in a similar way to focus our attention. I see it regularly at my own kendo practices, tournaments and gradings. It is often difficult for me to convince myself to go, but it is seldom a question whether it was worth it once I am there.

Most recently, I saw an example of this effect last Saturday. I was taking photos of a rehearsal of the Christmas parade routine that will be performed by my daughter’s dance school next weekend. From an objective point of view, taking part in the parade should be a miserable experience. Last year, for example, it was pouring cold rain all through the event, and there is every indication that the weather could be the same this year. The rehearsal itself is also tough – more than 150 people cramped together in a dance studio for more than an hour. Yet, the dancers evidently have been having tremendous fun. My photo gallery of the last year’s parade is the most visited of the entire school year coverage. The camaraderie between the different age groups is amazing to witness. My daughter was eager to be part of the parade crew just for the experience of spending time next to the older dancers, whom she admires, and doing something together. I also cannot help but feel lucky that I have an opportunity to have an insider’s look at this collective experience and also to contribute to it by attempting to capture the elusive atmosphere of “flow”. An important part of any experience is our recollection of it, and photos not only capture memories, but actually shape them.

Posted on

Risk-taking and fun

Rock climbing is a lot of fun. After our daughter tried it at our university’s climbing gym, my wife and I were compelled to take a belaying course the very next weekend, so that we would be able to assist her. As a lunch-hour workout though, it’s pretty inefficient compared to a run or a weightlifting session. Still, I concede that the fun factor is more important for sustaining a long-term interest in the activity.

On the other hand, there is the risk factor. How does one handle the choice between doing something inherently risky (but fun) and something much less risky (but possibly better for your health)? I think that if one takes the path of avoiding all risks, not only the life would be incredibly dull, but one would end up unprepared for the eventual situation when the risk simply cannot be avoided. So we need to practice taking risks, but do so safely enough to avoid injuring ourselves all the time.

I am very new to climbing, so cannot say anything about it with authority, but take kendo as an example. It is a fairly low-risk activity, as far as martial arts go, but injuries still occur (I am recovering from one right now). Kendo is also a very high-impact activity. I don’t think it is good for one’s health from a cardio perspective either. The exertion level is too uneven to be beneficial. You both overload the cardiovascular system too much (at times), and do not sustain the useful load level long enough. So would one be better off going for an easy run or lifting some weights instead?

“But kendo is more about building character, rather than muscles or stamina!” some say. I agree. There is no argument against this. For this reason alone, it is worth taking risks in general and practicing kendo in particular.

…as long as we can avoid replacing “character” with “ego” somewhere in the process.

Posted on

Flow

Trying to surf on a stand-up paddle board (SUP surfing) for the first time over the last couple of days decidedly did not feel like a flow experience for me. The concept of flow was coined by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. I’ve been reading his book, aptly named “Flow”, and it’s one of the best reads I’ve head in a while.

At he first place, SUP surfing is supposed to have all the components of a flow-inducing activity: the goal is simple and well-defined – not to fall from the board; there is immediate feedback – I am either falling or not; the activity requires complete focus and certain level of skill. So in principle, SUP surfing is supposed to be tremendously enjoyable and relaxing. Yet so far, it hasn’t been so. This was initially surprising to me, because I really enjoy SUP boarding on flat water.

I believe the reason SUP surfing doesn’t feel as enjoyable to me as I would like is because it lacks one important aspect of a flow activity – my skills are not matched to the level of challenge. The learning curve for surfing of any kind, SUP surfing included, is quite steep. Enjoying the learning process requires a certain mindset that takes be a bit of time to develop. I realize that I need a certain playfulness, a willingness to view numerous falls and tumbles as fun time in the surf, rather than as continuous negative feedback on the level of your surfing skills. When SUP boarding on flat water, if I fall from the board, that’s a clearly unintended event and something that I generally try to avoid. When SUP surfing, falling over is the name of the game. In fact, being able to stay upright and to catch a wave is more of an exception, at least at my current level. Hopefully, one day it will become a true flow – both challenging and enjoyable.