IN THE STUDIO
Mandalas, Meditation, and Mindful Mark-Making
by Jeffrey M. Brackett
Jeffrey M. Brackett is an associate professor of religious studies at Ball State University, where he teaches courses in Hindu and Buddhist traditions, religion and pop culture, and ethnography of religion. In the spring of 2015, he combined his interests in pedagogy and art by teaching a fifteen credit-hour immersive learning seminar, “Representing Religion in Comics.” His current projects include transforming his translation of D. B. Mokashi’s Marathi novel, Ananda Owari, into a graphic novel that he is drawing; and a study of “Spiritual-But-Not-Religious” in the art world. www.jeffreymbrackett.com
Jeffrey M. Brackett is an associate professor of religious studies at Ball State University, where he teaches courses in Hindu and Buddhist traditions, religion and pop culture, and ethnography of religion. In the spring of 2015, he combined his interests in pedagogy and art by teaching a fifteen credit-hour immersive learning seminar, “Representing Religion in Comics.” His current projects include transforming his translation of D. B. Mokashi’s Marathi novel, Ananda Owari, into a graphic novel that he is drawing; and a study of “Spiritual-But-Not-Religious” in the art world. www.jeffreymbrackett.com
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You should not say,
‘I know what Zen is,’ or ‘I have attained enlightenment.’ This is also the real secret of the arts: always be a beginner. —Shunryu Suzuki |
The most common question people ask about my mandalas is, “How long did that take?” This question is often followed by the comment, “Making those drawings was probably meditative or spiritual.” There is no simple explanation for why viewers connect my drawings to meditative or spiritual practice. I will, nonetheless, propose a few of the possible reasons. First, the question is a good conversation starter, and the follow-up comment aligns with popular understandings of creative work generally, and religiously themed art, in particular. Second, the repetition entailed in making them could become an opportunity for a meditative or spiritual practice of sorts. The overt religious connotations of many mandalas also lend themselves to connections with meditative practice. Finally, I imagine that the process of coloring my mandalas might be conducive to meditation. My drawing of them, on the other hand, requires concentration, precision, and patience, none of which I connect to meditative processes, though there may be times when they overlap. These initial observations are far from exhaustive, and my perspective evolves as I explore new artistic techniques, and as I read more about art history, art theory, and the work of individual artists. Further, these processes are leading me into transdisciplinary research—and art projects—that I could not have pursued had I not begun drawing mandalas.
Most of my drawings do take a long time to complete. (Ten to fifteen hours each is common.) I am neither trained as an artist, nor am I a self-taught art professional. I started drawing regularly in October 2016; between February and August 2017, my work appeared in five juried art shows. I am fortunate to have found a balance between my professional life and my art practice. By day, I am an Associate Professor of Religious Studies, and I teach courses in Hindu and Buddhist traditions, Ethnography of Religion, and Religion and Popular Culture. I use lots of comics in the pop culture course, which is a way of bringing together my scholarly and personal interests in art. Now, many years removed from my undergraduate days, I consider myself (again) a student-practitioner of art: I am enrolled in my fourth college art course this year, not knowing exactly where this art instruction will lead me. I cannot say exactly what my plans are, but that is part of the point, I suppose, of relying on the creative process, not the product. My main goal is to become a better artist, a goal that requires a lot of work. In what follows, I will discuss how I approach my drawings in practical terms, and how I understand what happens to me in the process of creating them. I do not use the term “spiritual” in describing my art practice (though I may someday), so I will simply describe what has inspired me so far to create and sustain a daily routine of drawing, and what I imagine my next steps will be as an artist.
Why I Started Drawing (and other background)
It is not by accident that I gravitate toward a particular type of drawing. I am fascinated by the power and potential that simple lines in black ink have to morph into complex designs. I try to express this power in my pattern-heavy designs, which themselves show the lasting impact of my education: years of architectural drawing in high school, a year as a student aiming to complete a major course of study in studio art, and years of studying religion (especially Hinduism and Buddhism). Since October 2016 (a.k.a., Inktober), I have created several ink drawings in three general styles: intricate mandalas (on 11 x 14 Bristol board), free-form pattern drawings (on 9 x 12 Bristol board), and a series of morphogenetic line drawings (on 22 x 30 Bristol board). In each of these series, I attempt to illustrate tensions between complexity and simplicity of line. These tensions also play out in how I imagine drawings while still staring at a blank sheet. I vacillate, for example, between shaping the lines to conform to my preconceived (complex) ideas of what the final product should look like, and just “going with the flow” (simplicity). My hope is that viewers see excellent quality in my work, regardless of how they respond to the content and style of my work.
When I was imagining how to create unique mandalas, I searched for hand-drawn mandalas online. It was far easier to locate computer-generated mandalas, many of which are interesting, but that process and product differs significantly from hand-drawn mandalas. The pieces I found online inspired the design of my first mandala for Inktober, which led to a near-obsessive drive to create a series of mandalas. After completing twenty or so mandalas, I started drawing free-form patterns. This new style led me to produce more than sixty free-form pattern drawings. Then one day, when I could not decide on a new pattern to draw, I simply drew a vertical line on one side of the paper. I kept drawing parallel lines until it turned into what I now know to be a morphogenetic drawing. I did five small practice pieces (on 9 x 12) before working on a larger scale (moving to 22 x 30), which helped me create a more powerful sense of free-flowing line movement. The larger scale drawings also magnified the impact and power of the lines. These drawings became part of an ongoing project (“Power Lines”) that examined the potential for discovery, mystery, surprise, and beauty that emerges through repetition of mundane lines. Viewed up close, I got a certain sense of how the drawing was shaping up, but that feeling often differed radically from the visceral response that occurred when looking at a finished drawing from a distance. I have not left this series behind; rather, I have continued to incorporate new twists—some literal— into the patterns.
After drawing my first mandala, I designed some with a number of “open spaces” for others to color with colored markers or pencils. Zentangles, often nothing more than doodles containing stylized patterns, provided me with some ideas for incorporating wide-ranging patterns into mandalas. Over Labor Day weekend, I had an urge to draw something in pen and ink. The work of two artist-authors has influenced much of how I think about my evolving art-practice: David Gregory and Lynda Barry. Both use art to discover more about the world and themselves, yet in different ways. Gregory started drawing to cope with a family crisis, and Barry is getting students to overcome their fear of drawing. Of course, both of them are doing much more, and their work inspires my own determination to keep drawing. The more work I finish, the more I make connections between my background and why I draw in the ways I do.
I completed Mandala 1 (see cover) on October 1, 2016, the first day of Inktober. Friends responded positively on social media to this drawing, which encouraged me to experiment with different patterns. This first mandala, unlike most of my others, is heavily inked. I created subsequent mandalas, such as “Mandala 2,” keeping in mind that friends said that they would like to color my mandalas if I would create ones with more “open spaces.” “Mandala 3” and “Mandala 16” are intended for others to color. I strayed far from the “open spaces” model in several mandalas, as is especially clear with “Mandala 10.” One reason for the radical shift in style was simple: I had begun feeling as though I was drawing with other people in mind, not necessarily following the designs I would like to explore. I drew five or so of these super-detailed mandalas before experimenting with completely new elements in my designs, as one sees in mandalas 14, 17 and 20. The more significant shift of focus, however, is my move toward what I call “Freeform Pattern” drawings. The sample images represent various styles within the Freeform Patterns; for example, an emphasis on interweaving patterns (“Freeform 1” and “Freeform 2”), mechanical-like images (“Freeform 31”), geometric patterns (“Freeform 25”), and a combination of these tendencies (“Freeform 35”). The last shift was my move to “PowerLines,” the label for my morphogenetic line drawings, which involved drawing on much larger paper (22 x 30). As with the other series, I have a wide variety of these drawings, including a Triptych and Quadriptych. “PowerLines 3,” as the title indicates, was my third large-scale attempt at this type of drawing. With this drawing, I became fascinated by the movement of the lines, and decided to continue exploring this style. “PowerLines 4” remains one of my favorites, not simply because of its visual impact, but also because it took 15 hours to complete. I used a smaller nib, and I intentionally crossed lines rather than trying to leave space between each line. “PowerLines 5” and “PowerLines 7” illustrate variations of style, as noted previously. During Inktober 2017, I posted a new ink drawing to social media daily (Facebook and Instagram). When I was completing a new mandala every few days or so, this process forced me to finish drawings in a much shorter timeframe.
Most of my drawings do take a long time to complete. (Ten to fifteen hours each is common.) I am neither trained as an artist, nor am I a self-taught art professional. I started drawing regularly in October 2016; between February and August 2017, my work appeared in five juried art shows. I am fortunate to have found a balance between my professional life and my art practice. By day, I am an Associate Professor of Religious Studies, and I teach courses in Hindu and Buddhist traditions, Ethnography of Religion, and Religion and Popular Culture. I use lots of comics in the pop culture course, which is a way of bringing together my scholarly and personal interests in art. Now, many years removed from my undergraduate days, I consider myself (again) a student-practitioner of art: I am enrolled in my fourth college art course this year, not knowing exactly where this art instruction will lead me. I cannot say exactly what my plans are, but that is part of the point, I suppose, of relying on the creative process, not the product. My main goal is to become a better artist, a goal that requires a lot of work. In what follows, I will discuss how I approach my drawings in practical terms, and how I understand what happens to me in the process of creating them. I do not use the term “spiritual” in describing my art practice (though I may someday), so I will simply describe what has inspired me so far to create and sustain a daily routine of drawing, and what I imagine my next steps will be as an artist.
Why I Started Drawing (and other background)
It is not by accident that I gravitate toward a particular type of drawing. I am fascinated by the power and potential that simple lines in black ink have to morph into complex designs. I try to express this power in my pattern-heavy designs, which themselves show the lasting impact of my education: years of architectural drawing in high school, a year as a student aiming to complete a major course of study in studio art, and years of studying religion (especially Hinduism and Buddhism). Since October 2016 (a.k.a., Inktober), I have created several ink drawings in three general styles: intricate mandalas (on 11 x 14 Bristol board), free-form pattern drawings (on 9 x 12 Bristol board), and a series of morphogenetic line drawings (on 22 x 30 Bristol board). In each of these series, I attempt to illustrate tensions between complexity and simplicity of line. These tensions also play out in how I imagine drawings while still staring at a blank sheet. I vacillate, for example, between shaping the lines to conform to my preconceived (complex) ideas of what the final product should look like, and just “going with the flow” (simplicity). My hope is that viewers see excellent quality in my work, regardless of how they respond to the content and style of my work.
When I was imagining how to create unique mandalas, I searched for hand-drawn mandalas online. It was far easier to locate computer-generated mandalas, many of which are interesting, but that process and product differs significantly from hand-drawn mandalas. The pieces I found online inspired the design of my first mandala for Inktober, which led to a near-obsessive drive to create a series of mandalas. After completing twenty or so mandalas, I started drawing free-form patterns. This new style led me to produce more than sixty free-form pattern drawings. Then one day, when I could not decide on a new pattern to draw, I simply drew a vertical line on one side of the paper. I kept drawing parallel lines until it turned into what I now know to be a morphogenetic drawing. I did five small practice pieces (on 9 x 12) before working on a larger scale (moving to 22 x 30), which helped me create a more powerful sense of free-flowing line movement. The larger scale drawings also magnified the impact and power of the lines. These drawings became part of an ongoing project (“Power Lines”) that examined the potential for discovery, mystery, surprise, and beauty that emerges through repetition of mundane lines. Viewed up close, I got a certain sense of how the drawing was shaping up, but that feeling often differed radically from the visceral response that occurred when looking at a finished drawing from a distance. I have not left this series behind; rather, I have continued to incorporate new twists—some literal— into the patterns.
After drawing my first mandala, I designed some with a number of “open spaces” for others to color with colored markers or pencils. Zentangles, often nothing more than doodles containing stylized patterns, provided me with some ideas for incorporating wide-ranging patterns into mandalas. Over Labor Day weekend, I had an urge to draw something in pen and ink. The work of two artist-authors has influenced much of how I think about my evolving art-practice: David Gregory and Lynda Barry. Both use art to discover more about the world and themselves, yet in different ways. Gregory started drawing to cope with a family crisis, and Barry is getting students to overcome their fear of drawing. Of course, both of them are doing much more, and their work inspires my own determination to keep drawing. The more work I finish, the more I make connections between my background and why I draw in the ways I do.
I completed Mandala 1 (see cover) on October 1, 2016, the first day of Inktober. Friends responded positively on social media to this drawing, which encouraged me to experiment with different patterns. This first mandala, unlike most of my others, is heavily inked. I created subsequent mandalas, such as “Mandala 2,” keeping in mind that friends said that they would like to color my mandalas if I would create ones with more “open spaces.” “Mandala 3” and “Mandala 16” are intended for others to color. I strayed far from the “open spaces” model in several mandalas, as is especially clear with “Mandala 10.” One reason for the radical shift in style was simple: I had begun feeling as though I was drawing with other people in mind, not necessarily following the designs I would like to explore. I drew five or so of these super-detailed mandalas before experimenting with completely new elements in my designs, as one sees in mandalas 14, 17 and 20. The more significant shift of focus, however, is my move toward what I call “Freeform Pattern” drawings. The sample images represent various styles within the Freeform Patterns; for example, an emphasis on interweaving patterns (“Freeform 1” and “Freeform 2”), mechanical-like images (“Freeform 31”), geometric patterns (“Freeform 25”), and a combination of these tendencies (“Freeform 35”). The last shift was my move to “PowerLines,” the label for my morphogenetic line drawings, which involved drawing on much larger paper (22 x 30). As with the other series, I have a wide variety of these drawings, including a Triptych and Quadriptych. “PowerLines 3,” as the title indicates, was my third large-scale attempt at this type of drawing. With this drawing, I became fascinated by the movement of the lines, and decided to continue exploring this style. “PowerLines 4” remains one of my favorites, not simply because of its visual impact, but also because it took 15 hours to complete. I used a smaller nib, and I intentionally crossed lines rather than trying to leave space between each line. “PowerLines 5” and “PowerLines 7” illustrate variations of style, as noted previously. During Inktober 2017, I posted a new ink drawing to social media daily (Facebook and Instagram). When I was completing a new mandala every few days or so, this process forced me to finish drawings in a much shorter timeframe.
How I Approach the Drawings in Practical (and Spiritual) Terms
The more I draw, the more I learn about myself, but I do not label this process as meditative or spiritual. As noted above, many artists describe making art as a “spiritual” experience. There are many variations and permutations of these descriptions, and I do not want to suggest that my general observation accounts for those differences. Some of them narrate these processes as though they are confronting existential questions, or struggling to make sense of life’s big questions. Small marks become larger patterns, just as small actions make a life meaningful. Their art becomes, then, an outward, tangible expression of deeply personal experiences. In short, many artists invoke the term “spiritual” when characterizing how they delineate making art from, say, mundane, everyday life. To date, though, I have found no such explanation; it is not from not trying. I’ve begun my initial reading about the intersections of art and spirituality, and it’s leading me to more questions, further reading, and fresh perspectives to consider.
Along similar lines, the topic of how Zen and Zen-Art influenced a number of 20th- and 21st-century western artists is of particular interest to me. It is related to the question of how making art practice may be a spiritual experience insofar as it identifies artistic endeavors as extra-ordinary human practices. Whether one labels this as sacred, spiritual, meditative, or religious, each one suggests a depth of experience that transcends mundane reality. In addition to those questions, one could also ask how one decides what Zen-Art is. And even if one develops a decent response, how does one distinguish correlation from causation? I have studied a fair amount of Buddhist traditions. If I then draw an image of the Buddha, does that mean that my encounters with Buddhism caused me to draw the Buddha? Or that the style in which I illustrate the Buddha show the influence of my study of Buddhist traditions? My point is simple: the causes of one’s artistic tendencies are complicated. If I struggle to figure out the causes of my own tendencies, how much more difficult is it to account for the myriad reasons other artists do what they do?
In talking to an art professor about his courses and general approaches to teaching art, he kept emphasizing process over product: “There is no end. There is only process, experiments, learning to respond to what’s in front of you, taking risks, and trusting yourself.” These observations remind me of how I create mandalas. I start by laying out a grid of sorts in pencil by using a compass and protractor, marking 45-degree increments at the innermost circle, and going as small as 5-degrees for detailed elements. With only a single small circle and the grid, I begin drawing the entire mandala in ink—no pencil sketch or plans, just ink. In order to focus on the process, I purposely do not plan the mandala in advance. When I try planning one in advance, I feel too constrained, making the process stressful. In fact, one piece took several weeks to complete: I designed what I thought was a super innovative piece, only to discover that it was not going to work. That is, what I had envisioned did not look at all as I had hoped once I tried a couple of the new techniques in my sketch book. But, I had already laid out the new elements of the drawing (in ink!), so I had to find a way to make it work. This is a reminder to focus on the process rather than the product.
There is another layer to this problem of planning versus process: I liked what I had drawn up to that point so well, that I (again) fell into perfectionism mode, not wanting to “mess up” what was going to be great (and I am laughing as I type!). Finally, one evening, I did what had consistently worked: I just put pen to paper on those new areas and started drawing. There was nothing magical about that, and I am not suggesting that a “just do it” model is what works best; rather, my more creative moments tend to occur when, after laying out a grid or general plan, I put ink to paper and respond to those marks, as opposed to imagining or planning what it will look like. Besides, no matter how much I plan, I always mess up somewhere along the way, either by drawing a line in the wrong place (i.e., messing up a pattern by, well, not following the pattern!), slipping (i.e., going way off line), smudging (which has to be covered up with a new design, since I do not want to correct mistakes with the computer, but that’s another issue). What I learned from this overly planned drawing: innovative ideas ought to be sampled on scratch paper to see whether they are even possible (some are not!), and stop getting caught up in the end product; the product turned out to be a favorite among several people. Finally, my wife said, “This is not a critique of your work, but I will say that the drawings that I like most are the ones you don’t plan. The ones that are planned don’t look as fresh.”
Concluding Remarks
What I learned in drawing mandalas was how to create interesting patterns, the play of dark-light contrasts, and the confidence to create nonrepresentational art for myself, not for others. I have learned other things about my approach to art:
In short, I have (re-)discovered several tendencies in my art.
Most importantly, this past ten months of drawing has had an enormous impact on my daily life (i.e., I draw every day), my future plans (i.e., I am taking more art classes, reading art books, starting a blog, and selling my work online), and present (i.e., I am constantly preoccupied by art-related questions). With regard to my teaching, I am exploring ways to incorporate creative projects into the non-art classroom as integral to how we approach the course content. In terms of personal art practice, one project I have in mind is an entire series—in various styles and media—that focuses on the Buddha, with special emphasis on the Americanization of the Buddha. It will become my interpretation of American Buddhists’ interpretations, with a number of twists.
Over-planning of my artwork limits my risk-taking, which, in turn, leads to fewer happy accidents that may occur if I allow myself to let go of presuppositions of what a piece ought to look like (i.e., as a finished product), and focus, instead, on losing control, being comfortable with ambiguity, and maintaining a beginner’s mind. This practice—or observation—need not be tied to Buddhism, any religion in particular, or even viewed as spiritual practice. Other artists with similar experiences may choose to label them differently than I label my own practice, and I encourage them to do so. Someday I might label my art practice spiritual, but, as with my approach to making art so far, I am trying to focus on the process at the moment, not where any of this process may lead. Perhaps the pleasure I find in making repetitive marks is akin to that of others who repeat prayers or chant as they count beads, meditate, or take slow repetitive steps in a maze. For these activities, it is the process without regard to a tangible result that seems primary. How do I move from the beginner’s mind that is overwhelmed by how little it knows to a beginner’s mind that remains open to the possibilities, opportunities, and excitement of new discoveries? It’s not to become—or return to—a naïve neophyte, but it may also not differ as much as I had previously imagined.
The more I draw, the more I learn about myself, but I do not label this process as meditative or spiritual. As noted above, many artists describe making art as a “spiritual” experience. There are many variations and permutations of these descriptions, and I do not want to suggest that my general observation accounts for those differences. Some of them narrate these processes as though they are confronting existential questions, or struggling to make sense of life’s big questions. Small marks become larger patterns, just as small actions make a life meaningful. Their art becomes, then, an outward, tangible expression of deeply personal experiences. In short, many artists invoke the term “spiritual” when characterizing how they delineate making art from, say, mundane, everyday life. To date, though, I have found no such explanation; it is not from not trying. I’ve begun my initial reading about the intersections of art and spirituality, and it’s leading me to more questions, further reading, and fresh perspectives to consider.
Along similar lines, the topic of how Zen and Zen-Art influenced a number of 20th- and 21st-century western artists is of particular interest to me. It is related to the question of how making art practice may be a spiritual experience insofar as it identifies artistic endeavors as extra-ordinary human practices. Whether one labels this as sacred, spiritual, meditative, or religious, each one suggests a depth of experience that transcends mundane reality. In addition to those questions, one could also ask how one decides what Zen-Art is. And even if one develops a decent response, how does one distinguish correlation from causation? I have studied a fair amount of Buddhist traditions. If I then draw an image of the Buddha, does that mean that my encounters with Buddhism caused me to draw the Buddha? Or that the style in which I illustrate the Buddha show the influence of my study of Buddhist traditions? My point is simple: the causes of one’s artistic tendencies are complicated. If I struggle to figure out the causes of my own tendencies, how much more difficult is it to account for the myriad reasons other artists do what they do?
In talking to an art professor about his courses and general approaches to teaching art, he kept emphasizing process over product: “There is no end. There is only process, experiments, learning to respond to what’s in front of you, taking risks, and trusting yourself.” These observations remind me of how I create mandalas. I start by laying out a grid of sorts in pencil by using a compass and protractor, marking 45-degree increments at the innermost circle, and going as small as 5-degrees for detailed elements. With only a single small circle and the grid, I begin drawing the entire mandala in ink—no pencil sketch or plans, just ink. In order to focus on the process, I purposely do not plan the mandala in advance. When I try planning one in advance, I feel too constrained, making the process stressful. In fact, one piece took several weeks to complete: I designed what I thought was a super innovative piece, only to discover that it was not going to work. That is, what I had envisioned did not look at all as I had hoped once I tried a couple of the new techniques in my sketch book. But, I had already laid out the new elements of the drawing (in ink!), so I had to find a way to make it work. This is a reminder to focus on the process rather than the product.
There is another layer to this problem of planning versus process: I liked what I had drawn up to that point so well, that I (again) fell into perfectionism mode, not wanting to “mess up” what was going to be great (and I am laughing as I type!). Finally, one evening, I did what had consistently worked: I just put pen to paper on those new areas and started drawing. There was nothing magical about that, and I am not suggesting that a “just do it” model is what works best; rather, my more creative moments tend to occur when, after laying out a grid or general plan, I put ink to paper and respond to those marks, as opposed to imagining or planning what it will look like. Besides, no matter how much I plan, I always mess up somewhere along the way, either by drawing a line in the wrong place (i.e., messing up a pattern by, well, not following the pattern!), slipping (i.e., going way off line), smudging (which has to be covered up with a new design, since I do not want to correct mistakes with the computer, but that’s another issue). What I learned from this overly planned drawing: innovative ideas ought to be sampled on scratch paper to see whether they are even possible (some are not!), and stop getting caught up in the end product; the product turned out to be a favorite among several people. Finally, my wife said, “This is not a critique of your work, but I will say that the drawings that I like most are the ones you don’t plan. The ones that are planned don’t look as fresh.”
Concluding Remarks
What I learned in drawing mandalas was how to create interesting patterns, the play of dark-light contrasts, and the confidence to create nonrepresentational art for myself, not for others. I have learned other things about my approach to art:
- Too much planning leads to frustration;
- I am good at tedious, repetitive mark-making;
- I have always been drawn to graphic design;
- Once I have made a number of drawings in a new series, I am ready to move to something new;
- I am always looking to try new techniques and to push myself into new areas without a final product in mind;
- My ideas for art projects often outpace my artistic ability to create them, but I am undeterred;
- I daydream about what it would have been like not to have dropped my major in art;
- My mind wanders while drawing—much as it always has, regardless of what I am doing, only now, many of my dreams revolve around art practice.
In short, I have (re-)discovered several tendencies in my art.
Most importantly, this past ten months of drawing has had an enormous impact on my daily life (i.e., I draw every day), my future plans (i.e., I am taking more art classes, reading art books, starting a blog, and selling my work online), and present (i.e., I am constantly preoccupied by art-related questions). With regard to my teaching, I am exploring ways to incorporate creative projects into the non-art classroom as integral to how we approach the course content. In terms of personal art practice, one project I have in mind is an entire series—in various styles and media—that focuses on the Buddha, with special emphasis on the Americanization of the Buddha. It will become my interpretation of American Buddhists’ interpretations, with a number of twists.
Over-planning of my artwork limits my risk-taking, which, in turn, leads to fewer happy accidents that may occur if I allow myself to let go of presuppositions of what a piece ought to look like (i.e., as a finished product), and focus, instead, on losing control, being comfortable with ambiguity, and maintaining a beginner’s mind. This practice—or observation—need not be tied to Buddhism, any religion in particular, or even viewed as spiritual practice. Other artists with similar experiences may choose to label them differently than I label my own practice, and I encourage them to do so. Someday I might label my art practice spiritual, but, as with my approach to making art so far, I am trying to focus on the process at the moment, not where any of this process may lead. Perhaps the pleasure I find in making repetitive marks is akin to that of others who repeat prayers or chant as they count beads, meditate, or take slow repetitive steps in a maze. For these activities, it is the process without regard to a tangible result that seems primary. How do I move from the beginner’s mind that is overwhelmed by how little it knows to a beginner’s mind that remains open to the possibilities, opportunities, and excitement of new discoveries? It’s not to become—or return to—a naïve neophyte, but it may also not differ as much as I had previously imagined.