Growing up, I embarked on a number of interesting collection quests. After becoming an environmentalist in elementary school, I organized "litter patrols"with my friends next door around the neighborhood, seeing who could collect the most rubbish by the end of the afternoon. Later in Middle School I spent lunch and swim meets digging through garbage bins, looking for cans, bottles, and plastic to put in the recycling bin (and for good measure I cut the plastic rings in which the six-pack soda bottles came). This behavior stopped just before high school, but so potent must the memory have been that when senior year rolled around my classmates voted me "most environmental" in the yearbook, the one distinction I earned in that publication.
In addition to the environment, I've also loved coins for many years; the old ones for their history, the foreign ones for their exotic designs, and the new ones for their value. About the time I started doing litter hunts and garbage bin dives, I also started collecting coins when they appeared in my path. The old and foreign ones I put to the side for periodic viewing, but the new ones went into an old fanny-pack which I called the "college fund." It seemed only natural that an environmentalist interested in sustainable energy and living practices would also take an interest in sustainable finances. And it was during those long litter hunts and treks through the garbage that I started finding coins in plenty. Thus a new habit was born.
The old "college fund" topped out at about $80, which I suppose isn't too shabby. I stopped consciously collecting while in college, though a jar in the bedroom somehow filled with coins during those years. And after graduation when a real job could not be found, I thought well, what the heck right, I'll run around the neighborhood and pick up coins I spot on the way.
Thus the "running salary" was born, and from May 2011 until December 31st of the same year I netted in this way $10.87. Not too bad for fresh air and exercise. This spurred the idea for an experiment, the very experiment about which this post is written: if motivated and focused, how much could one find in the course of an entire year? The idea is not without antecedent. The Smithsonian Magazine ran a piece on London's Toshers in the 1800s, fellows of surprisingly ruddy health who secretly entered the London sewer system in search of coins and junk for sale. We probably wouldn't know about these curious fellows were it not for the sociologist-before-sociology Henry Mayhew (1812-1887), a social reformer who detailed the ways of life of many fringe groups in London for his 1851 study London Labour and the London Poor. I learned of the Toshers rather late in the course of the experiment, but immediately I felt a bond with their adventurous profession.
In any case, one year later and the results of the experiment are in. In 2012 I found 59 Quarters, 117 Dimes, 44 Nickels, and 459 Pennies, for a total of 679 coins, or $33.24. In 366 days I averaged 1.85 coins per day, $2.77/month, with an 8.7% chance of finding a Quarter, 17.2% of a Dime, 6.5% for a Nickel, and 68% for a Penny. In addition I found $15.00 in paper bills, but I spent those on train fare so they aren't counted here.
On the whole I would say the experiment was a most interesting and enjoyable experience. I passed many hours outside, roving about the neighborhood, through parks, and down lanes in search of fresh air, curious sights, and of course new coins. Along the way I lost 5 pounds, went over a year without getting sick (until the last few days, go figure), reacquired a love for drawing and photography, and developed a deeper appreciation for the local area and its interesting places. So really the experiment was not only about finding coins, but also those habits and interests which develop through experience. The true value of this past year's experiment went far beyond the dollars and cents; indeed, it seemed to make me happier, healthier, and in an adventurous spirit, and that is perhaps the most interesting finding of all.
In the mean time, I plan to invest this and last years' findings into the bank, putting the interest toward charitable donations to the classical radio station, the orchestra, and the Mid-Atlantic Spinal Cord Injury Fund for my friend. It's a great feeling to find money doing something you love, and it's likewise when you can give it to a good cause. Something to remember as I embark on another year of collecting.
Happy New Year friends :)
Monday, December 31, 2012
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
The Essential Blue Mountain: 2012
New Years' is often a time for looking forward, with resolutions and hopes aplenty for the coming year. But the days preceding it are frequently used for the opposite purpose; to look back, and rehash how we've arrived at the present. With Christmas now behind us, it seemed like a good time to go back and sift through the past year's posts and list those I think were quality.
Before I do, however, I'd first like to list the "memorials" from the past year:
Caballo Blanco (1954-2012)
Neil A. Armstrong (1930-2012)
Lindsay Budnick (1989-2012)
...and now, 12 posts (in no particular order) from 2012:
1.) Creative Problem Solving: its two forms
2.) Challenge or Opportunity
3.) The Problem with Rewards and Punishments
4.) Hydration and Exercise
5.) 7 Stimulating Books
6.) On how one should ask a girl out
7.) Marine Corps Marathon Adventure
8.) Positive emotions improve academic performance
9.) Practicing without haste
10.) Walking the walk
11.) Moderation
12.) How this blog got its name
There are a few others I thought could make the list, but there you have it: the essential Blue Mountain of 2012. I hope you've all had a wonderful year, and best wishes for the year to come. Many thanks to you all for your love and support.
-JC
Before I do, however, I'd first like to list the "memorials" from the past year:
Caballo Blanco (1954-2012)
Neil A. Armstrong (1930-2012)
Lindsay Budnick (1989-2012)
...and now, 12 posts (in no particular order) from 2012:
1.) Creative Problem Solving: its two forms
2.) Challenge or Opportunity
3.) The Problem with Rewards and Punishments
4.) Hydration and Exercise
5.) 7 Stimulating Books
6.) On how one should ask a girl out
7.) Marine Corps Marathon Adventure
8.) Positive emotions improve academic performance
9.) Practicing without haste
10.) Walking the walk
11.) Moderation
12.) How this blog got its name
There are a few others I thought could make the list, but there you have it: the essential Blue Mountain of 2012. I hope you've all had a wonderful year, and best wishes for the year to come. Many thanks to you all for your love and support.
-JC
Monday, December 24, 2012
Thursday, December 20, 2012
"Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself." A reflection
The Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw once said, "Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself." I find it a curious thought, particularly given the propensity of folks my age to go about "finding" themselves in all manner of activities, occupations, and adventures. Goodness knows, I've had the notion myself frequently enough. But Mr. Shaw's quote strikes a note with me that does seem to carry weight, and so a reflection on "finding" and "creating" in this context seems warranted.
First on finding. To find is to discover, be it a thing, a person, a place, or a station in life. It can also involve abstractions, such as finding a rumor to be true, a description to be false, or an unexpected occurrence to be suitable or unsuitable to one's disposition. Finding can be active (searching), or passive (unexpected discovery). Both can happen to those involved in the business of "finding," or anyone for that matter. As Isaac Asimov once said, "The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka!' but 'That's funny...'"
It would seem then that the common parlance "to find one's self" involves a search, active and passive, to discover the things for which a person is capable of doing and being. So we go off on an adventure, or put ourselves in unusual circumstances to see what qualities and interests come to the fore.
Now on creating. To create is to cause or be a cause of a thing to be made. It involves production, often of something unique and related to the "creator." As with "finding" there does appear to be active and passive forms of "creating," such as writing a story in the former, and unintentionally wreaking havoc with it in the latter. We create with intention as well as by accident, sowing seeds by design as well as by ignorance.
In either case, creating anything seems to have an effect upon the creator, in sometimes large and small ways; that as creators it would seem, we mold and are molded by our creations.
To summarize, to "find" one's self seems to involve a search for some quality from within by employing novel situations to bring out underlying capacity which normally remains latent. To "create" one's self seems to involve a process by which making things changes aspects of who we are. Both processes appear to work by intention as well as accident, and involve transformation through experience. "Becoming" might therefore be imagined as both an act of will and reaction to circumstances.
Of course this could all be plate of bull-cookies.
But I think Shaw's quote points to an essential question related to how we might live our lives: do we become who we are by reacting to the world, or by acts of will and intent? Was Tom "Stonewall" Jackson correct when he penciled into his book of maxims, "You may be whatever you resolve to be?" In short, do we make ourselves, or do we find ourselves?
To this I can't offer a definite answer, but sometimes metaphor helps. For whatever else it is, life does also seem to be a kind of adventure. We make "goals" and plan "expeditions," (as any good adventurer does), but history suggests improvisation is almost always necessary at some point. We teach ourselves the languages, customs, and geography of the lands through which we intend to travel, but through the intervention of the unexpected and unforeseen we discover things about our self we never quite imagined; that we are a little stronger, a little more patient, and a little more courageous than ordinary life would lead us to believe. In short, we can make ourselves ("resolve to be") excellent adventurers, but adventuring also has a way of doing that, for better and worse. So I wonder then whether life is not just about finding ourselves, or making ourselves, but having the wisdom to know which the times and season requires.
Happy Thursday, friends :)
First on finding. To find is to discover, be it a thing, a person, a place, or a station in life. It can also involve abstractions, such as finding a rumor to be true, a description to be false, or an unexpected occurrence to be suitable or unsuitable to one's disposition. Finding can be active (searching), or passive (unexpected discovery). Both can happen to those involved in the business of "finding," or anyone for that matter. As Isaac Asimov once said, "The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not 'Eureka!' but 'That's funny...'"
It would seem then that the common parlance "to find one's self" involves a search, active and passive, to discover the things for which a person is capable of doing and being. So we go off on an adventure, or put ourselves in unusual circumstances to see what qualities and interests come to the fore.
Now on creating. To create is to cause or be a cause of a thing to be made. It involves production, often of something unique and related to the "creator." As with "finding" there does appear to be active and passive forms of "creating," such as writing a story in the former, and unintentionally wreaking havoc with it in the latter. We create with intention as well as by accident, sowing seeds by design as well as by ignorance.
In either case, creating anything seems to have an effect upon the creator, in sometimes large and small ways; that as creators it would seem, we mold and are molded by our creations.
To summarize, to "find" one's self seems to involve a search for some quality from within by employing novel situations to bring out underlying capacity which normally remains latent. To "create" one's self seems to involve a process by which making things changes aspects of who we are. Both processes appear to work by intention as well as accident, and involve transformation through experience. "Becoming" might therefore be imagined as both an act of will and reaction to circumstances.
Of course this could all be plate of bull-cookies.
But I think Shaw's quote points to an essential question related to how we might live our lives: do we become who we are by reacting to the world, or by acts of will and intent? Was Tom "Stonewall" Jackson correct when he penciled into his book of maxims, "You may be whatever you resolve to be?" In short, do we make ourselves, or do we find ourselves?
To this I can't offer a definite answer, but sometimes metaphor helps. For whatever else it is, life does also seem to be a kind of adventure. We make "goals" and plan "expeditions," (as any good adventurer does), but history suggests improvisation is almost always necessary at some point. We teach ourselves the languages, customs, and geography of the lands through which we intend to travel, but through the intervention of the unexpected and unforeseen we discover things about our self we never quite imagined; that we are a little stronger, a little more patient, and a little more courageous than ordinary life would lead us to believe. In short, we can make ourselves ("resolve to be") excellent adventurers, but adventuring also has a way of doing that, for better and worse. So I wonder then whether life is not just about finding ourselves, or making ourselves, but having the wisdom to know which the times and season requires.
Happy Thursday, friends :)
Friday, December 14, 2012
My greatest sympathies to those of Newtown, Connecticut
My greatest sympathies go out to the people of Newtown, Connecticut, who today experienced a tragedy for which words are inadequate to describe.
In the coming days we will know more I hope, establishing the facts--as we must--so that proper justice can be done; to those who perpetrated this unspeakable act, and to the greater issues involved.
What more can be said? I am without words friends, struck dumb by the moment and its weight. I hope we might put aside our differences for now, and give thought to those innocent, defenseless people in Newtown, Connecticut who today suffered grievously at the hands of some moved by the lesser angels of their nature.
Let us come together now, you and I and all the grieving of the world.
Stay strong, friends.
JC
In the coming days we will know more I hope, establishing the facts--as we must--so that proper justice can be done; to those who perpetrated this unspeakable act, and to the greater issues involved.
What more can be said? I am without words friends, struck dumb by the moment and its weight. I hope we might put aside our differences for now, and give thought to those innocent, defenseless people in Newtown, Connecticut who today suffered grievously at the hands of some moved by the lesser angels of their nature.
Let us come together now, you and I and all the grieving of the world.
Stay strong, friends.
JC
Thursday, December 13, 2012
How this blog got its name
Lately a few people have asked me why the blog is called "The Blue Mountain?" What does it mean, they ask, and what has it got to do with the blog? There is a tale to it I suppose, which, to borrow a line of Bill Bowerman's from the film Without Limits, "Like Plato in his tale of the world's creation, I won't say absolutely this is the truth, but...it is a likely story."
In most respects the blog has always been called "The Blue Mountain." It began with a German rendering of the name (die blauen Berg, which is incorrect, and should be Der blaue Berg), and became English after I found most readers confused by the title.
Outside my own imaginings, I believe I encountered the term "Blue Mountain" years ago when reading about Zen Buddhism. Many centuries ago the zen master Tozan wrote:
"The blue mountain is the father of the white cloud. The white cloud is the son of the blue mountain. All day long they depend on each other, without being dependent on each other. The white cloud is always the white cloud. The blue mountain is always the blue mountain."
To this day I still don't know what those lines mean, but they've always struck me as simple, interesting, and somehow expressive of human understanding at its limits.
Generalities aside, another likely source of the name comes from what can only be described as a great recurring myth from my younger days. It involved an imagined society of little people who used to occupy my thoughts, hours of play outside, and a corner of my backyard. For many years I thought of them as great warriors, renowned for their strength and martial exploits. They fought many wars among their rivals, and never lost. In celebration they dug an enormous pit (a small hole by the patio) and within placed a rare stone (quartz from the local stream) as a monument of excellence.Their exploits became my myth, and making up ("discovering" as I called it at the time) their history became a great source of pleasure and thought.
In fifth grade, however, things took an abrupt turn. Hurricane Floyd was on the way, and I worried the pit would become a lake, and from there overflow and drown all the people of my imagined civilization. This great catastrophe-in-waiting was "revealed" to the little people by an elder who spent all his time watching the clouds, and could therefore tell of coming storms. The warning proved a wake-up call to the warrior culture, who decided in the moment to become a nation of builders rather than soldiers. Appointing Guillaume as "Master Builder," the little people constructed a dome over the pit they had previously dug, and after covering it with moss and insuring its strength, took shelter within from the hurricane.
The dome saved the people, and thereafter they called it "the magic Mountain," which is also the title of a Weimar-era bildungsroman ("novel of education, or formation" in German) by Thomas Mann. Called "the Mountain" for short (and because Guillaume and the subsequent builders didn't believe in magic), the place became a great library and place of learning, thought, and research. Later when Guillaume fell through the ice while constructing the Ice Canal (winter of sixth grade), the Mountain became a mausoleum of the great builders (a work completed by Guillaume's successor, Pierre).
Soon preoccupation with the dead replaced interest in learning, and the magic Mountain lost its library and became a tomb only; called the "Mountain of Tears" by some, and the "Blue (sad) Mountain" by others. This happened at the conclusion of the Builder Epoch (the reigns of Master Builders Guillaume, Pierre, and François), and marked the end of the mountain people in my backyard, for some time after the death of Master Builder François my dad unknowingly stepped on the Mountain, crushing the dome and leaving a ruin in its place. The exposed pit soon filled with water, and in time became indistinguishable from the surrounding soil. Naturally the people fled from so calamitous a disaster and ended the Builder Epoch. It also marks the start of the long epic of the Prince Alain and the sword called Bering (a tale for another day perhaps).
In any case, the name "Blue Mountain" appears to have been a part of my thoughts for most of my life, with different connotations prevailing at different times. It has at times suggested history, legend, creativity, philosophy, and the life and death of peoples and people, which somehow seems fitting for a blog with no central purpose, open to the sky. Of course I didn't think of all these things when I sat at a computer in the Ursinus library two years ago puzzling over what to name the new blog I was creating. But for those interested, the above is my attempt at answering that question of "Why the Blue Mountain?"
Happy Thursday, friends :)
In most respects the blog has always been called "The Blue Mountain." It began with a German rendering of the name (die blauen Berg, which is incorrect, and should be Der blaue Berg), and became English after I found most readers confused by the title.
Outside my own imaginings, I believe I encountered the term "Blue Mountain" years ago when reading about Zen Buddhism. Many centuries ago the zen master Tozan wrote:
"The blue mountain is the father of the white cloud. The white cloud is the son of the blue mountain. All day long they depend on each other, without being dependent on each other. The white cloud is always the white cloud. The blue mountain is always the blue mountain."
To this day I still don't know what those lines mean, but they've always struck me as simple, interesting, and somehow expressive of human understanding at its limits.
Generalities aside, another likely source of the name comes from what can only be described as a great recurring myth from my younger days. It involved an imagined society of little people who used to occupy my thoughts, hours of play outside, and a corner of my backyard. For many years I thought of them as great warriors, renowned for their strength and martial exploits. They fought many wars among their rivals, and never lost. In celebration they dug an enormous pit (a small hole by the patio) and within placed a rare stone (quartz from the local stream) as a monument of excellence.Their exploits became my myth, and making up ("discovering" as I called it at the time) their history became a great source of pleasure and thought.
In fifth grade, however, things took an abrupt turn. Hurricane Floyd was on the way, and I worried the pit would become a lake, and from there overflow and drown all the people of my imagined civilization. This great catastrophe-in-waiting was "revealed" to the little people by an elder who spent all his time watching the clouds, and could therefore tell of coming storms. The warning proved a wake-up call to the warrior culture, who decided in the moment to become a nation of builders rather than soldiers. Appointing Guillaume as "Master Builder," the little people constructed a dome over the pit they had previously dug, and after covering it with moss and insuring its strength, took shelter within from the hurricane.
The dome saved the people, and thereafter they called it "the magic Mountain," which is also the title of a Weimar-era bildungsroman ("novel of education, or formation" in German) by Thomas Mann. Called "the Mountain" for short (and because Guillaume and the subsequent builders didn't believe in magic), the place became a great library and place of learning, thought, and research. Later when Guillaume fell through the ice while constructing the Ice Canal (winter of sixth grade), the Mountain became a mausoleum of the great builders (a work completed by Guillaume's successor, Pierre).
Soon preoccupation with the dead replaced interest in learning, and the magic Mountain lost its library and became a tomb only; called the "Mountain of Tears" by some, and the "Blue (sad) Mountain" by others. This happened at the conclusion of the Builder Epoch (the reigns of Master Builders Guillaume, Pierre, and François), and marked the end of the mountain people in my backyard, for some time after the death of Master Builder François my dad unknowingly stepped on the Mountain, crushing the dome and leaving a ruin in its place. The exposed pit soon filled with water, and in time became indistinguishable from the surrounding soil. Naturally the people fled from so calamitous a disaster and ended the Builder Epoch. It also marks the start of the long epic of the Prince Alain and the sword called Bering (a tale for another day perhaps).
In any case, the name "Blue Mountain" appears to have been a part of my thoughts for most of my life, with different connotations prevailing at different times. It has at times suggested history, legend, creativity, philosophy, and the life and death of peoples and people, which somehow seems fitting for a blog with no central purpose, open to the sky. Of course I didn't think of all these things when I sat at a computer in the Ursinus library two years ago puzzling over what to name the new blog I was creating. But for those interested, the above is my attempt at answering that question of "Why the Blue Mountain?"
Happy Thursday, friends :)
Saturday, December 8, 2012
On breaking routine
I ended the "Facebook fast" Thursday afternoon, feeling good about the experience. Periodically deactivating it seems to help me focus, and remember positive reasons for why it's useful. Chiefly it helps me stay in touch friends who are now scattered across the country (and in some cases, the world). Sometimes the sheer volume of the site is overwhelming, and I just want to get away from it all for a few days, which is perhaps more like a holiday than a fast, but either works I suppose.
Curiously, deactivating Facebook forced me to forego the habit of checking it, or posting stories, quotes, or music I find on my "walks" through life and the Internet. This was difficult, but a bit exhilarating too because it forced me to think about things a bit differently, and as a result follow thoughts I hadn't before due to habit.
Does routine put our mind to sleep? It's possible, but I can imagine under some circumstances this could prove beneficial. For example, a pre-race routine might help a runner from over-thinking the coming race. Routine may also provide a sense of security for someone performing a complex task, such as catching multiple trains in succession. At first it might be hard to judge how fast one would need to walk to ensure making each train, but in time the routine might inspire confidence in the commuter that they'll make it without difficulty.
On the other hand routine can dull our sense of the familiar, and constrict our sense of the possible in any given moment. For instance, before I go to bed at night I brush my teeth and read a book until midnight. Just as easily I could listen to music, or perform some kind of physical exercise, mediation, or recite vocabulary terms of a foreign language. I could even do nothing at all, and just go to sleep. In short I could do any number of things, but instead I brush teeth and read. I see nothing wrong with that per say, but I wonder if changing things up from time to time might freshen my perspective, and may engender a greater appreciation of the acts I do just before bed.
Perhaps it would even make me more resilient (gasp!). In his Principles of Psychology (1890), William James implores us to, "...do every day or two something for no other reason than that you would rather not do it." This can be hard advice to follow, but I suspect there's value in it. Discomfort--given the right measure and context--seems to encourage resiliency; it compels us to engage with change and the unfamiliar in ways we haven't done so before. In this way discomfort has utility, in that it forces us to wake up, take notice, and use our capacities (however limited) to make sense of novel tasks and situations.
Obviously some situations prove too stressful, and the utility is therefore lost. But breaking routine, or doing "something for no other reason than that [we] would rather not do it," may help us handle life's more stressful moments with greater poise and grace, which is precisely how Hemingway defined courage ("grace under fire"). It's not to say that occasionally discomforting ourselves will make us brave and resilient. But it does seem a way of keeping our perspective fresh, and routines fluid and adaptable rather than rigid and breakable, which if Lao Tzu is to be believed is a good thing, for, "The hard and stiff will be broken.
The soft and supple will prevail" (Tao Te Ching, Chapter 76). Something to ponder maybe.
Curiously, deactivating Facebook forced me to forego the habit of checking it, or posting stories, quotes, or music I find on my "walks" through life and the Internet. This was difficult, but a bit exhilarating too because it forced me to think about things a bit differently, and as a result follow thoughts I hadn't before due to habit.
Does routine put our mind to sleep? It's possible, but I can imagine under some circumstances this could prove beneficial. For example, a pre-race routine might help a runner from over-thinking the coming race. Routine may also provide a sense of security for someone performing a complex task, such as catching multiple trains in succession. At first it might be hard to judge how fast one would need to walk to ensure making each train, but in time the routine might inspire confidence in the commuter that they'll make it without difficulty.
On the other hand routine can dull our sense of the familiar, and constrict our sense of the possible in any given moment. For instance, before I go to bed at night I brush my teeth and read a book until midnight. Just as easily I could listen to music, or perform some kind of physical exercise, mediation, or recite vocabulary terms of a foreign language. I could even do nothing at all, and just go to sleep. In short I could do any number of things, but instead I brush teeth and read. I see nothing wrong with that per say, but I wonder if changing things up from time to time might freshen my perspective, and may engender a greater appreciation of the acts I do just before bed.
Perhaps it would even make me more resilient (gasp!). In his Principles of Psychology (1890), William James implores us to, "...do every day or two something for no other reason than that you would rather not do it." This can be hard advice to follow, but I suspect there's value in it. Discomfort--given the right measure and context--seems to encourage resiliency; it compels us to engage with change and the unfamiliar in ways we haven't done so before. In this way discomfort has utility, in that it forces us to wake up, take notice, and use our capacities (however limited) to make sense of novel tasks and situations.
Obviously some situations prove too stressful, and the utility is therefore lost. But breaking routine, or doing "something for no other reason than that [we] would rather not do it," may help us handle life's more stressful moments with greater poise and grace, which is precisely how Hemingway defined courage ("grace under fire"). It's not to say that occasionally discomforting ourselves will make us brave and resilient. But it does seem a way of keeping our perspective fresh, and routines fluid and adaptable rather than rigid and breakable, which if Lao Tzu is to be believed is a good thing, for, "The hard and stiff will be broken.
The soft and supple will prevail" (Tao Te Ching, Chapter 76). Something to ponder maybe.
Happy Saturday, friends :)
Monday, December 3, 2012
Facebook Fast
Dear friends,
I've decided to take a little break from the Facebook, but I should be back soon. I felt better the last time I took a "Facebook fast," and suspect it might do me some good to try it again. We shall see.
Happy Monday!
JC
I've decided to take a little break from the Facebook, but I should be back soon. I felt better the last time I took a "Facebook fast," and suspect it might do me some good to try it again. We shall see.
Happy Monday!
JC
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Walking the walk
In an essay, "On the Pleasure of Painting," William Hazlitt contemplates the question of "...whether the artist, or the mere man of taste and natural sensibility, receives most pleasure from the contemplation of works of art" (Table Talk, 17). In so many words, Hazlitt argues that artists understand art in a different way from those who don't practice it:
"Natural sensibility alone, without the entire application of the mind to that one object, will not enable the possessor to sympathize with all the degrees of beauty and power in the conceptions of a Titian or a Correggio; but it is he only who does this, who follows them into all their force and matchless grace, that does or can feel their full value. Knowledge is pleasure as well as power. No one but the artist who has studied nature and contended with the difficulties of art can be aware of the beauties, or [be] intoxicated with a passion for painting" (Table Talk, 17-18).
Hazlitt seems to suggest that--on some level--our ability to appreciate art depends upon our experience in actually making it. Painters can appreciate the skill of a particular effect, or the innovative nature of a new technique, because they are themselves deeply engrossed in the physical act of creation. To those outside the painting class, no amount of acquired taste or natural sensibility can make up for this lack of physical experience.
While I don't think Hazlitt's description fits all painters, I suspect his observation contains an element of truth. In fact, I think Hazlitt's notion proves true across almost any field of performance; that those who practice it see things differently than those who merely observe.
Music is a good example. The conductor of the orchestra with which I used to play was also a composer, and he would frequently point out nuances in the music he found interesting or which he wanted the rest of us to notice and bear in mind while playing. While also a performer, this conductor's experience as a composer seemed to allow him to think about the music in a different way--in short, as a fellow composer rather than simply a performing monkey. The relation between the conductor and the original composer became a kind of dialogue between two like, creative minds.
Sport also provides insight in this regard. When I watch a sport which I've never played, I find it difficult to know what is "quality" except by comparing it to how one person or side is doing against the other. Everything looks so effortless, and in some respect, easy too. How hard could it really be to score in handball, or do a vault in gymnastics? On the other hand, in watching sports which I've practiced a lot, I feel a much greater appreciation of how easy the athletes make such difficult and complex tasks look. I watch Michael Phelps swim the 200m-Fly, or Galen Rupp run the 10km, and am blown away by how easy they make it seem. Yet having trained for many years and raced both events, I realize how challenging it is to perform in the manner these "experts" of their craft do.
To return to music, the same is true with performance. When I listen to a recording of a bassoon concerto, it amazes me how rich and easy the performer makes the piece seem. Surely I could do that, right? Yet when I make a recording of myself playing the same piece, the difference in craft and skill becomes evident. Good intonation--which the professional wields like second nature--is in my own rendition wobbly and suspect. When I try to phrase a line of music, I find that it lacks the potency of my professional counter-part. What seemed easy just in listening turns out to be far more difficult to realize in practice.
From these examples, I begin to see how experience causes us to see those tasks in different ways, both in our own practice as well as that of others. We have a different sense of what is quality when we've labored and practiced the task ourselves. It's not to say that we can't appreciated those things we've never tried (such as handball, gymnastics, or equestrian for me); it just means that practice seems to give us a new sense of appreciation for excellence in a craft when we see it. If nothing else, perhaps we should be cautious in judging the capacities and abilities of others when we have not walked in their shoes, and practiced their craft.
Happy Saturday, friends :)
"Natural sensibility alone, without the entire application of the mind to that one object, will not enable the possessor to sympathize with all the degrees of beauty and power in the conceptions of a Titian or a Correggio; but it is he only who does this, who follows them into all their force and matchless grace, that does or can feel their full value. Knowledge is pleasure as well as power. No one but the artist who has studied nature and contended with the difficulties of art can be aware of the beauties, or [be] intoxicated with a passion for painting" (Table Talk, 17-18).
Hazlitt seems to suggest that--on some level--our ability to appreciate art depends upon our experience in actually making it. Painters can appreciate the skill of a particular effect, or the innovative nature of a new technique, because they are themselves deeply engrossed in the physical act of creation. To those outside the painting class, no amount of acquired taste or natural sensibility can make up for this lack of physical experience.
While I don't think Hazlitt's description fits all painters, I suspect his observation contains an element of truth. In fact, I think Hazlitt's notion proves true across almost any field of performance; that those who practice it see things differently than those who merely observe.
Music is a good example. The conductor of the orchestra with which I used to play was also a composer, and he would frequently point out nuances in the music he found interesting or which he wanted the rest of us to notice and bear in mind while playing. While also a performer, this conductor's experience as a composer seemed to allow him to think about the music in a different way--in short, as a fellow composer rather than simply a performing monkey. The relation between the conductor and the original composer became a kind of dialogue between two like, creative minds.
Sport also provides insight in this regard. When I watch a sport which I've never played, I find it difficult to know what is "quality" except by comparing it to how one person or side is doing against the other. Everything looks so effortless, and in some respect, easy too. How hard could it really be to score in handball, or do a vault in gymnastics? On the other hand, in watching sports which I've practiced a lot, I feel a much greater appreciation of how easy the athletes make such difficult and complex tasks look. I watch Michael Phelps swim the 200m-Fly, or Galen Rupp run the 10km, and am blown away by how easy they make it seem. Yet having trained for many years and raced both events, I realize how challenging it is to perform in the manner these "experts" of their craft do.
To return to music, the same is true with performance. When I listen to a recording of a bassoon concerto, it amazes me how rich and easy the performer makes the piece seem. Surely I could do that, right? Yet when I make a recording of myself playing the same piece, the difference in craft and skill becomes evident. Good intonation--which the professional wields like second nature--is in my own rendition wobbly and suspect. When I try to phrase a line of music, I find that it lacks the potency of my professional counter-part. What seemed easy just in listening turns out to be far more difficult to realize in practice.
From these examples, I begin to see how experience causes us to see those tasks in different ways, both in our own practice as well as that of others. We have a different sense of what is quality when we've labored and practiced the task ourselves. It's not to say that we can't appreciated those things we've never tried (such as handball, gymnastics, or equestrian for me); it just means that practice seems to give us a new sense of appreciation for excellence in a craft when we see it. If nothing else, perhaps we should be cautious in judging the capacities and abilities of others when we have not walked in their shoes, and practiced their craft.
Happy Saturday, friends :)
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