CREATIVITY & ZEN ART

Art allows us to perceive what cannot otherwise be perceived. It is like a portal through which we access something greater, something that transcends our very being. What is this “something greater”? It can be described only by saying what it is not: It is not a form, it transcends all and any forms, yet we can only experience it through form.

For any art to resonate in this way, the artist must be Empty. Omori Rotaishi’s “Zen and the Arts” article states: “Zen Art is the unrestrained work on one who creates freely as one’s will dictates.” There are no rules or limits on Emptiness. From where does this level of creativity come?

In Omori Sogen Rotaishi’s article “Sho To Zen,” he describes the approach of Zen Master Kobo Daishi Kukai, founder of Zen’s Shingon Sect, to Shodo, Way of the Brush: “When the brush is fully raised it should be rooted in konton kaiki.” This translates to “pristine existence,” referring to the “place” before there is any differentiation between form and emptiness.

He further writes: “When a Zen calligrapher pours his or her spirit into each stroke, every line becomes a vibrant force. Zen is the art of kiai. Zen and art are intricately related. Zen, the rejection of all limitations, is symbolized by Buddha, an entity free of restrictions. Zen art is the expression of the Buddha-mind.”

In “Zen and the Arts,” Zen master Omori states: “A work of a Zen priest does not necessarily mean Zen Art. The Art must symbolize the Absolute Void and in true religious sense Zen Art must symbolize Buddha Mind.” This Buddha-mind is Emptiness. It is not attached; it moves moment by moment, thought by thought, without stopping.

Zen Art happens; you cannot make it happen.

Zen Art manifests what is known as wabi (to be in solitude while in the midst of life) and sabi (simple, rustic imperfection), both of which point to the impermanence of all things. When the one creating and the creation are one, then art naturally manifests these qualities,

This does not mean that artists should strive to make something that represents rusticity, solitude and impermanence. One cannot make art that reflects the Void. The act of striving already assumes the existence of the artist and something outside of him/her; this artist is deliberately and dualistically positioned separate from art.

True wabi-sabi emerges from Emptiness, which embraces, from the inside, the interconnectedness and impermanence of all things. The artist must himself/herself be Empty in order to create something that is Empty. In this state, the artist and the art are one; there is no subject, no object.

At the same time, though, art is not created in a vacuum. The driving force is myō, which points to the creation of movement and action, at all stages individually and totalistically. Myo creates art that encompasses all of time and space in one moment of here-now. Thus, even if a piece of art is technically fine, unless it awakens in the viewer or listener something of the eternal, myō, it cannot be called Zen Art.

In Kado, Way of the Flower, even if one has all the technical skills of flower arranging, it is only when one throws away all the rules and preconceived notions of right and wrong that there is a possibility the arrangement can elicit the sense of myō, of an intuitive harmony that can be felt but not pinpointed. Until then, while the result may be beautiful, the goal of Kado is not to make something pretty. Instead, the arrangement should instill in the viewer a certain peacefulness.

In the foreword of Gustine L. Herrigel’s book Zen and the Art of Flower Arrangement, Zen scholar D.T. Suzuki writes: “The art of flower arrangement is not, in its truest sense, an art, but rather the expression of a much deeper experience of life.” In this sense, art is not just art in and of itself. Rather, it is a way to deepen our Zen experience by teaching us to “see” with more than just our eyes; to “feel” with more than just our touch.

In other words, creativity and life itself are closely aligned; in fact, they are the same. In his piece on “Eastern Ethical and Social Practice,” Suzuki, explains:

How to live, however, is an art. . . .In this respect every one of us is an artist, a creative artist. . . . We have no need for such external materials as are required by professional artists. Everything we wish to have is already in us, with us, and waiting to be utilized. . . .We are each and all born artists. We are creators of the myō.”

My first Zen teacher, Tanouye Rotaishi once put it more simply: “Creativity is stronger than karma.” That is, regardless of who we are, we are all capable of experiencing myō when we let go of our limiting sense of self and realize that we are already one with the Universe.