One Hand
Clapping:
The Taoe of Music
WholeArts and
The Psychic Internet is proud to present the
"Preface" and "Part One" of this
remarkable book by Daniel d'Quincy. "One Hand
Clapping: The Tao of Music," originally published by
WholeArts in 1991, is a book-length essay on the
performance of music from the perspective of Eastern
philosophy and religion. Mr. d'Quincy is a noted
composer, musician, author, inventor, educator, speaker,
and photographer. Please visit his unique music sites at WholeArts: syNThony, and the WholeArts Online Music Conservatory.
Page 21
In this regard,
it can be pointed out that the Zen way of living is not
to be construed abstractly, but concretely. Thus, Zen has
been applied formally to all of the traditional arts of
Japan with marvelous results. This does not mean only
that Zen painters have served up pictures of Zen saints,
although they have done this on occasion. We mean here
that Zen calls upon artists to create in a certain way
– specifically in a “mindful” way, in
order to realize the intense power of the Tao in their
work. In the West, art applies itself to religion. In the
East, religion applies itself to art. There is a discreet
purpose and logic in this. For, if one can learn to be
mindful in the art of Shakuhachi (the bamboo flute of
Japan), then one may be able to learn to be mindful in
life at large.
In the particular
instance of Zen, its approach to art is fundamentally the
same as what ours has been here. Before proceeding even
one step into the arena of practical technique and the
passing on of tradition, it asks, in effect, “Who is
asking the question?” But Zen accepts no a priori
answer, nothing that is received on faith or authority,
no preconceived formula or credo. It doesn’t begin
or end with any kind scriptural revelation. Nor can the
answer required by Zen be but a regurgitation of what
science tells us about our origins, our organs and
responses. Zen wants you to see directly into your own
nature, so as to live and be who you really are.
Zen demands an
answer that goes back to each individual’s direct
personal experience, but there should be no mistaking
exactly what is meant by this. The word
“person” (and thus our idea of personality)
comes out of the history of art, specifically the Greek
drama. The “persona” was the mask worn in the
theatre, which was a vast affair under the open skies.
Complimenting the magnificent acoustical achievements of
their amphitheaters, the Greeks also developed a
megaphone-type apparatus that was built into its
theatrical masks, which were themselves larger than life
because of the size of the performing space. Thus the
mask came to be known as the thing through which
(“per”) was projected the voice
(“sona”). What we call a person in other words
is just an elaborate mask, a prop of stagecraft designed
for a role.
We can hardly
hope to find our own true identity in such an
artificially inflated thing as this. Our person, as we
generally conceive of it, with its carefully projected
simulacrum of character and pose, and above all our given
name, is not what we are looking for here. Our name is a
convenience on a birth certificate. Names were handed out
at Ellis Island by the ton. In many religious orders,
monks, nuns, and popes, renounce their given names, and
become more generic in their designation: as in Brother
Thom, or Sister Mary, or Pope John-Paul. Artists assume
stage and pen names as emblems of another kind of
renunciation and, one may hope, affirmation. If the
assumed name speaks more directly to the inner truth,
then that is what we are after. It is not your public
persona that is coming under investigation here, but
something much more real.
Just because Zen
seeks illumination of our core reality, it places
meditation (so-called zazen) squarely in center of
its practice. In meditation, we are, at last, alone, and
we are alone so that we can be “all one” - the
“one” that we really are. When we are alone, we
can look at our thoughts with objectivity. The answers we
find to the questions we ask must satisfy an inner judge.
Alone, in our meditations, we have no father and mother
standing over us sternly demanding the ‘right”
answer; no inquisitor with catechism in hand, presiding
over the tortured meditations of our heart. We say that
only God knows what lurks behind our daily professions.
Of course, we can look at it ourselves, if we wish, and
examine it objectively – but only when we are
completely alone. Alone, it no longer matters if we
receive a public validation or vitiation. When the
musician is alone, it matters not if he is famous and
celebrated. Artur Rubenstein said that he regretted not
having tried a little harder, but he could only have
judged himself in such terms when he was alone. In
meditation, only the truth is of any interest or
consequence whatsoever. In meditation, if our belief does
not correspond to our real and actual experience (an
experience such as when water is felt to be wet) it is
hollow and less than useless.
In meditation, we
want to see, and to see directly, “who is asking the
question.” The answer is not taken as given by
doctrinal authority, or qualified authoritatively by
expertise. It is to be immediately observed.
Look within now,
and, in the spirit of meditation, or mindfulness, see if
you can answer “who is asking the question?” (Next Page)
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