PHOTOGRAPHY AND MINDFULNESS:
In 1980 I began an intensive practice of Vipassana meditation. Vipassana, or “insight meditation”, is the ancient meditation practice taught by the Buddha and remains an important spiritual practice of Theravada Buddhism in Southeast Asia.
Unlike many other forms of meditation whose objective is the attainment of bliss, out-of-body experiences or other altered states of consciousness, Vipassana is concerned only with ordinary consciousness: the thoughts, feelings and experiences which fill our minds. The basic practice of Vipassana consists of keeping the attention focused on the breath. Without effort or concentration, you simply notice the breath go in and the breath go out. Whatever comes up—sensations, thoughts, impulses—you simply notice it and bring the attention back to the breath. In time, the mind wearies of not receiving reinforcement of thoughts and feelings and empties out. Without the constant interference of the grasping mind, you begin to experience reality with great clarity.
As you continue on the path of Vipassana, this “bare attention” is increasingly expanded into all of the activities of life. This moment-to-moment experience of reality, without interference from the conditioned mind, is called “mindfulness”. By keeping the attention focused upon a single action or task, and letting go of thoughts, you open to the present moment. Free from the mind that filters and shapes our perceptions, our consciousness is expanded to include the inexhaustible possibilities of the present moment.
This “mindfulness” became an increasingly important influence upon my photography. When I was taking pictures or working in the darkroom, it became natural for me to fall into a profound state of mindfulness. Without the grasping or acquisitive mind, constantly pushing me into habitual or predetermined ideas of what is beautiful, significant or desirable, I began to see things in a new way. I was able to explore possibilities outside of my range of values--terms such as “good, bad, beautiful, ugly”
lost much of their power over me. Instead I became drawn to shapes and forms that spoke to my inner self. Whether I liked these images, or could even decipher their meaning, became less and less important to me. These images, to quote Edward Weston, “take one beyond the world we know in the conscious mind”.
I found that mindfulness, as part of the photographic process, requires complete control over the medium. If the cognitive mind is constantly required for technical considerations, then the creative process is interrupted. To successfully practice mindfulness, technique must be second nature, so ingrained that its execution requires no thought.
While my spiritual practice had immediate and obvious influences upon my photography, in the last few years I became aware that certain of my photographs mirrored certain elements of Buddhist thought. Even thought I never consciously set out to photography these aspects, some photographs seemed to represent important elements in Buddhist thought. These photographs—the Buddhist Expressions Series-- have been linked to haiku, statements by Buddhist masters (as well as myself). I thought that this combination of verse and photography worked because both pointed to the same state of consciousness or inner reality (i.e., the verse did not simply explain the photograph, nor did the photograph provide an illustration of the verse).
Perhaps the most important discovery that I have made is that my spiritual practice and my photography are not two distinct activities. Indeed, my photography is the most powerful, most important aspect of my spiritual life. It has become my meditation, my direct connection with the present moment. Furthermore, my photographs are often koans for me: mysteries which can provide insight into the inner self and deepen practice.
One day in 1999, on one of my customary trips to Point Lobos, I chanced upon a small collection of pieces of wood and other flotsam that was embedded in a matrix of tar. There was nothing especially photogenic or attractive about this rather prosaic assemblage. I looked at it and soon moved on to more interesting photographic possibilities.
Yet, there was something about it that drew me back to this spot on my next trip to Lobos. Despite my esthetic reservations, I photographed it. I made a print, mounted it and, and for the next few weeks, studied it—trying to understand why I was compelled to photograph it. Then, in an instant, I suddenly realized that the photograph signified the attachments in my life that were an underlying source of pain and suffering.
Since moving to the Monterey peninsula in 1991, I saw colleagues and friends have museum shows, gallery representation and magazine articles about them--whereas I could hardly get anyone to even look at my work. Even though I wished my cohorts and friends nothing but the best, I held onto deep and largely subconscious feelings of resentment, envy and anger. I had been attached to goals of success, recognition and acceptance—and these attachments not only created problems in my relationships, but actually compromised my ability to photograph. It seems that there was always the unstated but underlying desire to photograph subjects that could further my career—motivation which short-circuited my capacity to be in touch with my inner self and source of my creativity.
Once I deeply “saw” my attachments to career goals, recognition and fame, and how these attachments caused deep suffering, I was able to almost instantly let go of them. Without the heavy weight of self-criticism and the imagined (or real) judgments of others, I was free to allow that part of myself which was beyond (or beneath) the conditioned mind to be my guide in photography. It seemed as if certain subjects “chose” me and, in the course of the next three years, a process identical to the one that mirrored my attachments was responsible for the other images of the Buddhist Meditation Series, as well as many additional images—some of which have yet to unlock their secrets.
It should be noted that letting go of attachments to goals does not mean that the goals necessarily change or that having goals is bad. I still have career goals, but it no longer matters if I succeed in achieving them.