Marina AbramoviÄ's manifesto for solitude and silence, physicist David Bohm on dialogue and what is keeping us from truly listening to one another, and more. Email formatted oddly or truncated?
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[Legendary Physicist David Bohm on the Paradox of Communication, the Crucial Difference Between Discussion and Dialogue, and What Is Keeping Us from Listening to One Another]
âWords,â Ursula K. Le Guin wrote in her abiding meditation on [the magic of real human communication], âtransform both speaker and hearer; they feed energy back and forth and amplify it. They feed understanding or emotion back and forth and amplify it.â But what happens in a cultural ecosystem where the hearer has gone extinct and the speaker gone rampant? Where do transformation and understanding go?
What made, for instance, James {NAME} and Margaret Meadâs [superb 1970 dialogue about race and identity] so powerful and so enduringly insightful is precisely the fact that it was a dialogue â not the ping-pong of opinions and co-reactivity that passes for dialogue today, but a commitment to mutual contemplation of viewpoints and considered response. That commitment is the reason why they were able to address questions we continue to confront with tenfold more depth and nuance than we are capable of today. And the dearth of this commitment in our present culture is the reason why we continue to find ourselves sundered by confrontation and paralyzed by the divisiveness of âus vs. themâ narratives. âTo bother to engage with problematic culture, and problematic people within that culture, is an act of love,â wrote the poet Elizabeth Alexander in [contemplating power and possibility]. Krista Tippett calls such engagement [generous listening]. And yet so much of our communication today is defined by a rather ungenerous unwillingness to listen coupled with a compulsion to speak.
The most perennially insightful and helpful remedy for this warping of communication Iâve ever encountered comes from the legendary physicist David Bohm (December 20, 1917âOctober 27, 1992) in [On Dialogue] ([public library]) â a slim, potent collection of Bohmâs essays and lectures from the 1970s and 1980s, exploring the alchemy of human communication, what is keeping us from listening to one another, and how we can transcend those barriers to mutual understanding.
Decades before the social web as we know it and long before Rebecca Solnit came to lament [how our modern noncommunication is changing our experience of solitude and communion], Bohm cautions:
In spite of this worldwide system of linkages, there is, at this very moment, a general feeling that communication is breaking down everywhere, on an unparalleled scale⦠What appears [in the media] is generally at best a collection of trivial and almost unrelated fragments, while at worst, it can often be a really harmful source of confusion and misinformation.
He terms this âthe problem of communicationâ and writes:
Different groups ⦠are not actually able to listen to each other. As a result, the very attempt to improve communication leads frequently to yet more confusion, and the consequent sense of frustration inclines people ever further toward aggression and violence, rather than toward mutual understanding and trust.
Art by Ralph Steadman from [a rare edition of Aliceâs Adventures in Wonderland]
Suggesting that the difficulty might arise from our âcrude and insensitive manner of thinking about communication and talking about it,â Bohm sets out to restore the necessary subtlety by reclaiming the true meaning of communication and its supreme mastery, dialogue:
âCommunicationâ ⦠is based on the Latin commun and the suffix âieâ which is similar to âfie,â in that it means âto make or to do.â So one meaning of âto communicateâ is âto make something common,â i.e., to convey information or knowledge from one person to another in as accurate a way as possible.
[â¦]
Nevertheless, this meaning does not cover all that is signified by communication. For example, consider a dialogue. In such a dialogue, when one person says something, the other person does not in general respond with exactly the same meaning as that seen by the first person. Rather, the meanings are only similar and not identical. Thus, when the second person replies, the first person sees a difference between what he meant to say and what the other person understood. On considering this difference, he may then be able to see something new, which is relevant both to his own views and to those of the other person. And so it can go back and forth, with the continual emergence of a new content that is common to both participants. Thus, in a dialogue, each person does not attempt to make common certain ideas or items of information that are already known to him. Rather, it may be said that the two people are making something in common, i.e., creating something new together.
But of course such communication can lead to the creation of something new only if people are able freely to listen to each other, without prejudice, and without trying to influence each other. Each has to be interested primarily in truth and coherence, so that he is ready to drop his old ideas and intentions, and be ready to go on to something different, when this is called for.
Art by Sydney Pink from [Overcoming Creative Block]
Such communication in the service of creating something new, Bohm argues, takes place not only between people but within people. He illustrates this with an example that calls to mind Alan Lightmanâs beautiful reflection on [the creative sympathies of art and science], and writes:
Consider, for example, the work of an artist. Can it properly be said that the artist is expressing himself, i.e., literally âpushing outwardâ something that is already formed inside of him? Such a description is not in fact generally accurate or adequate. Rather, what usually happens is that the first thing the artist does is only similar in certain ways to what he may have in mind. As in a conversation between two people, he sees the similarity and the difference, and from this perception something further emerges in his next action. Thus, something new is continually created that is common to the artist and the material on which he is working.
The scientist is engaged in a similar âdialogueâ with nature (as well as with his fellow human beings). Thus, when a scientist has an idea, this is tested by observation. When it is found (as generally happens) that what is observed is only similar to what he had in mind and not identical, then from a consideration of the similarities and the differences he gets a new idea which is in turn tested. And so it goes, with the continual emergence of something new that is common to the thought of scientists and what is observed in nature.
In a sentiment that affirms the importance of [the uncomfortable luxury of changing oneâs mind], Bohm adds:
It is clear that if we are to live in harmony with ourselves and with nature, we need to be able to communicate freely in a creative movement in which no one permanently holds to or otherwise defends his own ideas.
He observes that these ideas are rooted in assumptions we hold about various aspects of life â from politics to economics to religion â and those assumptions are what we call our âopinions.â Four centuries after Galileo admonished against [the folly of believing oneâs preconceptions], Bohm argues that this tendency to cling to our existing opinions is a kind of self-protective âblockâ we use as a hedge against our fear of uncertainty. But in blocking uncertainty, we also block our ability to listen. Fertile dialogue, he points out, requires that we first become aware of our own âblocks,â then be willing to surmount them. He writes:
When we come together to talk, or otherwise to act in common, can each one of us be aware of the subtle fear and pleasure sensations that âblockâ his ability to listen freely? Without this awareness, the injunction to listen to the whole of what is said will have little meaning. But if each one of us can give full attention to what is actually âblockingâ communication while he is also attending properly to the content of what is communicated, then we may be able to create something new between us, something of very great significance for bringing to an end the at present insoluble problems of the individual and of society.
In a passage of swelling timeliness today, Bohm considers the crucial difference between dialogue and discussion:
âDialogueâ comes from the Greek word dialogos. Logos means âthe word,â or in our case we would think of the âmeaning of the word.â And dia means âthroughâ â it doesnât mean âtwo.â A dialogue can be among any number of people, not just two. Even one person can have a sense of dialogue within himself, if the spirit of the dialogue is present. The picture or image that this derivation suggests is of a stream of meaning flowing among and through us and between us. This will make possible a flow of meaning in the whole group, out of which may emerge some new understanding. Itâs something new, which may not have been in the starting point at all. Itâs something creative. And this shared meaning is the âglueâ or âcementâ that holds people and societies together.
Contrast this with the word âdiscussion,â which has the same root as âpercussionâ and âconcussion.â It really means to break things up. It emphasizes the idea of analysis, where there may be many points of view, and where everybody is presenting a different one â analyzing and breaking up. That obviously has its value, but it is limited, and it will not get us very far beyond our various points of view. Discussion is almost like a ping-pong game, where people are batting the ideas back and forth and the object of the game is to win or to get points for yourselfâ¦
In a dialogue, however, nobody is trying to win. Everybody wins if anybody wins. There is a different sort of spirit to it. In a dialogue, there is no attempt to gain points, or to make your particular view prevail. Rather, whenever any mistake is discovered on the part of anybody, everybody gains. Itâs a situation called win-win, whereas the other game is win-lose â if I win, you lose. But a dialogue is something more of a common participation, in which we are not playing a game against each other, but with each other. In a dialogue, everybody wins.
Art by Salvador Dalà from a [rare 1969 edition of Alice in Wonderland]
True dialogue, Bohm argues, not only leads us to question the very assumptions upon which our opinions are built but invites a continual act of self-revision at the level of the thought process itself â the process of which our opinions are a product. This self-revision takes place both on the individual level and on the collective level. He considers the difficulty of rethinking thought itself:
You cannot defend something without first thinking the defense. There are those thoughts which might question the thing you want to defend, and youâve got to push them aside. That may readily involve self-deception â you will simply push aside a lot of things you would rather not accept by saying they are wrong, by distorting the issue, and so on. Thought defends its basic assumptions against evidence that they may be wrong.
Noting that we engage in two kinds of thought, individual and collective, Bohm points out that most of our individual assumptions are the product of our cultural conditioning and our âcollective background.â He writes:
Language is collective. Most of our basic assumptions come from our society, including all our assumptions about how society works, about what sort of person we are supposed to be, and about relationships, institutions, and so on. Therefore we need to pay attention to thought both individually and collectively.
Writing in the same era in which evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins [coined the term âmeme,â] Bohm adds:
Assumptions or opinions are like computer programs in peopleâs minds. Those programs take over against the best of intentions â they produce their own intentions.
Those intentions operate on what Bohm calls the âtacit levelâ â not the level of our conscious awareness but someplace deeper, more intuitive, and almost automatic, of which we only have a vague conscious sense. He explains:
âTacitâ means that which is unspoken, which cannot be described â like the knowledge required to ride a bicycle. It is the actual knowledge, and it may be coherent or not. I am proposing that thought is actually a subtle tacit process. The concrete process of thinking is very tacit. The meaning is basically tacit. And what we can say explicitly is only a very small part of it. I think we all realize that we do almost everything by this sort of tacit knowledge. Thought is emerging from the tacit ground, and any fundamental change in thought will come from the tacit ground. So if we are communicating at the tacit level, then maybe thought is changing.
The tacit process is common. It is shared. The sharing is not merely the explicit communication and the body language and all that, which are part of it, but there is also a deeper tacit process which is common. I think the whole human race knew this for a million years; and then in five thousand years of civilization we have lost it, because our societies got too big to carry it out. But now we have to get started again, because it has become urgent that we communicate. We have to share our consciousness and to be able to think together, in order to do intelligently whatever is necessary. If we begin to confront whatâs going on in a dialogue group, we sort of have the nucleus of whatâs going on in all society.
But Bohmâs most crucial point â which is also the point most disquieting to our present customs of communication â is that true dialogue must be aimed not at some immediate or practical solution but at the higher-order objective of meaning. A quarter century before physicist Sean Carroll made his beautiful case for [âpoetic naturalismâ] as our supreme source of meaning in a universe otherwise devoid of purpose, Bohm writes:
It is not an arbitrary imposition to state that we have no fixed purpose â no absolute purpose, anyway. We may set up relative purposes for investigation, but we are not wedded to a particular purpose, and are not saying that the whole group must conform to that purpose indefinitely. All of us might want the human race to survive, but even that is not our purpose. Our purpose is really to communicate coherently in truth, if you want to call that a purpose.
[â¦]
It is necessary to share meaning. A society is a link of relationships among people and institutions, so that we can live together. But it only works if we have a culture â which implies that we share meaning; i.e., significance, purpose, and value. Otherwise it falls apart. Our society is incoherent, and doesnât do that very well; it hasnât for a long time, if it ever did. The different assumptions that people have are tacitly affecting the whole meaning of what we are doing.
Echoing his magnificent [conversation with philosopher Jiddu Krishnamurti about intelligence and love], Bohm adds:
Love will go away if we canât communicate and share meaning⦠However, if we can really communicate, then we will have fellowship, participation, friendship, and love, growing and growing. That would be the wayâ¦
And perhaps in dialogue, when we have this very high energy of coherence, it might bring us beyond just being a group that could solve social problems. Possibly it could make a new change in the individual and a change in the relation to the cosmic. Such an energy has been called âcommunion.â It is a kind of participation. The early Christians had a Greek word, koinonia, the root of which means âto participateâ â the idea of partaking of the whole and taking part in it; not merely the whole group, but the whole.
[On Dialogue] remains an illuminating and acutely timely read. Complement it with Einstein on [widening our circles of compassion] and Carl Sagan on [moving beyond âus vs. them,â] then revisit Bohm on [how our beliefs shape our reality].
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[An Artistâs Life Manifesto: Marina AbramoviÄâs Rules of Life, Solitude, and Silence]
âThe Artist is no other than he who unlearns what he has learned, in order to know himself,â E.E. Cummings wrote in his spectacular meditation on [what it really means to be an artist]. But if [âall art is based upon nonconformity,â] as the great artist Ben Shahn asserted, and if unlearning our cultural conditioning is essential to creative work, why do we have such a voracious appetite for the writings, daily routines, and manifestos of celebrated artists?
That tension between guidance and rebellion is what Marina AbramoviÄ (b. November 30, 1946) plays with in a piece titled âAn Artistâs Life Manifesto,â which opens the twelfth chapter of [Walk Through Walls] ([public library]) â the magnificent memoir that gave us AbramoviÄ on [art, fear, and taking risks].
The manifesto is divided into three parts â an old-fashioned list of rules of personal conduct, the kind which artists like Eugène Delacroix and André Gide [kept in their diaries] in the nineteenth century; a portion devoted to the artistâs relationship with silence, that [ennobler of speech] and [fertilizer of the imagination]; and a section dedicated to the relationship with solitude, that [seedbed of self-discovery] and [supreme fuel for creative work].
To be sure, the manifesto itself bears the characteristic fusion of sincerity and subversion that marks AbramoviÄâs work â although the tenets are rooted in the earnestness of her own experience, it is an undeniable contradiction for an artist who has spent half a century defying the dogmas of art by inventing new forms to prescribe a set of dicta for artists to follow. Out of that deliberate contradiction arises a testament to philosopher Jacob Needlemanâs abiding assertion: [âThere is always something more than two opposing truths. The whole truth always includes a third part, which is the reconciliation.â]
Marina AbramoviÄ, The Artist Is Present. Photograph by Marco Anelli.
AbramoviÄ writes:
AN ARTISTâS CONDUCT IN HIS LIFE:
An artist should not lie to himself or others
An artist should not steal ideas from other artists
An artist should not compromise for himself or in regards to the art market
An artist should not kill other human beings
An artist should not make himself into an idolâ¦
An artist should avoid falling in love with another artist
AN ARTISTâS RELATION TO SILENCE:
An artist has to understand silence
An artist has to create a space for silence to enter his work
Silence is like an island in the middle of a turbulent ocean
AN ARTISTâS RELATION TO SOLITUDE:
An artist must make time for the long periods of solitude
Solitude is extremely important
Away from home,
Away from the studio,
Away from family,
Away from friends
An artist should stay for long periods of time at waterfalls
An artist should stay for long periods of time at exploding volcanoes
An artist should stay for long periods of time looking at fast-running rivers
An artist should stay for long periods of time looking at the horizon where the ocean and sky meet
An artist should stay for long periods of time looking at the stars in the night sky
During our recent public conversation in San Francisco, AbramoviÄ shared three more life-rules she borrowed from her dear friends Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson:
1. Have a good bullshit detector.
2. Fear nothing and no one.
3. Be tender.
Complement this particular portion of the wholly terrific [Walk Through Walls] with Mary Oliver on [the third self and the artistâs task], James {NAME} on [the artistâs struggle for integrity], and Sol LeWittâs [electrifying letter of advice on overcoming self-doubt], then revisit AbramoviÄ on [pain as a focal lens for presence].
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[We Found a Hat: Jon Klassenâs Minimalist, Maximally Wonderful Parable of Transforming Covetousness into Generosity and Justice]
âIf you perceive the universe as being a universe of abundance, then it will be. If you think of the universe as one of scarcity, then it will be,â legendary graphic designer Milton Glaser observed in his [conversation with Debbie Millman]. One might say that it is difficult, perhaps even delusional, to elect perception over the hard facts of physical reality â after all, if there is only one apple in front of you, how could you perceive your way to having two? And yet the great physicist David Bohm, a scientist grounded in the fundamental building blocks of physical reality, articulated a parallel truth in contemplating [how our perceptions shape our reality]:
Reality is what we take to be true. What we take to be true is what we believe. What we believe is based upon our perceptions. What we perceive depends on what we look for. What we look for depends on what we think. What we think depends on what we perceive. What we perceive determines what we believe. What we believe determines what we take to be true. What we take to be true is our reality.
Beloved childrenâs book author and illustrator Jon Klassen explores this disorienting paradox with great subtlety, simplicity, and sensitivity in [We Found a Hat] ([public library]) â the conclusion of his celebrated hat trilogy, following [I Want My Hat Back] (2011) and [This Is Not My Hat].
The story follows two turtles who discover a hat together â a very winsome hat, they both feel â and are suddenly faced by a practical predicament: There is one hat to be had, and two of them who want to have it.
Carrying Klassenâs minimalist, maximally expressive illustrations â entire worlds of emotion and intent are intimated by the turn of the turtlesâ black-and-white eyes â are his equally spartan words, which envelop his protagonistsâ interior worlds in sweetness and gentleness as he tells this touching story of covetousness transformed into generosity and justice.
We found a hat.
We found it together.
But there is only one hat.
And there are two of us.
How does it look on me?
It looks good on you.
How does it look on me?
It looks good on you too.
It looks good on both of us.
But it would not be right if one of us had a hat and the other did not.
As the sun begins to set and the predicament remains unresolved, the turtles decide to leave the hat where it is and forget they found it.
But as they retire to sleep, the hat occupies their restless imagination. Like Dostoyevsky, who [discovered the meaning of life in a dream], the turtles arrive at their solution via the nocturnal imagination.
Are you all the way asleep?
I am all the way asleep.
I am dreaming a dream.
What are you dreaming about?
I will tell you what I am dreaming about.
I am dreaming that I have a hat.
It looks very good on me.
You are also there. You also have a hat.
It looks very good on you too.
We both have hats?
Pair the warmhearted and wonderful [We Found a Hat] with Lemony Snicketâs Klassen-illustrated story [The Dark], then complement its central sentiment with Annie Dillard on [why generosity is the greatest animating force of art].
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