There is much to appreciate in Zen—economy being a key enticement for me. (“Economy” meaning efficiency, frugality, reduction, etc.) I would like to pare my writing to its mere essence, but I have a long way to go to achieve this. I guess this economy of words is one reason poetry has such a hold on me.
I was reading a friend’s blog the other day (Mark, I count you among my online friends, I hope this is not too presumptuous of me), and he was discussing some finer points of sumi-e art (see Forest Rat’s full blog post about it here).
In Japanese, sumi means ink and e means picture. You have seen the beautiful works of black and white Japanese ink art, this is sumi-e: ink painting. Like so many things from the Japanese Zen tradition, sumi-e is a way to focus on the core of something.
Economy of stroke and familiarity with technique are important aspects of sumi-e, as the ink and rice paper are unforgiving media. However, Forest Rat says that typical sumi-e artists often do not paint from the actual subject, but rather spend much time in learning the subject (whether it be a flower, mountain, fish, etc.)—not just the physical characteristics of the subject, but “the essence of them.” After they have a sufficient grasp of the subject, “the artist meditates to clear the mind, to think about the subject, to visualize the finished work,” and paints it. Even though the artist may master the technique, if the study of the subject has not taken place, the art does not reach its full potential because the essence of the subject is not there (essence comes from the Greek einai, meaning “to be, to exist, to happen, to be present”). This makes me think of the Lawrence poem from my last post: the “soft life” put into things that man makes.
Forest Rat talks about his attempts to incorporate this approach in his photography by getting to know an area well enough that when the time and light is right, his study of the place allows him to more easily take the shots he wants instead of just taking hundreds of random shots hoping a few turn out.
This thought struck a chord in me and reminded me of several attempts I have made in writing about this type of thing in my fishing (such as here). In that piece I talked about the anticipation of fishing someplace I have come to know intimately. As I said in a comment on Forest Rat’s blog, “I often think of it as a reverence for the subject/location that, at least for me, causes me to pause and think before taking the first cast. It comes from time spent knowing the place. I think about my favorite places to fish long before making it [there] each year.”
Not only is there a reverence (or longing), but this oneness with a place can aid the angler in being successful because they know the nuances of the water and fish behavior. When some else fishes with them, they may think they have an intuition about the place. Which is true. The word intuition comes from the Latin in + turi, meaning “to look at, contemplate.” It is the long contemplative process the angler puts in over a lifetime of fishing the same waters that gives them that “edge,” or insight.
As with sumi-e, the angler must be familiar with technique in casting and reading water as fish are typically unforgiving the botched cast. Although the mechanics of casting might be well known to the angler, changing rivers or species fished for can change the dynamics in such a way that the experienced angler feels like a neophyte.
This idea was driven home when fishing with Doug from Canada. I mention in that post that where and when we are fishing on the Logan River called for different approaches. And the particular place and time that day called for fishing in front of the rocks, not behind them. This surprised him a bit.
I have found that photography often gives me that pause, that time for reflection about the place I fish. On both a macro and micro scale I’m able to see the places I fish in new light, with new eyes that I might not bring to the experience when just walking through the landscape. Every place, each different river, even different stretches within the same river, has a feel. Taking the time to know the heart or core of a place, its essence, is imperative for my success. Because, for me, knowing a place intimately (not the fish count) is the success.
As a side note, it is interesting to me that the etymology of zen includes words with the following English meanings: quietude, meditation, to see, observe. These characteristics are the embodiment of sumi-e masters as well as those of the artful fly fisher.
The kanji lettering on the art is an attempt to write “cutthroat stalker,” but the closest I could get was “fish chaser” (if someone has a better grasp of kanji, please let me know a more correct rendering).
Having time to understand the essence of a subject for commercial photography… I would considered that a luxury. When you are charged with portraying something in a way that someone who has never seen, never held the thing in their hands can feel a connection to it can be a hard thing to achieve, especially when you have 2 hours to accomplish that goal.
Or when you have to capture a scene, posed or not, to tell a story that you didn’t write can be a tough chore on a harsh time constraint.
On the other hand, I sometimes feel that the more time spent around a subject can make one desensitized to the beauty that once made that subject so interesting when it was first seen, definitely more aware of its parts and nature and more suited to point out these things to others, but less intrigued by the thing itself.
But I don’t know… It’s late and I should probably go to bed.
Alex, thanks for the thoughts. Ummmmm…yeah, that post time does indicate somebody who is an early riser, or long past bedtime.
I could imagine a commercial photographer might have a hard time getting to know specific subjects might be hard. But getting to know the subject in general I’m sure happens from repeated exposure to that type of subject. Take, for example, photographing people. You ma not photograph the same people, but after photographing so many different people you become aware of ways in which to pose them. Shot angles and lighting setups that would best work. I’ve done almost no people photography and when people ask me to shoot them or their families, I tell them that’s not my thing but I’ll do it if they want. When we’re ready for the shot, they ask me where I want them. I say something like, “Wherever you want.” Some of them get exasperated with me even though I warned them this wasn’t my thing. I imagine that if I knew a lot more about the subject, I’d have many more ideas about how and where to pose them.
As for the idea of desensitizing, I guess it really depends on the person and their relationship to the subject. The adage of “familiarity breeds contempt” could certainly hold true in some circumstances. I think the attitude of the individual makes a big difference. The concept of “meditation” on a subject might keep that in check by finding joy and wonder in everything around you. It is easy to get caught up in the mundane of the common, but revising (literally “re-seeing”) one’s perspective can bring things into a new light and make the old seem new and fresh.
What keeps us going back to fishing over, and over, and over, and over?
Thought provoking as usual. So when you talk of economy as being frugality, reduction, and efficiency, do you see this in fly fishing as a quality? Or do you see it as a choice by a certain type of fly fisher mentality?
So often I see the “new” fly fisher (someone who has only participated in the sport for say, 5 years or less) as becoming gear nuts. They have to have the latest fashion, the latest gear, the latest gadgets and then, like a Christmas tree, deck themselves out with all this “stuff” and hit the water. They seem so lugged down to me.
Then I see the guy who grabs the minimum “stuff” for his trip and heads off. He might only have one fly pattern and use it all day. Is this “zen?”
I’m a little slow here Robert.
I personally see economy in fly fishing as a positive quality. But I’m talking for myself. I’m not a gear-hound. Some people are. I guess it’s like books. I can only read one at a time, yet I desire to possess as many as possible. I love the feel of a nicely bound hardback. I love the smell. A well-tooled, leather-bound book is a joy to hold and look at. Do I need them? Nah. But I like them. Kind of like fountain pens too. I’ve got a couple of $200 fountain pens. I can use only one. They write the same as a $0.10 BIC or pencil. But the feel and smoothness of a fine fountain pen on just the right creamy-white paper…lovely!
I guess that’s like some people and their fishing gear: they just like the stuff whether it be flies, rods, reels, whatever. However, if someone thinks that buying more stuff equals a better fishing experience, and they need to take all of their stuff with them on the water, I don’t agree with that thinking (that’s like me thinking that if I have lots of fountain pens I’m going to be able to write the great American novel–not going to happen just because of my gear, but rather what’s between the ears).
So, in honor of that thinking, I do believe this is the year I will try “The Great Cheapskate’s Minimalist Year On the Fly.” Here’s the deal: I plan on purchasing a cheap rig from Wal-Mart (I hate the place, but in honor of this experiment, I think this is the best place for the purchase, maybe K-Mart) that has rod, reel and line. The goal is to keep it under $100. I will fish only with that set-up all year. (Kind of like the Hoppertunity–but I’ll see if I can not break the rules this time
). I’ll then stick with my own minimal fly selections. I’ll put together a post on it when I’ve purchased the gear.
Back to your question about whether the minimalist is “zen”–I don’t know, but to me it approaches it. But I guess I’m biased that way. I don’t know if you remember when we fished together, but I have a little fanny pack with all my “gear” in it. A couple of spools of tippett, some flies, clippers, hemostat. Camera. That’s about it for me. Not even a net. For the most part, I don’t think gear is what catches fish–it’s what’s between the ears. The knowledge one has of a place, type of water, insects and fish. Understanding this essence helps one catch the fish, the gear only delivers the fly based on the knowledge.
Great post, Scott! I’m happy to be considered a friend.
I’ve been running around during the holidays and have just gotten back home. Enjoying some 10 degree blowing and drifting snow here in upstate New York.
An interesting dichotomy between the freshness of first impressions and the deeper understanding that comes with long exposure. Which is better? Are they exclusive? Perhaps the way of enlightenment is to comprehend both at the same time.
Speaking of the economy of poetry, I love Haiku (or at least the English equivalent). I’m no poet, but I hack out a few Haiku when the spirit grabs me.
Marky-san
FR, Comprehend both at the same time? Now you’re getting a bit deep for me. Thanks for popping in!
I take an the opposite view. I love the tool of spareness, and keep it handy, especially when I’m teaching kids; spare is the antidote to ungoverned verbosity and I often use japanese metaphors with kids–give them the safety to understand that it’s not a tragedy if you edit your poem down to nothing, for example, and then tell the koan of the zen master and the professor with the cup of tea. But aside from efficiency as a default value, I now count spareness as simply one tactic in story telling and I don’t let it get loose and go nuts. The fountain pen analogy makes sense to me.
I believe your fountain pen does write better than a bic. That it’s fancy and expensive improves writing, that the experience of writing is changed by a Mont Blanc’s anti-simplicity. (though the bic medium point is my inexpensive ball pen of choice and I handwrite a lot.) The fountain pen has three things going for it which I think clarify the act of writing.
First, the pen creates a physically different product on the page. (I’m still in metaphor land. Bear with me. It’s -15 outside now and I can’t fish.) The ball pen leaves a uniform stroke; the fountain pen varies sharply both in the weight and angle of the stroke and the tone and character of the ink. This strikes me as analogous to word choice or richness of syntax. Spare writing has its place, but some experiences or emotions or observations deserve more weight or more depth according to the desired effect. I’m reminded of “A River Runs Through It,” (and the rest of Maclean’s alas too few books.) He is painting of the past and his emotional bonds with the brother, the parents, the Montana and the river he knew, so he over strokes and weights the choices he makes, leaving us with lush, emotion-laden words (in places) even though spare stark words would have conveyed. I think that is a luxury, of course, because spareness or efficiency is the default in all writing but it is in the contrast between spareness and richness that the point is made. I think also of Guterson who wrote ‘Snow’ about Japanese vs. American culture and borrowed both Japanese imagery and spareness at times as a tool to argue the restrained emotional complexity of the situations. (and come to think of it Pamuk’s ‘snow’ is similar…maybe it’s snow?)
2 is the inverse point. I love the old Cormac McCarthy–All the Pretty Horses, for example, though not the execrable movie. McCarthy experimented with leaving things out, with creating effect by transferring some of the uncertainty of the scene to the reader. Once you get used to it, it’s very intimate (but not, I’d say, spare.) McCarthy wasn’t the first to leave the quotation marks out, I guess, but it sure made the reading fun when you had to unravel the conversations and so experience the laconic cowboy talk in which the unsaid is as important as the said or maybe more. (I had that point made in a different realm yesterday–reading about the Helvetica typeface. Pish, you say, it’s just a font of type, but this font was designed with the negative space, not the positive space, in mind. It’s cool because once you hear that, you can’t stop seeing it in that and every other font. What’s in and around the letters is as important as the letters themselves.) Also see Robert Parker’s Spenser books, where he took Chandler’s subtlety of conversation a step further by leaving question marks off of some questions to indicate the subtle difference when a question (especially when asked by tough guys) doesn’t really offer options. English lacks a varied quotation mark or question mark; we only have one, thanks to Gutenberg. Missing that unsubtle difference isn’t ‘spareness’, it’s just unavailable with the current symbol–so by dropping it you invent it; spareness creates richness.
3. The fountain pen is better (or worse) because it’s a particular, valued tool. Tools make habitual practices, and habitual practices are the mark of most good writers. (Some might them quirks, or even neuroses. Some would be exactly right.) Shelby Foote wrote all of his Civil War history on a particular brand of paper with a single fountain pen. Didn’t make it better, of course, but it did fit his narrow expectation of how writing feels, sounds, is done. Tools have character and power of their own to the imagination, I believe, and confidence in the tool is a critical human characteristic when it comes to creativity. It’s also a critical characteristic when it comes to fishing, I think. We all commit to things on the creek–a stretch, a fly, a tactic, etc.–in exclusion of all others. We must pick one. Amateurs and spin guys are always plagued by binary doubt–should I have gone with the crankbait? Maybe I should change. That grass looks greener! But comfortable seasoned anglers have that modicum of experience, confidence, and comfort that lets them tie on the BWO and the chips will fall where ever. Same with writing, I think. You set up the space as you always do, and let it rip. That’s why I think Scott shouldn’t go buy a cheap rod to fish this year–seems like just a clever trick. Rather, use a single trusted rod, reel, line, even fly for all situations. That would be worth reading about. I think some words resonate with the writer in a way that defies description, and that resonance can go in any direction–lusher, sparer, or even in offbeat lateral angles (I love one of Vonnegut’s: he describes his (alcoholic) self arriving at a friend’s house holding a gift bottle of Scotch “like a handbell.” The simile is not spare, but it conveys perfectly the different way someone handles a gift bottle when the bringer is in a sweat to open it up and drink his own gift. Scott doesn’t get this because he’s not a drinker. but I do!)
I advise writing haiku with a fountain pen. But try this, an assignment I love to use to freak out my rigid A-student 17-year-olds. I say, you must write a good haiku, two constrained but related images, etc. It must be a formal haiku–but if you give me the 5-7-5 syllable pattern, you flunk.
That zens them up big-time, but creates some good poetry.
Dave
Dave,
I’ve been mulling over your words all week.
Matbe my fountain pens do help the writing. I think if it does, it’s because of the state I’m in when using a fountain pen. Do I pick up the fountain pen when I’m already in this state, or does that come because of using the fountain pen? Tough call. I do believe tools can create a mental state (dare I say, spiritual?). Especially tools that meld the physicality of the user and tool. Somehow putting the two in a more intimate connection. Such as woodworking tools. Those tools I own that have wood handles seem more alive in my hands–more at one. (Does this have something to do with the molecular structure of the cellulose in the wood and the glycosaminoglycans in the skin trying to bond? This might be an interesting line to study with my “Things Men Have Made” post,) But, I don’t always go for the wood-handled tools which tend to be “hand” tools and not power tools. I have to be mentally ready for the time it will take with the hand tools. Is this so with my fountain pen? Is this so about the places I fish and the tools I use on the water? I don’t know. I’ll have to pay close attention when I pick up the fountain pen next time (I don’t always use it).
I wasn’t familiar with Pamuk (nor the Spenser books). To tell you the truth, I didn’t get very far in All the Pretty Horses. It drove me crazy. I don’t have the mental acumen or patience to enjoy what he was trying to accomplish–it more just pissed me off trying to figure it out. Again, is it a mental thing that I have to get ready to read something like that to fully appreciate it? Maybe for me.
I like your Helvetica comparison. (I would never “Pish!” typeface discussions.)
I definitely agree on this.
Clever trick with the cheap rod, etc.? I basically already do as you say, “use a single trusted rod, reel, line…” I only own four rods and about four reels. One rod is the old fiberglass rod that used to be my father’s and that I learned to fly fish with and it’s getting a bit beat up. It’s also stiff as a 2×4. One rod is a 7′ 3 wt. I think I’ve used it once in the past three years. One rod is a four piece so I can easily attach it to the back of my motorcycle and I only use it when I ride the bike to my fishing destination. The last rod is my go to rod.
The original idea for the cheap gear isn’t really to show the idea of “spareness,” but rather economy (financial). I thought of this the year before last when reading a lot of blogs about the gear guys buy and the concern with some about the high cost of getting into fly fishing. I want to show that it doesn’t cost a lot because you don’t need a lot of gear or costly gear. So I think I’ll still do it. I would love a “year with bamboo,” but have yet to purchase one. That’s a rod I’d like to custom build, but have no such skills. Again, the melding I hear about with bamboo is the main reason for wanting one.
Scott is a teetotaler, but the scotch held as handbell (by the neck, as opposed to cradled in the arms) makes sense to me.
Good idea with the haiku and your students. I’ve tried to write haiku in he past, but the “formula” is a bit rigid for me. I do write very short poems on occasion. I’ll have to look at trying your assignment. I hardly wrote any poetry last year at all.
I really appreciate the time you took to respond. I like that you feel comfortable enough to write lengthy comments (I know some people shy away from such things). I really didn’t do your comment justice in my response here, but you do have me thinking–thank you!
Maybe off-topic a little but I always think of Thelonious Monk when I think of spareness, economy and “zen” in a western context. His music makes me believe that he has stopped grasping. I find inspiration in the “leftovers” and “scraps” of art. Whether it’s music or painting, or writing. I find myself enjoying the accidental “brilliant-corners” that people unintentionally sweep their best work into.
I think that Monk managed to capture this in his jazz.
Sometimes I turn out my pockets looking for that stuff – but I just find lint.
Anthony, Thanks for swinging past and dropping a line. Thelonius Monk. Nothing like a little jazz to liven things up. I prefer blues, but do like some jazz now and again. That’s a great connection though with music, for those players who can just improvise off the riff because of their command of the music and instrument. I’m barely able to hack out a few chords and notes on my guitar–I stand in awe of good musicians, no matter the instrument. I’m a lint finder too!
I’m a guitar hack too. I wish that I could be more than that. But alas and alack… I love the blues too – the blues are after all the blood that runs through the veins of jazz.
Blues, jazz, Jackson Pollock and Westerns, those are the cultural contributions of America. Maybe throw the wooly bugger and the Elk hair caddis in there too!
Yeah, I put in *lots* of time trying to get better (took a couple of classes; spent two years practicing/self-learning the first time, and then three years the second time). One of the few things that I’ve put my hand to and failed miserably. A fairly recent blues player for me is Joe Bonamassa.
I’ll have to give Joe Bonamassa a listen. I haven’t added any new blues to the iPod for a while. I especially like the early electric blues; John Lee Hooker, Howling Wolf, etc.
I just don’t have it in me to be a good guitarist – I think I’m always going to be a hack. My brain is just to muzzy, I can’t think quickly enough (or maybe I just need to practice more). Trying and failing though gives me a great admiration of those that succeed at it.
Bonamassa is a young guy (30′s?) with a blues-rock sound (that’s my preferred blues). Here’s Bonamassa and Eric Clapton at the Royal Albert Hall. Man, it looks like they’re having a lot of fun with that!
I really like John Lee Hooker. Howlin Wolf? I like his guitar playing. Love his harmonica. But not so endeared to his vocals.
I can’t play because my brain-to-hand coordination isn’t what it needs to be–it’s way too slow!
My comment is really more of a question. I’ve never been much into fishing, more the wood project enthusiast, but this fly fishing thing seems very appealing and relaxing. Where does one begin to learn about this skill?
Charlie, There are a plethora of online resources to help one begin. However, the best way is to get firsthand help from a real person who can help with your casting. Find your local Trout Unlimited chapter or find a fly fishing tackle shop and ask them for information on casting clinics. Casting is probably the most important skill to pick up, and it’s easiest done with a real human. If that’s not available, look for some videos and then have a friend critique your casting compared to the videos casting (or tape yourself casting). The rest of the skills can be learned more easily from books and videos. Happy angling!