We endure our lives of anguish
for the spirit within.
The sage knows this, and accepts,
that his life is altruistic.

In a large Shin temple dedicated to Amida Buddha, there is displayed a painting of black lines on white in what seems like the seeming randomness of a Jackson Pollock.

I ask who painted it – but no worshiper answers, “Amida.”

All art, all creativity, arises from the Deep Unconscious, the Muse, and would be thoroughly therapeutic if it were not distorted, even perverted, as it journeys up into conscious expression. The less the artist misprocesses, the more healing will his creativity be. That is to say, the more will he help others to reduce their misprocessing.

Why does the painting have to represent some recognizable “thing”? “This is a painting of …” God is unknowable, and yet we forever strive to bring “Him” down to the earth. We have a desire, a need, to anthropomorphize God – and similarly, although to a lesser degree, to reify the content of art.

Black is not the absence of color, but the most powerful color. None of the energy from the sun has been reflected out. It is still all held inside, yearning to burst into the world.

A large redwood burl, exquisitely shaped by Nature. The carver confronts it, chainsaw ready. “I’ll make an Indian chief out of it.” Look at that block of stone. Feel its spirit. Then ask yourself, Should it be sculpted? Now look at this blank white canvas. Should it be painted? The more I can Feel the Spirit that is the canvas, the less I want to disturb it.

Enso is the Zen art of painting a circle, and the circle proclaims the mother of love. But to have to paint it, for the circle to become a must, relates instead to the mother of fear: she who must be obeyed.

For those who fear to look into Themselves,
a painting must tell a story.