Swords and pencils

“It is said the warrior’s is the twofold Way of pen and sword, and he should have a taste for both Ways.”
Miyamoto Musashi

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A katana, or any Japanese-style blade for that matter (as well as some Middle-eastern blades like in the image above), is similar to a pencil in terms of the principle of its physical construction.

Both a blade and a pencil have hard materials at their core (a katana can have many layers of different hardness, but the general principle is to have a hard metal surrounded by a softer one). For the pencil, it’s the graphite, and for the katana, it’s the steel with high carbon content. For both instruments, the hard core forms the working part, which can be sharpened to a fine point/edge.

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The hard core is enclosed in a relatively soft material – wood in the case of the pencil and low-carbon steel in the case of the sword. Without the outer set shell, neither instrument would be practical to use, because the core it too brittle to withstand the pressure of the artist’s hand or a strike of an enemy’s sword. Likewise, a soft, mono-layered instrument without a core would be a compromise at best in terms of cutting/drawing quality. Think about a bronze sword or a crayon – neither is particularly strong, and neither can be sharpened to a fine point or edge.

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A pencil that we use today is a European invention. Hand-carved wooden holders with graphite core were first made in England in 1564, and a Czech company Kohinoor patented and mass-produced pencils that were very similar to modern ones in the 19th century.

Europeans also made multi-layered blades, but the technique was refined and taken to the level of an art in Japan in middle ages.

I find it curios how these tools from two unrelated fields of application (cutting and writing) evolved along similar design paths, because in both fields similar qualities are valued – sturdiness and ability to be sharpened.

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Janus, Carmenta, past and future

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In the gift shop of the Coloseo, we bought a children’s book called “Roman Myths”, which I started reading to my daughter on our way back to Milan. It is difficult to say how much of what we are reading sinks in for a five-years-old, but I am enjoying the stories and the references to the ancient Roman civilization that we still encounter in modern life.

The story starts with Janus, who transformed Chaos into order and created the world. I find it insightful that even at the time when these stories were created, people were greatly concerned with the past and the future (Janus had two faces – one looking forward, to the future, and one looking back, to the past), while not really dwelling the present. In the book, there is even a reference to Carmenta, a far-sighted goddess, who protected childbirth and had the power to look forward and backward in time. According to the myth, her special ability was writing, and it was her, who gave people the Latin alphabet. “Yes, this alphabet, the one I’m using, the one we use even now.”

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It is curious and somewhat discouraging that we, humans, still largely fail to comfortably live in the present moment, even now, thousands of years after the myths of Janus and Carmenta were created. When our daughter became upset that her grandparents were leaving home after travelling with us for three weeks, we consoled her by recalling the nice moments that we had together with them and planning how we would get together again soon. For our daughter, as the world that she became used to over the fast three weeks started to crumble, the emerging chaos transformed back to order when she connected the past and the future.

Even at my age, the sadness of saying ‘goodbye’ to parents, even for a few months, is still very real. My remedy is this writing. It makes me think about the past and hope that someone, perhaps myself, would find it somehow insightful in the future. Quite fitting the context of Roman mythology.

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Hedonic adaptation to sabbatical

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The human ability to quickly become used to dynamically changing surrounding conditions, which is known as Hedonic adaptation, is extremely useful in the evolutionary sense. It makes us resilient to adversity. On the other hand, it can easily rob us of enjoying the positive experiences.

Here is how Hedonic adaptation works, step-by-step, in the case of enjoying (or not) an academic sabbatical:

  1. My last class is over. I have no teaching or administrative commitments for the entire year. I can chose exactly what I will work on every day. It’s positively fantastic!
  2.  Things get even better: I travel to Milan, together with my family, for the second half of the sabbatical. “Wow, six-months in Italy! Sounds like something straight out of a romantic novel!”, says an acquaintance, and I agree. Milan is a beautiful city. There is a lot see and do in addition to all the exciting work I get to do with my Italian colleagues.
  3. After a couple of months, things get better still: We discover more places to see and things to do, as we explore Milan and its surroundings.
  4. And here comes the catch: the sabbatical itself, the freedom to do whatever I wanted every day that initially excited me so much, is not so exciting anymore. It becomes an expectation, something that is taken for granted. What is enjoyable now are all the things that are bundled on top of the sabbatical: delicious Italian food, museums, La Scala, the lakes, the mountains,..

I notice that Hedonic adaptation happens with nearly everything that we do. It is particularly devastating when accomplishment comes into play, when achieving a certain result becomes the expectation.

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I watch my five-years-old daughter learning to draw, and I see the tremendous excitement of just being able to express herself on paper: “I can draw anything I want! And I can use whatever colours I want, because it is my drawing!” Then, at some point as we mature, we learn too draw better: “Great! Now, not only I can draw whatever I want, but I can draw it in a way that it actually looks like the object I wanted to draw!” Then, things get better yet: “I can draw things in a way that other people like them! (I must really be an artist now!!)” And here is the trap: it’s no longer the drawing itself that is enjoyable, but the external approval that comes with it…

So, what do we do? Is the trap of Hedonic adaptation unavoidable?

Perhaps, some people are in more danger of falling into it than others. It is easy to become used to a nice environment, develop expensive or extravagant tastes, become addicted to approval… I think that our ability to resist Hedonic adaptation comes down to awareness. In any case, appreciating our current life situation, whatever it happens to be on the absolute scale of “niceness”, and being conscious about the effects of Hedonic adaptation is a healthy practice.

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How to go down in history: being the first or the last

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In a recent interview, Chuck Klosterman, the author of “Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs”, mentioned that while it is difficult to predict, which musician/artist/scientist would be considered the most historically important figure of the current period many years from now, it is unlikely that it would be someone, who is considered as the leader of his/her field right now. Klosterman suggests that in order to have retrospective historical weight, an author (or a piece of art, scientific work, etc.) needs to meet at least one of the two criteria: he/she/it needs to offer true innovation, i.e. to be the first the first ever in the specific field, or he/she/it must represent the culmination of the development of the field that changes how people think, i.e. to be the last in the field – the finishing touch that completes it and points to a fundamentally new paradigm.

Basically, history likes those who are are either the first or the last in their area of work.

This concept has some parallels with the strategy for creating innovations outlined by Cal Newport in “Deep Work”: be on the leading edge of your field and then look just beyond it using patterns similar to those that exist (and are already known) in other fields.

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Of course, following the Newport’s strategy does not guarantee that the future generations will pick your work as singularly significant. However, stepping beyond the leading edge of your field gives you the chance to be the first in a completely new area, while getting to the leading edge gives you the chance to be the last in your field – the one who applies the unifying finishing touch to the existing body of work.

There are a couple of implications of this concept. First, you cannot be a narrow specialist. In order to apply known patterns from other areas, you need to have at least some knowledge of the fields beside your own area of expertise. As Miyamoto Musashi wrote in his famous “The Book of Five Rings, “Develop intuitive judgement and understanding for everything.”

Second, you cannot be a pure generalist either. You need to specialize in something in order to develop the deep expertise that would enable you to do cutting edge work in this area. Becoming an expert of that caliber is, of course, the hardest part of the process.

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Analytical observation: why we like what we like

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Last year in Milan, I saw two exhibits related to Leonardo da Vinci’s work. One displayed his original notebooks, and the other, Leonardo3, showed models of his engineering designs. What impressed me the most is how much Leonardo was able to accomplish, both as an artist and as a scientist, by simply observing nature. When I think about it a little deeper, though, I realize that he was not “simply” observing the phenomena that interested him – he was was simultaneously analyzing them.

Cultivating the skill of analytical observation of everything that surrounds us is tremendously useful, even just as an exercise in concentration, which, in turn, is a basis for any deep work. One effective way of doing it is to start with things that genuinely interest you and to try to answer the question “Why am I interested in it?” For example, if it is a movie, a book or a piece of art, instead of engaging with it as a form of escapism, it would be more productive (and, arguably, more enjoyable) to think about what makes the object so interesting while we are watching/reading/observing it.

In fact, I think there are three questions that set up a framework for analysis on any piece of creative work, from a piece of art to a scientific paper. Cal Newport identified them as part of his process of reviewing technical papers.

  1. What is the main point of the work (what makes it good/interesting)?
  2. What makes it different from other works (books/photographs/research projects)?
  3. What techniques were used to achieve the result?

Perhaps, applying this framework to our everyday activities, would put us at risk of making everything we do too mechanical, robbing us of the joy of doing thing purely for fun, without any agenda. On the other hand, this can be a way to a more mindful way of doing things we like and in the process learning about these things and about ourselves.

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How to quit

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“Men at forty
Learn to close softly
The doors to rooms they will not be
Coming back to.”
― Donald Justice

When I first started practicing kendo several years ago, whenever I would meet with Japanese sensei, they would ask: “Why did you begin doing kendo?” Being a foreigner, the answer was always easy: I like Japanese culture, history, food, etc. Recently, I heard a a different question: “Why do you still practice kendo?” My first reply, which I thought was quite funny, was “Because samurai never quit.” Seriously, though, I find this to be a much harder question than the first one, just like sustaining motivation for practice is more difficult than obtaining it initially.

I think this is true with any activity that you have been doing for many years and that has become a big part of your life. You do it “seriously”, as people would call it. Dan Heller even introduced a gradation of levels of seriousness with which amateurs pursue their activities (it was photography in his case): beginner photographer, serious photographer, insanely serious photographer,.. After a while, you begin to realize just how large the part of your life that you are devoting to your activity of choice (photography, kendo, ) really is. It takes a lot of time, money, mental and emotional resources. Becoming any good requires both quality and quantity of practice. I am not saying that the benefits are not worth it, but whatever you invest into the activity does add up, both in the positive and in the negative sense.

You might wonder, “Just imagine how much time I would have if I quit that thing that I have been doing”. Wo-o-o-o… it’s a very un-samurai-like thought, but after all, some of us are also scientists or at least (think that) they like logic, so let’s think it through.


First of all, you might not have to “quit” per se to be able to claw back some time and mental resources. You might be able to dial down the amount of practice, because your experience should enable you to maximize the quality of practice during the remaining sessions. The returns on increasing the amount of naive practice, to borrow the term from Anders Ericsson, are rapidly diminishing anyway, so you might as well replace it with deliberate practice.

Second, even if you quit a highly structured practice regime that has been incorporated into your routine over the years, you might not be able to immediately reclaim all the freed-up time in an efficient manner. For example, when I have a looming deadline on a work-related project and decide to skip a kendo practice in order to get some of the work done, I typically find that the uninterrupted chunk of time that is typically devoted to kendo becomes fragmented by interruptions (usually, procrastination that manifests itself in one form or another) that exist because a routine for alternative work has not been established. So unless you are prepared to quit something for good or at least for a substantial period of time (like taking a six-months sabbatical from your usual activities, which would allow you to genuinely try something new and to make a new habit of it), it is actually not worth doing if your goal is to free up time for other projects.

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Capturing everything

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“…survival lies in sanity, and sanity lies in paying attention.”
Julia Cameron “The Artist’s Way

The idea of taking notes to capture the events of our lives is controversial from the standpoint of present moment awareness. On the one hand, the vary act of note taking can be distracting from the experience itself. On the other hand, it can serve as a focusing tool.

In a recent interview, a comedian Mike Birbiglia said that an advice that he would give to his younger self was to write everything down in a journal “because it’s all so fleeting”. Basically, I think that the value of journaling boils down to cultivating the skills of observation. Julia Cameron in “The Artist’s Way” makes a case that paying attention is a key skill in any creative endeavour. Perhaps, it is a key in everything: relationships, work, memory, creativity, etc.

Last year, I went to the Leonardo3 exhibit in Milan, where Da Vinci’s notebooks were displayed. Those were e-copies; the real ones were displayed at the Santa Maria delle Grazie, which is also the cite of “The Last Supper”. My most prominent impression was of Leonardo’s incredible ability to observe nature and to learn from it. If I think about it a bit more, it becomes apparent that he must have been very generous with his time. He must have had sufficient patience to just look at things (e.g. turbulent water flow under a bridge or frogs swimming in a puddle) and figure out why they look and work the way they are. After all, Leonardo did all his work before computers and productivity tools. Yet undeniably, he had been tremendously productive. I think that perhaps, it was a conjunction of two key factors: patiently paying attention and diligent capturing of his experiences and observations.

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Purposeful practice

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Anders Ericsson explains in his book “Peak” that simply repeating things over and over again does not lead to controls improvement (in fact, it is a recipe for stagnation). Ericsson differentiates between “naive practice”, “purposeful practice” and “deliberate practice”, in the order of sofistication and effectiveness. Basically, repeating something without focusing on a specific area of improvement is naive practice. In contrast, purposeful practice requires analysis of one’s progress and working out ways through or around the roadblocks that inevitably occurs once the current limit of ability is reached. The powerful message of Ericsson’s book is, of course, the argument that people’s minds and bodies are adaptable in way that a “natural” limit or ability can, in fact, be expanded. This means that we, in a sense, can increase our own “talent”.

Naturally, it would be great to spend our days with purpose, i. e. having a clear and specific goal to work towards. in the words of Annie Dillard, “how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” This is easier said then done, though. First, the really high-level goal is quite elusive – after all, we may be talking about the meaning of life. Second, it can be argued that continuously operating in the productivity mode is, ironically unproductive in the long run.

However, in specific situations, for example, developing a photography technique, it is quite easy to practise purposefully. All that is needed is a clear, attainable goal (e.g. learn to recognize and act upon photo opportunities suitable for using a phone camera in daily life), and a measure of progress (e.g. number of photos taken each day and, perhaps, feedback from peers on the selected ones).

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Placidity Amidst Raging Waves

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“Saevis Tranquillus in Undis:
Placidity Amidst Raging Waves”

— life motto of William of Orange

On the second day of my trip to The Nethelands, I visited an impressive exhibit on the history of William of Orange in his house/palace called Prinsenhof in Delft. Before that, I thought about William of Orange first of all as a rebel leader, so I was surprised by his life motto written on the wall of the exhibit hall: “Placidity amidst raging waves”. Although William was undoubtedly a rebel, he became one quite reluctantly. In fact, during the iconoclasm in Holland, he predicted that it would cause a major political and personal disaster to everyone involved. He also struggled quite a bit to reconcile his oath of allegiance to the king with his inherent loyalty to his country, ultimately represented by its people.

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Overall, I find it tremendously impressive how forward-thinking William was in his political views and in his exercise of restraint (he was nicknamed “William the Silent“). Perhaps, it is his personal trait of tolerance and progressive views that continues to manifest itself in Holland’s ability to continuously ride the wave of progress, from near-exclusive (with the exception of Portugal) trade agreement with Japan in the Middle Ages to art of the post-Renessance to technological innovations of the modern days.

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In general, the ability to remain calm in the face of external perturbations is the key to mastering skills and life situations. For example, the space before the stimulus and the reaction is crucial in kendo, which is arguably a model for everything else in life, as described by Minamoto Musashi, whose “The Book of Five Rings” has been very influential in the business world. Even in photography, I often find that it is good to take time time to observe the subject instead of immediately starting to shoot in fear of missing the opportunity. A little pause allows me to choose a better viewpoint and composition and ultimately, to learn more about the subject.

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What to do when you become good enough

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I wrote a blog post for The Black Light Magazine on the topic of concentrating on perfecting one’s craft vs. broadening it’s scope (see below). This question of whether niching down in a particular area of specialization is beneficial or detrimental in the long run is not new, and it comes up again and again in discussions related to photography in particular.

This time, I find an interesting connection between perfecting one’s skill and a sense of dissatisfaction with it’s level. As Randy Paterson explains in “How to Be Miserable”, striving for continuing self-improvement can, in fact, be detrimental, as it is related to the sense of “I am not enough”. He suggests leapfrogging this potential trap by asking a question: “What would I do if, for the sake of argument, I was good enough?” In other words, would we still work on improving a particular skill, for example, if we were to deem it to be sufficiently high (whatever “sufficiently high” means)?

The answer is that probably we would not keep obsessing about improving the skill (and facing the law of diminishing returns), but instead apply the skill in a new area, or start developing a new skill.

Perhaps, one way to maintain the balance between the depth and the breadth is to do the deep work (to borrow the term from Cal Newport) as default mod of operation, but every now and then pretending that whatever depth has been achieved is “good enough” and switching to a new area (e.g. starting a new research topic, learning a new painting technique, photographing different subjects, etc.)

As a reference, here is the original post for TBLM:

In most creative endeavors, we are faced with a dilemma of focusing on perfecting an existing skill vs. exploring new techniques. This is true dilemma in the sense that there is not correct answer. Instead, a certain balance between breadth and depth must be maintained.

This issue comes up particularly often when we work in a relatively new field. Black light photography, or fluorescent art in general is one such field. It is still relatively new and even considered to be a niche among artists. As a result, not many references exist for basic lighting techniques, gear, specifics of posing and makeup, etc. When we apply a new technique, the question that automatically comes up is whether to try a similar approach again in the next photo shoot in order to refine the approach or to try something different, because a vast area remains unexplored.

There is a certain satisfaction and a sense of safety in staying with a familiar methodology. First, the probability of success is higher than with something that has never been tried before. Second, if you diligently work on a something long enough (about 10,000 hours, in fact, according to Anders Ericsson), you will become one of the top experts in the world in that thing that you’ve been working on, and that level of expertise is usually quite valuable.

Still, true innovation (and artists are innovators, or at least would like to believe so themselves), requires stepping out of one’s comfort zone, stretching beyond one’s current abilities. In order to grow, we need to step down from the level we’ve achieved in our niche and become beginners again in a different field. Besides, doing something different from what you’ve been doing up to this point (even if it hasn’t been 10,000 hours yet) is just fun.

So regardless of what you are doing at the moment – concentrating of honing your craft or blazing the trail into the uncharted territory – you are doing the right thing, as long as you are not completely ignoring the other side of the creative process.

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