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One cannot attain happiness by the same method twice.
Oliver the Giant Cat, 1968

No word in your head has power.
Dream, 2007

The philosopher Oliver the Giant Cat wrote the first epigraph shortly before he sacrificed himself by prematurely detonating a hydrogen bomb which the American Nazi Party was about to launch at Washington, DC in early 1968. This world event has of course been hushed up for decades, but the quotes proves that I knew as a teenager what I’m now about to realize.

The second epigraph was heard in a dream, and it means: Don’t keep the words inside your head.

Manifestos come about because we want to fix our methods amid the hurricane of universal energy battering our doors and windows. But manifestos themselves need to be remixed into that wind. They need to wink in and out of existence.

The universe is looking for vessels into which it can pour its raw energies. We must enhance ourselves to receive these gifts. To demand that the universe give us gifts (“I am an artist!”), to aggressively seek the transcendence which accompanies the gift, is morally wrong. That’s why artists burn out, go on ego trips, become dishonest, squander their energies.

To be that vessel, you must recognize that any method or process must be reevaluated when the universe decides that something new is to be poured.

We want methods because we want to be assured that the universe will still call on us. But our methods soon become empty rituals. We may have seasons of a certain way of doing things, but must be open to changing everything entirely, to learning and to evolving.

The idea of making art as normal work is liberating. I’ve already done so with my writing. In the course of writing twelve novels I’ve managed to remove the mystical high--the hang gliding thrill. There are no mystic rituals accompanying the act of writing, there is no “high” coming out of it, just fun work. When I’m writing I’m like a humble office worker doing a job he enjoys to the point of exclaiming “I can’t believe they’re paying me to do this!” I’m ready for painting to finally become the same joy.

My former dedication to total spontaneity in painting was a mechanical grasping for a transcendent high. Despite calling it “improvisation,” my process was really a box of tattered kitchen recipes I’d pull out again and again. I was searching for a ritual that would always work, and in so doing I was cutting off meanings the universe might wish to pour through me.

If there is zero spontaneity, of course, then your work is a listless paint by numbers exercise. But enough spontaneity happens in even a planned painting to take care of that human need for unexpected results.

Pure improvisation can work, of course. Sometimes a hunt or exploration of new territory is involved. Sometimes your ego must get out in front and be aggressive. But even that is just a way of signaling receptiveness to what the universe decides is to be poured next.

There are seasons of methods, or of genres. We want to explore a given method for a while. The danger is assuming that this is the only method, that there must exist a recipe for the transcendent.

Transcendence is a byproduct of honest work--sometimes. But it’s empty to seek it for itself, to pursue yet another thrill ride in the hang glider.

Grasping for the transcendent clogs the channels to the universe. If I start with restless improvisation energy, I just can’t stop. The first glorious mad improvised brush strokes soon lead to a dull confusion as I quickly jumble up and ruin the space, because my hand/arm/color energy is overwhelming the amount of canvas I have. I just keep burning off energy until the painting officially becomes “in trouble,” and then I agonizingly fight my way through to a final “acceptable aesthetic result.”

But I’m tired of the trouble-struggle. For art to have meaning, it has to have soul ideas. Not just trial and error aesthetic balances and problem solving. Experimenting is fine but trial and error as the sole method is obviously energy-wasting and unintelligent.

When I’m in balance and in tune with what wants to come through, I know when to stop. I’m beyond the restless urge to hang glide, I see the metaphysical space I really do want, and I can work to enhance it, instead of frenziedly attacking it.

I’m now ready to explore some meaning in my art. Meaning needs planning, consideration, forethought, in other words, temporary methods for receiving and for exploring.

A method will work for a season. A season is defined by the universe, and consists of a series of plans and doings appropriate to the current state of the universe.

When the universe changes, one season gives way to another, and methods, with all their accompanying manifestos, must change.

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11/14/08