Category: Philosophy

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Moving on

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In martial arts, for example, in kendo, the term zanshin (literally, ‘remaining spirit’) refers to the state of being brepared to continue to fight immediately after completing a sword cut. At one seminar, an 8th dan kendo sensei explained that this continuous focus and the abcense of breaks in the present moment awareness is the reason why a match that lasts only a few minutes leaves the kendoka dripping with sweat.

Cultivating this ability is important in other aspects of life, from business to research to creative endeavors. For example, Brian Koppelman, the screenwriter of “Rounders“, “Solitary Man” and, more recently, “Billions,” told in an interview that he and his writing partner began researching the next movie idea literally the following day after “Rounders” was released in theatres. They specifically planned for this immediate engagement in routine work to avoid allowing themselves to marinade in their emotional reaction to either the success or the failure of the movie. In another example, which, incidentally, I heard the same day, Barbara Corcoran, the founder of one (if not the) largest real estate company, said that in her experience, the best businessmen/women are different from their peers in that they can recover from setbacks quicker. These “superstars” do not dwell on their emotional reaction to an event in the past. 

I find it interesting that the concept applies equally to a positive result (completion of a painting, receiving a promotion, publishing a research paper, winning a kendo match, etc.) and a negative one (harsh review of a paper, losing a match, etc.) In either case, as soon as you find out the outcome, it becomes a thing of the past. After that, it is time to move on to the next thing.

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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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Being a tactful nonconformist

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“Inwardly, we ought to be different in all respects, but our exterior should conform to society.”
— Seneca the Younger, “Moral letters to Lucilius”
Following our own way while not offending others (which, I think is a good thing in majority of everyday circumstances, not when fundamental principles are at stake) is a tricky business. I think it was Seth Godin, who expressed this idea very eloquently: we need a compass and a place to go to, but the road there does not have to be a straight line.

Emulating others, particularly those that work at the cutting edge of our fields is a powerful technique. In fact, Seneca, whom I quoted earlier, also said that “best ideas are common property”, not to encourage plagiarism, I suppose, but to warn us not to reinvent the wheel just for the sake of not following in someone else’s footsteps. The challenge then is not to lose sight of the big picture and to keep thinking independently.

My four-year-old daughter is very much into playing LEGO, and I find that it is a good illustration of the balance between following instructions and letting your imagination run wild. You need to accumulate some basic techniques and understanding of principles but building a few sets “by the book”, but the most fun happens when you set the manual aside and build something uniquely yours.

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Not giving others what they want

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In any creative endeavor, it is important to take an initiative rather than to be led by the situation. In kendo, this concept is summarized in a maxim ‘Bogyo no tame no bogyo nashi’ (No defense for the sake of defense). In a modern economic context, Seth Godin differentiates between spending one’s life ‘on the offense’ and ‘on the defense’. The difference is between seeking to change other people (through our work and our interactions with them) and willing to be changed to accommodate the views or desires of others.

Taking initiative does not necessarily imply being selfish and insensitive to others. On the contrary, the active attitude requires situational awareness. From a creative perspective, being on the offense means not giving the audience (the clients, the sponsors, the opponents, the reviewers, the critics, etc.) what they want and expect. Instead, we should strive to give them what is authentically ours, what represents our vision and our style.

Doing so is extremely difficult by definition, not only at the initial stages of one’s career, when we lack credibility and authority, but at any time. The inertia of the convention is a great force. But not seizing the initiative is simply not an option. Staying on the defense may be easier at the given moment, but it would not lead anywhere (good) in the long run.

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Claiming an idea

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“Each day acquire something that will fortify you against poverty, against death, indeed against other misfortunes as well; and after you have run over many thoughts, select one to be thoroughly digested that day.”
— Seneca the Younger, “Moral letters to Lucilius”

I have been listening to Seneca’s letters, recently published by Tim Ferriss in an audiobook form. Naturally, a book that survived such a long test of time is full of gems that are universally applicable. For example, the issue of the balance between depth and breadth on one’s studies is something that comes up in my personal experience in academic research, photography and kendo.

Seneca points out that there are too many books out there for a single person to be able to read. Instead of chasing after every new author, he advises to “fall back upon those whom you read before”. The goal is to engage with the classic ideas, to understand them deeply in order to be able to reliably apply them in daily life. By the way, it is interesting to note that in Seneca’s time philosophy was, apparently, an applied discipline.

I think that Seneca’s approach is a useful guideline for information consumption in the modern world, where we are bombarded with much more data than we can hope to process: learn something new every day to stay current in your field of study, but claim one idea per day as your own. In other words, become so deeply familiar with the idea that you can not only explain and defend it, but also to know its range of applicability.

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On contrast and balance

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I think that, ultimately, what makes an image (photograph or painting) visually appealing is contrast. There are many types of contrast: large and small objects in the composition, empty and filled spaces, dark and light areas (the actual contrast in the photographic terms), warm and cool colours, contrasting colours (e.g. red/green, orange/violet), etc. A skillful artist uses contrast to create an exciting image, and when a dilletant by chance snaps a photo with great impact, it usually prominently features one or more types of contrast.

Perhaps, what makes us like the contrast is our inherent striving for balance. When we are viewing a high-contrast image, we are being taken on a roller coaster ride along the range of hues and grayscale values, and we find the sensation of the loss of control entertaining.

Actually, human tendency to strive for balance is routinely exploited in martial arts, such as aikido or kendo, because when we are taken off-balance, we tend to automatically (i. e. spontaneously and unconsciously) over-compensate and put ourselves in a precarious position. Also, contrast between periods of calm and explosive motion wakes the fight exciting and interesting to watch. On a somewhat deeper level, when a kendo technique, for instance, posesses a quality of contrast it looks appealing to the judges (shinpan). For example, striking a high target, such as men, from a low shinai position (geidan no kamae) is inherently interesting, and such contrast (low/high) in technique has been known to attract recognition in tournaments.

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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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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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The other side of fear

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“I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened.”
— Mark Twain

Fear is a fundamental underlying factor that prevents us from taking action, particularly from doing new things. This has been recognized centuries ago in various religious teachings and also has been played out in stories and movies. Yoda’s teaching Luke Skywalker in “The Empire Strikes Back” is a good example, and so is Neo’s skyscraper jump in “The Matrix“.

For me personally, the situations where I notice the effects of fear are not as dramattic as they might be for others. My everyday life is quite cushioned from external threats that shaped our (human’s) fear-based responses by evolution. I think this is  also the case for majority of people I know.

But fear is there nevertheless. It surfaces as hesitation or inability to “invent” new techniques when I practice kendo, reluctance to try new lighting setups, camera angles and processing techniques in photography. Most often, this resistance to taking action leads to procrastination. In fact, it is procrastination, as Steven Pressfield eloquently explained in “The War of Art“.

The good news, albeit a difficult one to internalize and to act upon, is that most often, the fear is absolutely unfounded. Jamie Foxx said in a recent interview that he asks his children: “What’s on the other side of fear?” The answer, of course, is “Nothing”. Fundamentally, there is nothing to fear. Naturally, this a very profound concept, if taken in its all-encompassing generality, but the everyday applications are indeed very simple and easy to realize, even for a child. What is the worst that could happen if you speak in a loud voice instead of whispering? If you laugh out loud, holding your stomach and rolling on the floor, instead of smiling shyly? Not much, really. The stakes of taking action and being ourselves, doing what we want, are not as high as we would like to think.

In fact, there is a risk associated with not taking  action (the lost opportunity risk), and because of our propensity to inaction, we are more likely to suffer from it than from the risks associated with action. During basketball photo shoot, for example, if I switch from my tried-and-true shutter speed of 1/800 sec, which freezes action every time, and try a slow 1/250 sec speed, the worst thing that could happen is that some (alright, a majority) of the shots would be  blurry. On the other hand, the slow shutter speed sometimes results in striking images where the hands and the feet of the athlete are blurred, conveying the sense of motion, while the face is sharp (which conveys the sense of focus and intensity). A few missed mediocre shots are certainly worth capturing a single extraordinary image, particularly if I already have lots of action shots in my portfolio. In this case, the stakes of stepping outside of comfort zone are definitely not high.

Because inaction, maintaining the status quo, is so comfortable, simply recognizing that there is nothing on the other side of fear, that the fear has no substance is not trivial and is in itself an excessive in present-state awareness.

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Stepping outside of the comfort zone

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It is a common knowledge that growth in any aspect of our lives requires stepping outside of our comfort zone. Also obvious is the fact that it is easier said than done.

The comfort zone, by definition, is the realm of something that we are accustomed to doing. Perhaps, we have even acquired a certain degree of expertise in that area. When I started doing photography seriously, I became used to shooting land- and cityscapes without any people in them. It made sense from the stock photography perspective, and it was not stressful, because taking this king of pictures required no interactions with other people. To take my photography to a higher level required abandoning this comfort zone and becoming comfortable with working with models.

Pushing oneself out of the personal comfort zone is also central in martial arts. I practise kendo, the Way of the Sword, which originated in Japan and still closely connected to Japanese culture, although international influence on it has been increasing. Daily practise, keiko, is the foundation of kendo, but periodic exposure to the stress of completion or dan grading is also crucial for growth. I have to remind myself about this after my recent failed attempt at the yondan (4th dan) grading. Throughout the entire grading day, I kept questioning the wisdom of voluntarily subjecting myself to the stress that comes from the position of being evaluated, the situation that is designed to bring the kendoka outside of their comfort zones. The goal, of course is to be able to control the excitement and to be able to perform under pressure as if it was regular daily practice. As Miayamoto Musashi wrote in his famous “Book of Five Rings”, “In all forms of strategy, it is necessary to maintain the combat stance in everyday life and to make your everyday stance your combat stance.”

As I said, easier said than done.

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