The Art of Unknowing
"In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert's there are few.”
—Shunryu Suzuki Roshi
Our culture places high value on expertise. We like to know the answers, and we like letting others know we know the answers.
In our current state of frantic public debate (on every topic), we’re quick to cling to anything that makes us feels secure, that helps us feel anchored in the storm and, most importantly, right.
Sometimes we forget that science is a process, an act of curiosity, and not only a repository of facts. Sometimes we forget that art also is a process and act of curiosity. We forget our opinions are not facts. Sometimes, we get so deep in our own sense of expertise — whether that’s in our profession, craft, social ideas, faith or absence thereof — that we can’t see what’s just outside the trench we’ve dug for ourselves.
You’re possibly already familiar with the concept of shoshin, Beginner’s Mind, that zen monk and teacher Shunryu Suzuki spoke and wrote beautifully about in the 1960s. He stated that our expertise can blind us to possibilities, robbing us both of new ideas and great joy.
He wrote, “The mind of the beginner is empty, free of the habits of the expert, ready to accept, to doubt, and open to all the possibilities.”
The past year has shown us all the necessity of rethinking what we’d come to accept as the norm in our disciplines and personal practices. Our in-person access to audiences, collaborators and venues vanished and we were forced to reconsider not only how we make our art, but, ultimately, why.
In a recent interview, the San Francisco dance artist Jennifer Perfilio talked about the long process of rethinking her pandemic-interrupted dance piece, “As Is.” She told Jill Randall, “Holding on too tightly to any creative project felt antithetical to the time. There was so much unknown to try to settle into. So much patience and inefficiency to embrace. In my movement practice, I value the experience of ‘unknowing,’ of breaking away from structures, habits, assumptions. So holding space for letting go and undoing felt not only necessary, but nourishing.”
I’ve found unknowing, or choosing to take on the mantle of the beginner’s mind, to be my most valuable tool. Letting go of my ideas of what is “right” or what is expected in art is, first and foremost, liberating. And fun.
Play rises to the surface and replaces the stern laundry list of “what is done” that has often worn down to rote repetition.
I am not implying either that play should replace technique or that technique and expertise are not necessary. Rather, play can hone the edges of technique and can reveal new places to which it can be applied.
If we have technique, if we have skill and practical knowledge, then we can hand ourselves over to play and discovery with the assurance that our skill won’t let us down.
Holding too tightly to notions of what is right and wrong in art not only restricts discovery and innovation, it throttles the joy of creation.
We all have stories of beginner’s luck, or something like it. In the late 1990s, I bought a 1950s Kay upright bass. I’d been playing electric bass for years, including fretless, and figured this big stand-up bass would be exactly the same. So I just started playing, recording with it and performing live with it. It was some of the most fun I’d had as a musician at that point. I never had any problems with intonation, with accurately hitting the right notes without the guide of frets or markers on the neck… until someone pointed out that it was very hard for beginners to hit the right notes accurately. From that moment on, I began to struggle.
Why? Was it dumb luck? The openness of beginner’s mind? Did the freedom of play compensate for lack of skill?
Who knows. But I do know that this period where I felt free to explore was also a period where I created some really innovative music, bouncing ideas, melodies and rhythms off collaborators.
You don’t have to have all the answers to create something. E.L. Doctorow said, “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as the headlights but you can make the whole trip that way.”
And now, as we slowly reenter the in-person world, we must reevaluate our practice and our relationship to audience. What from the past year do we keep? What do we adapt? What do we leave behind?
It’s a good time to reevaluate both why and how we do what we do. To deeply interrogate that, we must abandon our previous notions. Strip away our old ideas, our sense of mastery.
What has happened in the past year has challenged foundational ideas of every practice, like how work is made, how it is shared, whose stories are told and who gets to tell them. The past year has radically transformed access to art. Wider audiences can be reached in new ways. Art is more economically accessible, less ableist, and has become a globally collaborative human experience.
No theatre company chose to move to digital because they loved the idea of streaming theatre. But, in doing so, they reached global audiences. They found innovative storytelling techniques. Their prices dropped. Now, as they move back to the live world, what can they hold on to? How can they augment work digitally and democratically? How can they engage more fully with all audiences?
Similarly, visual artists, touring musicians, filmmakers and more have found new footing in digital arenas and in innovative performance models. Nearly all of them have opened up their work to new audiences and made their work more accessible.
Applying the art of “I don’t know” right now isn’t just about the pandemic shift. It’s about making your best work. It’s about relieving yourself of the burden of expertise. Just saying “I don’t know” makes me feel lighter.
What are you going to make? I don’t know. How are you going to make it? I don’t know. How are you going to distribute it? Make it better than that other person’s? Make it better than your last one? Beat the algorithms? Win over the critics? Sell it? Set the stage for the next one?
I. Don’t. Know.
And that’s ok.
Just sit with it. Make space for it. Sit with the canvas, the page, the instrument. Sit with yourself. Look at the camera, turn your back to the audience, use comic sans, pick up an instrument you don’t know how to play. Try applying the philosophy of your organization’s accessible digital offerings to your new live events. Ask questions.
What has changed for you over the past year? How have you embraced the art of unknowing perhaps… unknowingly?
