Pointing at the moon

trigger warning: clickable links to a kaleidoscope of content

Yesterday I actually looked at my planner, and I had two clear tasks to complete: to finish this website and to continue writing a nonfiction book (an assignment). But I, instead, fell right into the rabbit hole called the Internet.

I clicked on the Austin Kleon newsletter. Kleon creates zines and poems from newspaper articles (blackout poetry) and has become known for his funny books and speeches about the creative process (Steal Like An Artist). He sends out a newsletter every week full of clickable links, an all-you-can-eat buffet for meanderthals like me. Yesterday’s trigger was the phrase “if you are having trouble with your art or writing, try pointing at things.”

If you clicked (and I do, always) you would’ve read a story on artist John Baldessari and one of his fantastic works of art, created by amateurs. The work was a response to an abstract painter’s statement, “conceptual art is just pointing at things.” Baldessari hired a bunch of painters and instructed them to paint a realistic hand, pointing at things. A gas stove, a hole in the wall, a crawl space. Baldessari commissioned the works and signed them with the creators’ names. The almost photorealistic hands that point to unusual, unsexy things make the collection irresistible. But the background story is what sells it.

An hour later, I found myself scrolling through a digitized MoMa catalog of a 1994 Baldessari exhibition and realized that I had, once again, got lost in a spontaneous obsession. And that I love getting lost creatively. It’s just a little excessive sometimes – getting lost for hours every day when you really would like to do (and finish) other things. Call it self-sabotage, or a lack of discipline. To me, it’s my monkey mind, my monkey brain, that is addicted to the exciting, new and funny. But the question remains: what is it that I’d like to point at? What is it that I want to create? What do I want to share? Because it is fascinating to follow someone else’s creative process, from the initial idea to the end result (with all the detours duly noted). But I would rather create and discover myself. Add work to that artful chain. I struggle daily with infobesity or information addiction, trying to satisfy the hunger I feel by stuffing myself with other people’s greatest finds. And that is an endless meal, from hamburgers to haute cuisine. But since I have been doing this excessively for decades, I can safely conclude that it is not fulfilling. That I need to use this fuel a little differently, and not as a drug that lets me forget myself.

All instruction is but a finger pointing at the moon, so goes a Zen proverb. Those who keep looking only at the finger will never see the beauty of the moon. And that reminds me of another insightful Zen narrative, that of the student who comes to see a Zen master in search of enlightenment. The master pours tea for the student, but keeps pouring, until the cup overflows. The student asks, puzzled, why he does that. ‘This cup is like your head,’ he replies. ‘It’s already full. To pour decent tea into it, it has to be empty first.’

Empty. Receptive. Interested. At this point, I could sink much further into an ocean of lukewarm tea: go back to Baldessari, wander through the history of MoMa. Look up even more Zen wisdom, find a meditation course nearby, toss some I Ching coins. Maybe find out if I still have that MP3 somewhere of that great body scan – a soothing voice listing all your body parts while you lie down comfortably with your eyes closed: your right eyebrow, your left elbow, the tip of your right index finger. But I want to wake up. Realise what I’m doing. And start doing what I want to do, like finishing this blog.

For me, writing is a form of meditation. Learning to work with and not against my pendulum monkey mind. Noticing getting lost and sidetracked, returning with compassion to what I was originally working on. Closing dozens of tabs on your inner computer and devoting yourself to one task. While loving the world and all the madness, because it’s all so incredibly beautiful and fascinating.

Wise pointing.
There’s probably a haiku in there.

Assignments devised by Baldessari from his 1970 CalArts program:
No. 10: Create art based on learning procedures. How does a child learn?
No. 68: Make a list by reading art books and talking to artists, a list of all the things to avoid when making art. Do those things. Ask yourself if the results are good or bad.

Do you have a spidermonkey mind, too? Join the club.
Looking for help? Maybe a fresh deadline will work. We will call you.