The blessing of destruction

On the benefits of embracing impermanance in creative practice.

In the Museum of East Asian Art in Bath, I once saw a sand painting carefully created by visiting monks. Laid on the floor, grain by coloured grain, the mandala was ornate and finely detailed. In the centre lay the representation of the central deity’s palace and in the geometric shapes radiating outwards were depicted other deities. The fact it was temporary only enhanced its beauty. Its point was to remind its makers and viewers of the impermanence of all things material.

I always imagined that when such mandalas were destroyed, an overalled janitor simply came in whistling and swept it all away with a broom and dustpan as if he was simply shaking away a scribble drawing on an old etch-a-sketch toy. I thought the monks would have moved on, simply not caring about the weeks of work they had put in laying one grain of sand at a time. Somehow, I had the idea that the making was for the making’s sake, mediation for the moment, and when it was done, they simply left, headed off to do other monkish things, blissfully practicing their lack of attachment as they walked out the door.

Image by Stonadecel from Pixabay

In fact, the destruction of the mandala has a highly ritual component.  First, the creators offer blessings and prayers in a purification ceremony. Then the mandala is deliberately spoiled, a lead monk raking a finger through the pattern, vertically then horizontally. Next, other monks join in, pushing the sand around into a heap. The sand is carefully swept up, not a grain remaining to fall into the cracks of the floorboards. Portions are distributed in little bags to participants in the ceremony as a means of them receiving some of the healing power of the artwork. They reverently place the rest into a silk-wrapped urn and deposit it in a body of water. The flow of water carries the blessing of the central deity to the sea from where it spreads to the whole world. The intricate process of making is only the lead-up to the destruction which is ultimately the point of the whole experience.

The impermanence is not represented by an act of abandonment but rather ceremonially marked in community.  Destruction becomes a conduit of blessing for the entire world. The work itself is lost forever but the underpinning message certainly is not. Just as individuals are born, live and die, the physical trace of the mandala is ultimately lost but the spiritual impact of it endures in ways that will never be visible.

A creative life is full of cycles of impermanence. Layers of paint or collage get subsumed under new layers, drawings are ripped up. Words on paper are scrumpled and tossed, pixels deleted. Great ideas turn out to be dross. Old unsold artworks are recycled, trashed or burned. Intentions are lost as days get interrupted. Hope fades away as rejections arrive or intervening life events occur. For those of us who left careers to embrace this life, much of who we thought we were is gone, sometimes by choice, sometimes from unwanted circumstances. We find ourselves constantly facing the challenge of blank canvases, empty days, and vanishing senses of identity.

Much is written about how we can maintain psychological resilience in these circumstances but little about the deliberate embracing of such impermanence. There is much more talk about the use of archival materials and the creation of evergreen web content than there is about accepting that we may have nothing to show for our time.

Of course, there are conceptual artists who embrace the decaying nature of their sculptural materials.  The Tate has displayed both Roelof Louw’s Soul City (Pyramid of Oranges) and Anthony Gormley’s Sleeping Place which consisted of 8640 slices of paraffin waxed Mother's Pride bread left to go mouldy. Neither of these was made with the intention of spreading blessing to others, however. Louw’s point in asking viewers to take an orange before they putrefied was about how art’s meaning depends on the interaction with viewers. Gormley was speaking about impermanence but with an emphasis on the new life forming as the spores of mould appeared where bread had been.

This article therefore is a challenge to myself, as much as it is an offering to you. In turning to this new creative life I have searched first for a way to frame the unasked-for loss of a first career alongside the joy of finding a new one, I have tried to grasp a solid purpose within the new way of life. My journal pages feature the word legacy a lot, meaning something lasting, something remaining after me.

Today, my mind having drifted back, for no reason at all, to those bright green and orange grains of sand, I am wondering, what if the legacy I can offer is in fact to model a lack of lasting solidity? If the impact I seek to make is to free others from searching for what does not exist?

What if the purpose is to walk alongside others as they find grains of life slipping through their fingers and to say,

“In this experience is a blessing for you, for me, for the world. Don’t turn your back on it. Wrap up this moment in silk and hold it gently as you pass it on, to those you see and those unknown and unnamed across the ocean. Let it all go, whatever this precious example of beauty in your life was. Not with careless abandon but with ornate intentional ritual as befits its importance and effort.

“Then, when it is sent on its way to belong to others – in physical or energetic form – then, when you feel weak and bereft, draw from the gifts that others have cast out into the world for you to draw on. Take the blessings from over the sea into the same cupped hands from which the sand spilled, despite your desire to retain it forever. Then begin again, another hour, another day, another work, another gift, another life. For this is how it should be.”

            What if we started to do this in community, to create ritual supports that celebrated the passing of effort into nothingness? What if we supported each other both to engage with the years of building businesses and working in series and also provided courses and memberships dedicated to the intentional destruction and letting go of our work? What release and relief from suffering would we gift ourselves? What freedom to create without fear? What richness would we gain if, even as we let our own experiences go, we stood with our feet in water full of the blessings left to us by others who did the same?

 How might this burning world turn differently if we allowed our creativity to teach us that we are in this world not to hold onto resources but to engage lightly with them, enhance them and then pass them on?

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For you to ponder:

What do you hold onto too tightly?

What form of ritual would support you to let it go with more grace and ease when the time comes to do so?

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From the studio:

Safe Harbour 1: Actylics and oil pastel

12 x 12 Inches £195 framed

A recent trip to Cornwall allowed me to spend time looking at the sea. It was glorious weather when we were there and the water, although cold, invited meditative walks along its foamy edge, the damp of the sand gritty between my toes. Along the coast, however, were plaques commemorating lives lost at sea when the tranquity of the coastline turned ugly as tides sucked and pulled and gales raged and boats could not reach the safe habour in time.

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And finally a blessing:

May you rise jubilant at the promise of day as the shadows give way to dawn. May you find time in your day to lift your face towards clouds scudding free in a clear sky. May you retire in peace as the hours of today slip into tomorrow. May your living be light and your resultant wisdom weighty and may all that has been lost be for a blessing.

Shalom.

Helen