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But I am not a Zen master, and I used that koan as a jumping off point for a deeper look into loneliness. A hand trying to clap is a lonely hand. It is trying to do something that it cannot do alone. There are many things that one can do single-handedly, but clapping is not one of them. One can play the harmonica with one hand, one can hammer a nail, hug a friend, type out this article (I can even do that with just one finger, using the hunt and peck method). But clapping is a two-handed action. It is an action that involves a relationship, the relationship of one hand to the other, and every relationship leads us out of ourselves and breaks our horizons wide open.
We were created for communion, and we are drifting farther and farther from what we were created for. How did we get here? Can we find our way back? Can I actually meet another person? Is communion possible or only another illusion? In future articles I hope to take a closer look at these questions.
Sr. Gabriela of the Incarnation, O.C.D. (Sr. Gabriela Hicks) was born in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, in the Gold Rush country of California, which she remembers as heaven on earth for a child! She lived a number of years in Europe, and then entered the Discalced Carmelite Monastery in Flemington, New Jersey, where she has been a member for forty years. www.flemingtoncarmel.org.
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I suppose this article will lose all validity if I reveal to you that I can actually make a pathetic sound with one hand clapping. (I'm too embarrassed to tell you how many years it took me to develop this skill.)
My business partner Randy and I squeezed our ideas, jumped on them a bunch, and then wrapped them up with a big red holiday bow, and we had our new COO, Jessica, stand on top of the gift box. (Sorry, I let that get away from me...)
(Now I have to explain the strikethroughs above. Well, apparently people don't like webinars. In fact, I don't like webinars. So, we're thinking about calling it a masterclass. But that sounds pompous, so we're not sure about that either.)
It is hardly surprising that I have concluded, after five years research, that camera is both a way of life and not enough to live by... Glass between me and the world is both a channel and a barrier. To live through a lens, to live out my inner conflicts and brambles through a camera, to turn to the camera to help me return to the world was an experiment I set out to explore five years ago. I knew it was headed for failure in some way, but I persevered because little else was left open. Camera as a way of life, and this included teaching, especially teaching, is still the least impossible way for me to develop and to maintain a state that I can call mine.
That sort of thing was, certainly for me, right at the heart of this gentle yet often commanding presence: a mixture of boyishness that was endearing and charming, especially in his shy smile, and otherworldliness. Tall, lanky, deep-voiced, he had a habit of clearing his throat,
sometimes before each sentence, as if to say there was nothing casual for him about talk. He was balding, but you did not think of him that way: he had good reason to be vain about his hair, which he sometimes wore long. For all the carelessness about his appearance, that white hair made him look quite distinguished. He had the bearing of a man deeply confident in himself, or at least accustomed to being deferred to, and who was at the same time painfully self-conscious. That mixture of loftiness and social awkwardness made him someone you did not feel comfortable chitchatting with at any length. Nor was he a man easy to look at. There was something simian about his face, a hard, structural impishness that played against the dignity of his high forehead and white hair and stentorian voice which, taken together, never let you form too simple an impression of him. Or rest too comfortably with what you saw. There was something underneath that confidence, something deeper still. If you dealt with his presence, really let it into your eyes and nerves, it involved you somehow in the whole ongoing problem he had with his corporeality. His big hands and meaty handshake always came as a surprise, as I am sure his body often did to him.
With his "Creative Audience" course surrounded by classes in basic and advanced technique, obsolete processes, criticism, the history of photography and others, his ambition as a teacher was, as he put it, "to bring the student, by way of a series of rightly conceived, perhaps infallible steps, to the point where he can 'see,' see profoundly the world around him, and he can recognize the relationship of his medium to his whole life, on any level he chooses to recognize it, emotional, intellectual, spiritual. And when he gets through, he would come at photography with control over the medium and a certain attitude: just as he asked the medium to serve him, something higher was asking him to serve it. Then he is in a 'right position' to use the medium as an art."
At MIT, White was much more aware than he had been in San Francisco and Rochester of the dynamics of his relationship with his students. In the earlier days he was often confused and hurt by the way some of them ended up turning against him, often in obscure ways. "At first I didn't understand it. I really had the sense that once I had the student, really had him, he was mine forever. When I first came into teaching, I really felt that without knowing that I was feeling it. I began to realize after a while that that's the way it was, and that that wasn't the way it ought to be. Now I realize that what I'm here for is to spread a lot of things out on the table, and let them take what they want. It doesn't make any difference to me what they take, or whether they take anything. Along with that attitude the ties aren't so great. I was tying them up myself, without realizing it."
And, as the journals suggest, they sometimes were; White himself noted several times "the dangers of these methods" and alluded to situations that seem to have gotten beyond his competence. He agreed also with the allegation that he promoted only versions of himself. When he started teaching at CSFA, he told his students that he wanted them to make their own pictures in their own way, and believed that that was where he stood, only to discover, as time passed, that he was teaching them "to make the images I would have made had I been there." When school was out and he got into the field, he always found it difficult "to photograph out of myself. I would be making the pictures I had been seeing my students make all year," imitating their imitations of him, at some crazy remove from the real thing. "It usually took me a month or so of camera work to get back through all that to myself." With Aperture, too, he saw that he had done the same thing. "It was a one-man show, an outlet for my own photographs. . . . My own photographs, but other people did them."
But Caponigro not only understood it, he was (and still is) in basic sympathy with White's preoccupations and aspirations. He was not objecting, as so many have, to the fact that Minor White played the guru, but to the quality of the performance. As a man on the path himself, he was determined to see that it was not turned into a trip, what Chgyam Trungpa calls spiritual materialism. They had the same argument again nearly ten years later, this time over an introduction that White wrote for the Aperture monograph Paul Caponigro. Caponigro was offended by the glibness and emotionalism of it, and he said so in no uncertain terms. "I didn't want anything to do with all that bullshit. He was dressing me up in all this masturbatory mysticism, relating my work to the Gurdjieff ideas. He was rowing his boat in this beautiful sea of symbols and calling that the reality of consciousness. Giddy is what it was! I was still struggling as a human being and as a photographer, and I was still struggling to understand Gurdjieff, and I didn't want to participate in that incredible dabbling."
Caponigro was objecting not to language, but to loose language; he wanted careful discrimination, precise observation, not self-indulgence, and much is revealed in Minor White's refusal or inability to hear what he was saying. Only toward the end of his life, in the caution with which he approached the Gurdjieff ideas in public, did he show any evidence of understanding what Caponigro meant by "dabbling."
His live-in students rose early with him, they meditated for an hour or so, had breakfast, and the day's work was usually under way by seven or seven-thirty. Hired assistants did his processing and some of the printing, everything except exhibition prints, and all the busy work, both professional and domestic. An unlisted phone number helped now to keep his attention where he wanted it to be. Twice in the last years he was near death, and there was still a lot of unfinished work. When he retired from full-time teaching in 1975, he began working eight and ten hours a day, with breaks for lunch and an afternoon nap, on the two "teaching books," as he called them, "which have been sitting on my head for thirty years." When they were done, he wanted to spend the time that was left to him with a camera.
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