reframing faith

Self-knowledge is not fully possible for human beings. We do not reside in a body, a mind or a world where it is achievable or from the point of being interesting, even desirable. Half of what lies in the heart and mind is potentiality, resides in the darkness of the unspoken and unarticulated and has not yet come into being: this hidden unspoken half will supplant and subvert any present understandings we have about ourselves. Human beings are a frontier between what is known and what is not known. The act of turning any part of the unknown into the known is simply an invitation for an equal measure of the unknown to flow in and reestablish that frontier: to reassert the far horizon of an individual life; to make us what we are – that is - a moving edge between what we know about ourselves and what we are about to become. What we are actually about to become, or are afraid of becoming, always trumps and rules over what we think we are already. 

The hope that a human being can achieve complete honesty and self-knowledge with regard to themselves is a fiction and a chimera, the jargon and goals of a corporate educational system brought to bear on the depths of an identity where the writ of organizing language does not run. Self-knowledge includes the understanding that the self we know is about to disappear. What we can understand is the way we occupy this frontier between the known and the unknown, the way we hold the conversation of life, the figure we cut, but a detailed audit of the self is not possible and diminishes us in the attempt to establish it; we are made on a grander scale, half afraid of ourselves, half in love with immensities beyond any name we can give…

David Whyte

from Readers' Circle Essay, "Forgiveness", 2011

I love the idea here that as soon as you feel you know something about yourself, the next unknown is already moving in to take the place of the one you think you've removed.  Perhaps, then, this means that it's the unknown which is always in some way the point (as opposed to 'self-knowledge' being some kind of goal).

This unknown must surely be the source of creativity. Or at least the source of what I call creativity, which is not  something predictable or contained. If your work does not surprise you, it seems to me, then perhaps what you're looking at is simply the perfection of a technique or a skill.

Discipline of Freedom work seems to me to be about creating practices and opportunities which force you into that unknown. This work makes you step out onto a secret plateau within yourself; it helps you to step, and to wait, and to breathe, while you're waiting to see what happens. Without this kind of practice, you can live forever without knowing how it feels to be suddenly over your edge; falling through space, and, to your utter amazement, finding yourself in waiting hands that you had no idea, at all, were there.

The word 'faith' has always been a red rag to me. It inflames some sense of outrage against what I personally  believe to be the massive delusion of those forms of religious dogma which suggest that you are not allowed to  doubt the existence of an external, punishment-dealing creator; and which tell you that you must simply 'have faith' that he (it is almost always a he) is up there, separate from you, and judging you, whether or not this idea  makes any sense to you (apologies to those of you whose belief I have just caricatured). Faith in this sense has always made me want to scream. 

But I see now that there's a different interpretation of faith. When I walk out alone into the space of an Authentic Artist or Discipline of Freedom workshop floor, I'm putting my trust into something that's outside of me; in a group of people and a process that I cannot in any way predict, though I always have the option of control. And somehow, in this process, I'm moved into that unknown. Without fear, and without danger. My creative work is always permanently affected by whatever happens.

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the cosmic egg...

...is gold....

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next Authentic Artist workshop

I'm posting information about the next Authentic Artist workshop in Stirling (22 -24th October) here for Stirling on Stage folk. The workshop will be in the Rowing Club, from 9.30-5.00. Please get in touch with me if you want to talk about my own experience of Kath's workshops, or with Kath directly (website below).



The Authentic Artist
A Three Day Workshop facilitated by Kath Burlinson

The Authentic Artist is a three-day workshop for creative artists seeking reinvention,
exploration, new challenges, or for those developing new work.

It is so easy for an artist to feel under-stimulated or out of touch with the deepest
creative energies. It is easy to feel a lack of confidence or lack of motivation, even if
you dream of creating new, original, exciting work.

There are plenty of classes you can take…brush up your Beckett, do a dance class,
join a choir, but where can you get devoted, individual attention, with exercises
designed especially for you, to help you find what you want?

The Authentic Artist workshop offers a space to explore, to play, to find your next
‘edge’. A space to connect with other artists in a non-competitive environment, where
you can rediscover your own deepest artistry, share your ideas with a small supportive
group, try and fail and try again with no pressure to ‘succeed’.

The Story so Far
Authentic Artist workshops have been running since 2007 and have attracted actors,
artistic directors of established theatre and dance companies, classical musicians,
musical theatre performers, composers, choreographers, painters,
writers, performance poets and emerging artists. Many have been profoundly affected
by the power of the work...some have even got jobs as a result! Please see
testimonies below….

What happens in an Authentic Artist workshop?
Preparation: The workshop is limited to a maximum of eight participants, each of
whom is sent a brief questionnaire beforehand, to establish what it is they are looking
for at this point in time. Kath may then seek further clarification with a meeting or
phone conversation, so that both artist and facilitator are clear that this is the right
thing for them at this time, and the artistic intention is named and defined (even if this
changes later!).

In the workshop: The precise content of each workshop varies depending upon the
participants and their interests. However, in all cases Kath will have
prepared individual exercises for each person, using techniques drawn from years of
practice with a range of extraordinary teachers. Kath will guide with care and
sensitivity, helping you to realise and find form for your artistry. Some of the work
may be based on sound and movement improvisations, some on text or song, but
participants are welcome to bring writings, poems, music, paintings or any original
material to work on. Everyone’s experience is unique.

What do you need to commit to?
• Commit to opening new avenues of expression and discovery
• Commit to supporting yourself and others with compassion and honesty
• Commit to attend for all three days

Cost: £185 (£145 unwaged and previous participants)


Kath Burlinson is a performer, director, and writer. She co-created the Weird Sisters theatre
company, winners of five international theatre awards and a Best Ensemble nomination at
Edinburgh Fringe. Her recent solo show, The Mother's Bones, won the Manchester Evening
News Best Fringe Performance award and has since been seen at festivals in both
the UK and US. Most recently she has created the Authentic Artist Collective, whose first
production, WOLF, plays Edinburgh Festival Fringe 2010 as part of the Escalator East to
Edinburgh Showcase.

Kath is developing The Authentic Artist under the guidance of international artists Paul Oertel
and Nancy Spanier, www.performanceinventions.org and has worked with Jonathan Kay,
Scott Kelman, Guy Dartnell, Glen Walford, Gerry Flanagan and a range of other extraordinary
teachers in the UK, Europe, Australia and the USA.

Kath's own search as an artist has involved diving deeply into the personal, collective, mythic
and unknown. She strives to be authentically present as a performer and workshop leader, to
trust her intuition and be open to new discoveries, moment by moment.

In 'The Authentic Artist' Kath shares what she has learned with others, and passes on
techniques she has been privileged to experience. www.authenticartist.co.uk

"Kath has a precision of perception that allows her to see the essence of individuals' gifts. Her
inordinate open-heartedness and empathy for human complexity and feeling makes her particularly
available to students and audiences as a facilitator and performing artist." Paul Oertel


TESTIMONIALS from previous participants:
“It was the safe laboratory I have been craving in every rehearsal room I have ever set foot in…No
bullshit, no ego and nowhere to hide. But completely safe. And without the pressure to be any good or
have anything to prove at the end.” Ellis Kerkhoven (actor, writer and director)

"My strongest memory is finding my own truth in performance and seeing other people connect with
their own truths. It reminded me who I was when I first came to practice my craft and what I had lost
sight of through repetition and technique." Sioned Jones (National Theatre actor)

"A subtle and sophisticated approach...As a mature artist I wanted a workshop where I could determine
the direction of my exploration in a supportive environment with insightful guidance, and this workshop
delivered 100%." Claire Russ (choreographer, founder of the Claire Russ Ensemble)

"Since the workshop I have experienced a real shift in my performances both as a musician in the
concerts I have done, and in my teaching. My imagination has been accessed and something has
released in me…The support and acceptance was what I am lacking and it was here in
abundance." Neyire Ashworth (clarinettist and performer)

“I feel a palpable shift in my authenticity…This is a benefit to my person as well as my Artist…
Kath’s style is friendly, human and down to earth while she embraces the roles of guardian, mentor,
tutor, director, facilitator, provocateur and more. The pre and post work prepares you for maximum
engagement and therefore maximum result. Kath has attended beautifully to the design of the
course.” Peta Lily (performer and director)

"It is a great honour to have exercises developed for you as an individual artist with feedback and
'witnessing' from your peers. Beautiful." Rachel Amey (performance poet)

"The workshop inspired me to become unblocked, and gave me the strength to explore another creative
path while encouraging me to listen to the artist within" Jamie Zubairi (actor and painter)

"I think for the first time in many years, or perhaps ever, I could stand on a stage with a sense of ease
and excitement mixed together which allowed my imagination to explore without control or blocking or
correction…The work we experienced in this workshop can be life-changing for an artist." Tina Ellen
Lee (Artistic Director, Opera Circus).

ecstasis

Not so much painting work going on at the moment, though I have been doing some bits and pieces. One of my main strands of activity seems to be eddying around the delight of my new viola - recently acquired after trading in the previous one that I never played. It's glorious. There's something about the lower register that seems to slow me right down, naturally, in the way I've been trying and so often failing to do with the violin. You don't have to try to be fancy on a viola, at least, so it feels to me. It just is itself, in a wonderfully rich, slow way...

This week I've also been very privileged to be part of the Ecstasis workshop at the MacRobert arts centre. This was a fascinating experience, brilliantly facilitated by Mark Storor and Shona Reppe. Ecstasis is part of a larger festival, and is intended to be 'a music-film-art party that will transform Macrobert into an other planet':

Ecstasis is about getting out of yourself, which is what we do when we dance or get drunk or see great art.  It's the rapture of self loss, the happy escape from what people think we are, or what society wants us to be.  The change can be for a moment or, like in epiphanies, it can be a permanent realisation or change

This is the first time I've worked with a group of mixed artists on an external project, although the way we worked together to generate material was so similar to the May Discipline of Freedom workshop that it felt quite familiar. It was such a joy to be part of an embodied, doing kind of thing, after all those years of disembodied, cerebral groups. I've nothing against those groups in themselves, it's just that for me they were a kind of slow death. Each to his own. I feel so blessed to finally be with my own.

It's an amazing opportunity. For two days we explored experiences of ecstasis; of being removed in some way from our normal sensory engagement with the world. At the end of the second day we were taken through the spaces that will form the ecstasis journey for festival participants, and began to generate material. Can't wait to be a part of this on October 6th.

Re the 'not much painting going on at the moment', I'm beginning to wonder if I've had a very one-dimensional approach to this vast unrolling thing that is creativity. What if it's not that I've been 'blocked' at all (at least in the last two years...) but that I've simply been refusing to limit myself to one activity, despite all the cultural pressures to do so?

After all the decades of alienation from contemporary arts practices, an irritation with the focus on the conceptual, a belief that I was not remotely interested in performance, I suddenly find myself standing on this huge new plain. The impossibility of resting only with painting now seems obvious. Perhaps it was not lack of belief or discipline, but a refusal to limit myself to one dimension of expression. And, until recently, no model, no examples, of what multi-working might look and feel like...

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the sun of indifference

I've always loved these two paintings by Charles Rennie MacIntosh:

The other day I was looking at them again, and I noticed the text down either side. The first one says:

The tree of personal effort. The sun of indifference. 

The second one says:

The tree of influence.  The tree of importance. The sun of cowardice.

The commentary in the catalogue that I took these images from says the following:

From the 1896 issue of The Magazine. The exact meaning of the symbolism of this work, and its companion, The Tree of Influence, has eluded all commentators on Mackintosh's early watercolours. It seems possible that it relates to discussions held by the students, as several of the drawings in The Magazine relate to topical student causes and beliefs, but it is equally possible that it was just as unintelligible to even the small clique who read The Magazine.

Strange thing. For me there's meaning in these two sets of ideas as clear as day.....



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building rooms for openly speaking

If you are not building rooms

where wisdom can be openly spoken ,

You are building a Prison

Rumi

I don't know about wisdom, but the idea of building rooms where what you see can be clearly spoken  resonates with me this morning. This seems to have a clear link to creativity, to how we block creativity, and to Authentic Artist and Discipline of Freedom work. 

Somewhere along the line, I became afraid of openly speaking what was natural to me. Originally, of drawing what I wanted to draw without hearing someone in my head criticising it; without hearing my own (borrowed) voice asking if this drawing was to going to be 'good' in the eyes of the world, and wondering what on earth 'good' might mean. Then, a little later, I became afraid of playing the notes I wanted to hear on the violin, or singing the notes I wanted to sing; because the voices in my head were telling me loud and clear that it was too late; and that it was not good enough.

Later still, due to the discomfort of professional circumstances (which I now know were not well-suited to me, at least in the form that chose me) I learnt to become strategic, or at least to try to be strategic, in terms of literally not speaking what was natural to me. Trying not to speak passionately or in any way emotionally in meetings. Hesitant to say what I could see because I knew from experience that after I spoke, the chances were that I would be met with blank or slightly shocked faces. Or did it just feel that way? But that's the point, it felt that way, year after year. Like a noose, starting off so lightly placed... 

A buttoning up, a pushing down, that began in small ways, but then became reinforced, amplified, by my own acceptance of it, my own self-sabotage, my own fear.

If you are not building rooms

where wisdom can be openly spoken ,

You are building a Prison

I see how I built my prison, and I see how I reinforced the bars. 

And then what? Then there is the business of moving out and somehow claiming the space which is beyond the bars. 

David Whyte talks in Crossing the Unknown Sea about the necessity of coming out of hiding if we are to find what he calls good work:

To find good work, no matter what path we have chosen, means coming out of hiding. Good work means visibility. We have all had dreams in which we face large audiences without clothes, without notes, without an inkling of what to say; the faces expectant, waiting, terror in our eyes, the focus entirely on our lone naked figure. Let me tell you that the terror involved in that dream is almost entirely and utterly accurate and most of our intuitions about the dynamics of facing large audiences are horrifyingly exact. 'Just be yourself' people say, as if they have suddenly thought of something entirely original, and as if they have forgotten the terrible, wrenching initiations most religions insist on for arriving at that elusive self. To be yourself is to be no self at all but to be a frontier, the frontier between you and the audience - the large audience of a waiting crowd or the smaller more intimate audience of our immediate co-workers. Their ability to see us and know us in ways which give them a close knowledge of who we are and what we are attempting to do in the world, can seem too much, too intimate, too soon. Vulnerability and intimacy can make a very frightening shoreline. But that is a wave line we must walk in work. Work is exposure, our fancy ideas about ourselves a sandcastle built right on the edge of the incoming sea.



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spaciousness

I've been thinking about the role of space in relation to creativity for a long time. By this I mean the role of not doing in relation to doing. I've just finished reading David Whyte's Crossing the Unknown Sea: Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity, and he talks there about spaciousness as a quality of 'good work' (which he defines as work that is true to your nature, which arises easily, without effort and will....).

Human beings left to their own devices - a very rare event- seem to work according to the quality of a given season and learn similarly in cycles. Good work and good education are achieved by visitation and then absence, appearance and disappearance. Most people who exhibit a mastery in a work or a subject have often left it completely for a long period in their lives only to return for another look. Constant busyness has no absence in it, no openness to the arrival of any new season, no birdsong at the start of its day. Constant learning is counterproductive and makes both ourselves and the subject stale and uninteresting (76).

This is a direct challenge to the idea of 'the thousand hours'; the research on music that says that the brilliant musicians are distinguished from the good musicians because they have put in more hours of practice. It's also a challenge to the image of the 'serious' artist, imagined to be standing before their canvas from morning till night, working as if possessed by a demon. This is not to say that it isn't true that the musician who has put in more hours has benefited technically from those hours, or that extended immersion creates the conditions for the emergence of good work, both of which seem to be the case. The point about spaciousness is subtle, and seems to relate to something intangible about the quality of the work, about its very nature... to those ideas explored by Green and Werner in relation to musicians who are technically brilliant, but whose music still somehow lacks something.

My twenty five years or so of working within formal employment structures, and of trying to continue painting and music around the edges of those structures, were certainly characterised by the unconscious assumption that hours were for filling up, for using to the full. The possibilities of work, of thinking about students, of research, of jazz theory, of improving tone or drawing, always seemed to stretch out until the edges of the universe, and there were never enough hours for their exploration.

In my early twenties, I was sure that the busyness of teaching was a temporary affair, and that one day soon I would stop it all and begin the true work of painting, which I unquestioningly assumed would mean those 12 hour stretches (at least) of full immersion. One of the reasons that this never happened was because I was never quite sure what I was supposed to be doing in those long stretches of immersion. I was waiting for the day I would be seized by the muse and thrown onto the canvas, a willing victim of the greater power that I believed was shortly about to rise up within me.

There's no question about the need for hours; about the emergent powers of immersion and of simply doing the work. But I've found, as I've finally forayed into this period of complete commitment, that there's something about what Whyte calls ' the magic and spaciousness of the hours themselves' which I didn't understand before. That breathing in needs, intrinsically, to be followed by breathing out. That music is formed by the spaces between notes, rather than being, as I'd always assumed, about the technical qualities of the notes themselves. That producing images has to be balanced by looking; that working at a desk has to be balanced by walking outside. Time spent doing has to be balanced by time spent not doing.

A related issue is how creative work is approached, in terms of time. As I've slowly, slowly, let go of lifelong habits of willing and striving and disciplining, I've been observing the rhythm that my days actually seem to want to inhabit. One feature of this is a long, slow moving in to the work at the beginning of the day; a movement which itself takes on a different form each morning. I've come to understand that this gradual, slow approach is necessary in terms of finding..... what is it........ something like a real place to start. This is in contrast to timetabled habits of just diving straight in, in relation to a mind-directive such as, 'right, let's get back to that scale/ this painting, I want to master X today....'. In fact, I'm working within about half an hour of waking up, but by making space for the work to take its form as it wants to (which has been very hard, as I keep thinking I should be disciplining and structuring myself) there's no strain, and no real intention. My fear is always that if I don't structure myself I'll fall into totally non-productive sloth, which seems to link to what I have written about so much in this blog as being 'blocked'. I suspect that this is how I've framed the evolution of learning to breathe in and out, in terms of creativity.

It relates also to the daily practice, as taught by Paul Oertel. I remember watching someone work on the workshop in Wales in May. They were moving and improvising for about twenty minutes, and when they stopped, they said that they 'had just got to the door'. It had taken that long for everything to calm down inside the person enough for the focus of the work to begin to reveal itself; to get past the chattering and striving of the mind.

The idea of a gradual approach also relates to the alap in Indian Classical music. If I'm remembering this properly, the alap is the first section of a raga, which is basically an improvisation within particular constraints. As far as I'm aware, a raga always starts with an alap, which is basically a long, slow warming up as the musician moves into the space from which they are able to create the more complex, later parts of the improvisation. Here's an example . It's amazing - the faster rhythmic development doesn't really start to happen until about 24 minutes in, then it slows down again, before starting to build at around 28 minutes, which is ten minutes before the end of the raga. Skip to 35 minutes in if you want to see the contrast!