The Collected Works of Chögyam Trungpa: Volume Seven (37 page)

Rinpoche had a considerable collection of seals, each with its own particular history and significance. Most valuable were the ancient seals of the Trungpa lineage, some of them centuries old. For these, he had a special case prepared with fitted indentations, which was carried during his travels by a trusted aide, like the black box accompanying a President. Woe if it should be misplaced! The simplest of the seals was the Sanskrit
EVAM,
traditional seal of the Trungpa tulkus, which he eventually passed on to his American regent, Ösel Tendzin (e.g., before the poems “You take refuge in the Buddha not as a savior . . .” and “A crow is black . . .”). Larger traditional seals, one of which was a gift from the emperor of China to the fifth Trungpa in the early seventeenth century, are in Tibetan or Chinese seal script. Inevitably, Trungpa Rinpoche added to the collection of seals he had inherited from his predecessors new ones of his own design. Prominent among these are the large and small scorpion seals. The scorpion is a symbol of sovereignty and command—once one has been stung by the scorpion there is no undoing it. Rinpoche used the scorpion seals on calligraphies embodying themes connected with the Kingdom of Shambhala. The new seals were manufactured initially in hard rubber; later, traditional ivory or stone ones were made, and Rinpoche had one scorpion seal produced from meteoric iron. (For additional information about the seals, see Appendix.)

Rinpoche was partially paralyzed on his left side, the result of an automobile accident. It was difficult for him to sit in “warrior posture,” or seiza, the traditional Japanese kneeling posture for calligraphy. When working on a small sheet, he would sit at his desk. Such was the case when he calligraphed names for the traditional refuge and bodhisattva vow ceremonies; these were done on 8½ by 11-inch specially watermarked bond paper, sometimes over one hundred at a time in rapid succession. On these occasions a small assembly line of assistants would be on hand to help seal, remove for drying, and order the sheets for the ceremony which Rinpoche would perform, later the same day or on the day following. When executing larger calligraphies, Rinpoche stood at a table. This may have been specially set up in the sitting room adjoining his downtown office; in later years, it would more often have been the dining room table at the Kalapa Court, Rinpoche’s large residence on “the Hill” in Boulder, Colorado.

When about to execute a calligraphy, Trungpa Rinpoche would seem for a few moments to be in a state of absorption, often accompanied by a gesture of repeated dipping of the brush into the ink and smoothing the brush hairs against the side of the ink bowl. Then he would raise the brush, while gazing intently at the white space of the paper before him. In this second, onlookers could feel an arresting of habitual thought patterns as space and time crystallized into a pure, undivided moment. Then, gently but with great conviction, the brush would descend to the paper and make its first dot. Often Rinpoche would pause the brush on this first mark, as if waiting for the calligraphy to be born from its seed. Then the brush would start to move, in a continual forward flow free from hesitation or strain.

Typically, the initial one or two strokes of a calligraphy by Trungpa Rinpoche have a gentle deliberateness, evoking a sense of mindfulness and precision; then there is a crescendo, expressed in greater speed of execution and a sense of leap or abrupt sword stroke; finally, a “follow-through” stroke both completes the gesture and lets go of it. This pattern can be seen in many of the works, abstract as well as literal.

After a moment of inspection, Rinpoche would set down his brush and select a seal. Then, as an assistant held firm the container of thick scarlet ink, he would ink the seal and apply it definitively to the paper, pressing hard with a slight rocking motion to ensure a sharp impression. Now the assistants would hold down the paper as Rinpoche pulled the seal off with a pleasing snap. For a brief moment, all would admire the newborn, completed artwork, before carefully removing it to a nearby surface to dry.

With a few exceptions, Trungpa Rinpoche worked in black on white or black on gold. A third focal point of color is provided by the brilliant red of the seal. His use of seals frequently went beyond the simple function of identification, becoming an active element in the composition—multiple impressions, impressions turned at different angles, or masked so that only a portion of the seal appears.

As with his use of seals, Trungpa Rinpoche also signed his work in a variety of ways. His earlier calligraphies are usually signed simply with his own name in Tibetan:
Chökyi Gyatso ne tri
(“written by Chökyi Gyatso”). Meaning “Ocean of Dharma,” which in Tibetan often contracts to
Chö-gyam,
this is the “dharma” or religious name that Rinpoche received in childhood after his recognition as the eleventh rebirth in the Trungpa lineage. He rarely uses “Trungpa” to identify himself, and never “Rinpoche,” an honorific meaning “Great Jewel” that is used for all tulkus. He at times uses other titles, such as Dorje Dzinpa (“Vajra Holder”), a high distinction bestowed on him by His Holiness Gyalwang Karmapa XVI, head of the Kagyü lineage of Tibetan Buddhism. Later works, representing Shambhalian themes, are often signed with his Shambhala warrior name, Dorje Dradül (“Indestructible Subjugator of Enemies”) or Sakyong Dorje Dradül (“The Earth-Protector Indestructible Subjugator”). Sometimes he employed the English initials “DD of M,” standing for Dorje Dradül of Mukpo. Mukpo, his family name, derives from one of the six ancient clans of Tibet. Trungpa Rinpoche traced his ancestry to the most famous Mukpo of all, the legendary warrior-king Gesar of Ling.

Rinpoche frequently equated brush and sword. “The brush is tempered and folded and beaten as a good samurai sword. . . . In conquering from the East, brush stroke is the weapon . . . you realize that brush cuts and sword paints.” Trungpa Rinpoche wielded his calligraphy brush as a sacred weapon. For him, the brush was a sword of nonaggression, a proclamation of transcending neurotic attachments and uplifting life for oneself and others. We offer this volume with the hope that it may contribute in some degree to the accomplishment of Rinpoche’s dharma warrior-king vision for a world of peace, courage, and beauty.

David I. Rome served as Trungpa Rinpoche’s private secretary from 1974 to 1983.

1
. One such installation is depicted in the documentary film
Discovering Elegance,
shot in Los Angeles in 1980.

“Heaven, Earth, and Man” is based on a seminar entitled “Dharma Art” given in Boulder, Colorado, July 13–19, 1979. The seminar included lectures and discussions, group meditation practice, and art and ikebana exhibits. The Vidyadhara, Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, demonstrated his talks with calligraphies and illustrations, created and displayed on the spot by means of an overhead projector. In the discussions following each talk, Trungpa Rinpoche and the seminar participants practiced spontaneous poetry composition, creating a series of three-line poems based on the heaven, earth, and man principle. So in presenting this material, the Vidyadhara made use of the interplay of spontaneous expression, meditation, and study.

Heaven, Earth, and Man

1. D
HARMA AND
A
RT

“Genuine art tells the truth.”

P
EOPLE OFTEN START
with art and discover dharma out of that. But our approach is different: we begin with dharma, and then we try to find if there is any art in it. We start right at the beginning, right at the basic point, with the question of who we are, what we are, and what we are trying to do in terms of art. So in discussing dharma art, it is important to have some familiarity with dharma and why it is art, which is an interesting question.

Some people say that art is a way of expressing themselves which communicates to others. Others say that art is a discovery they have made out of nowhere, and from that they find their way of relating with others. Some people say art is pure spontaneity: if they are spontaneous, that in itself is art. But there are some problems with those basic conceptions of art. We first of all have to look at the intention or the motivation to create art. The motivation may come from a loss of your sense of identity. You have lost connection with the rest of the world and you cannot make friends with anybody. You may be crazy, sick, or confused, but you find one thread of connection, which is your talent, your artwork—so you try to hang on to that. In this case, you try to make a connection with the rest of the world by demonstrating your talent, regarding your art as a saving grace, a life rope. It is your last chance.

Sometimes people become known as great artists because of the quality of their art. People buy their works of art; they don’t buy the artist, particularly. They run into the artist’s studio and buy his or her production and get out as soon as possible, without getting into the artist’s personality. In other cases, people use their works of art as calling cards, the hors d’oeuvre approach. Their artwork expresses their personality, so people begin to like them and accept them because of their art. Their art becomes a way of magnetizing people to themselves. Some artists are hermits who simply enjoy working on their art and are not concerned with selling what is produced. Such artists often refuse to sell or exhibit their work at all. Their only discipline or pleasure is in the creation of the work of art itself. These artists pursue the solitary style of the rhinoceros.

There are hundreds of millions of types of artists and approaches. Some artists are very neurotic; others are not all that neurotic. They are very individualistic, and many artists are garish in propagating their particular ego: their own colors, forms, and sounds. I’m not particularly trying to cut down artists. But we have to recognize how much neurosis comes out in works of art. We could quite safely say that at present sixty percent of the art produced is neurotic. The rest of it may be somewhat decent.

The problem stems from labeling ourselves as artists. When we begin to label ourselves as some kind of artist—“I’m a poet, a musician, painter, weaver, sculptor, potter,” what have you—that prevents us from reaching beyond that particular scope. All sorts of neurotic possibilities could come out of that: hanging on to clay in order to produce a pot, hanging on to canvas in order to produce a painting, hanging on to a musical instrument in order to produce a sound. In the theistic world we never see any medium beyond the immediate situation, and that becomes a problem. For instance, when you are born, you immediately try to reach your mother’s nipples; you try to do so as fast as you can, so that you don’t have to think about your birth anymore. Then somebody else has to get a diaper to catch your cream- or mustard-colored deposit at the other end. We have been acting in that way for a long time, in our physical process of growth as well as when we produce works of art. We hang on to our immediate medium as our confirmation, so there is no space at all for us to expand beyond what is there. That is a problem. On the other hand, it might be a source of possibilities.

The name
artist
is not a trademark. The problem of the twentieth century is that everyone has become merchandised, everybody is a mercenary, everybody has to have a label: either you are a dentist, an artist, a plumber, a dishwasher, or whatever. And the label of “artist” is the biggest problem of all. Even if you regard yourself as an artist, when you fill in the occupation blank, I request you not to write “I am an artist.” You might be the greatest artist, but that doesn’t mean you have to put “artist” as your occupation. That is absurd! Instead you might write “housewife” or “businesswoman”—that is much better than calling yourself an artist. It seems to be problematic if you declare yourself an artist, because that means you are limiting yourself purely to artwork in the literal sense, as something very extraordinary and unusual. But from my way of thinking, and from what my training tells me, when you have perfected your art and developed your sensitivities, you cannot call yourself anybody at all!

Dharma
means “norm” or “truth.” It is also defined as peace and coolness, because it reduces the heat of neurosis, the heat of aggression, passion, and ignorance. So dharma is very ordinary, very simple. It is the stage before you lay your hand on your brush, your clay, your canvas—very basic, peaceful, and cool, free from neurosis.

Neurosis is that which creates obstacles to perceiving the phenomenal world properly and fully, as a true artist should. The basic obstacle to clear perception is omnipresent anxiety, which does not allow us to relate to ourselves or to the world outside ourselves. There is constant anxiety, and out of that anxiety comes a feeling of heat. It is like entering a hot room—we feel claustrophobic and there is no fresh air. That claustrophobia leads us to contract our sense perceptions. When there is 100 percent claustrophobia—the full heat of neurosis—we can’t see, we can’t smell, we can’t taste, we can’t hear, we can’t feel. Our sense perceptions are numbed, which is a great obstacle to creating a work of art.

Tonight we are talking about art as a basic understanding of dharma. We sometimes have a problem with that basic understanding because we would like to come up with some gimmick. For instance, you might go up in the mountains and catch a baby monkey and bring him home, hoping that little baby monkey can play on your shoulder, run around your courtyard, and play in your kitchen. You hope he will relieve your claustrophobia, the heat of your neurosis. When he first decides to come along with you, that baby monkey might behave himself. But over time he begins to become an extension of your neurosis, because the power of your neurosis is so strong and effective. So the monkey begins to become an expression of your neurosis, in the same way as your artwork does.

Some people say that if there were no neurosis, they could not become good artists. This view of art is the opposite of a sense of peace and coolness. It undermines the possibility of intrinsic beauty. Fundamentally, art is the expression of unconditional beauty, which transcends the ordinary beauty of good and bad. From that unconditional beauty, which is peaceful and cool, arises the possibility of being able to relax, and thereby to perceive the phenomenal world and one’s own senses properly. It is not a question of talent. Everybody has the tendency toward intrinsic beauty and intrinsic goodness, and talent comes along with that automatically. When your visual and auditory world is properly synchronized and you have a sense of humor, you are able to perceive the phenomenal world fully and truly. That is talent. Talent comes from the appreciation of basic beauty and basic goodness arising from the fundamental peace and coolness of dharma.