Thursday, 3 August 2017
“What’s the difference between an actor and a saint?”. I asked this question to my professor of acting when I was a student at the Theatre Academy in Italy, almost two decades ago. He seemed pleased with my thirst to link artistic sensitivity and spiritual call. He paused, then answered: “An actor says what he does; a saint does what he says”.
This sentence haunted me ever since. I analysed it grammatically, logically, metaphysically. The idea that a theatre artist might be seen as a liar, or a cheater, was hidden in those words. The saint is trustworthy, the actor tells stories. It really disturbed me. I wanted to walk a spiritual path through arts, not to become an entertainer. I wanted to inspire, to share wisdom and compassion, not to spread delusions.
Later, thanks to a few lucky encounters and to some experience earned on the field, I came to understand that on stage the actor is not asked to be real. The audience perfectly knows you are playing a role, there is no need to fake. This would mean to be a liar! The actor’s task is to be true.
Of course, truth in acting is a flexible notion, but for me it means: being fully present in my body and mind. The interpretation and the making of meaning is in the hands of the audience. My only task is to let action happen, not to make it happen. By doing so, the actor is no more the one who says what he does. He is the one who does. This revelation was a gate towards a spiritual way of inhabiting the stage.
Throughout almost twenty years, my artistic practice and my spiritual practice grew intertwined. Now I do not see myself anymore just as an actor. My exploration of meditative and artistic practices broadens all the time. When I asked that question to my professor at the Theatre Academy back in 1999, I would never imagine to find myself one day in Finland, conducting an artistic research on meditation.
The concise answer of my old teacher came back to my mind this morning, when I decided to take a picture of myself meditating on the floor. My artist-researcher mind wanted to stage my sitting place differently: I was interested in investigating what kind of spatial relationship between me, the room and the camera will arise after shifting my meditation cushion from the bed to the floor. As a meditator, furthermore, I wanted to understand how this change will affect my meditation.
The technical procedures to make this photo possible triggered a chain of considerations. In order to take the picture, I have to set up a timer to my camera. I might be in need to take several pictures, before finding the best corner and light. I decided I will not be too punctilious, since I am not a photographer, and I actually want to meditate. Yet, I did have to take more than one shot. This meant that I started meditating three times, before I was satisfied with my picture. In the meanwhile, I realized that the floor was not the optimal sitting place for me: my feet were not able to sink softly, and the blood circulation in my legs might not work well. I quit the sitting.
I thought: “If I publish this picture on my blog, I am communicating that today I did actually meditate on the floor; of course I was meditating, but only for the few moments my camera was shooting; if I publish the picture, my audience will believe that I did meditate on the floor who knows for how long: this would be a lie!”. The voice of my professor was echoing in my head: “Are you going to say what you do, or to do what you say?”. Here my creative crisis started.
What was I supposed to do with my picture? Every choice I make for communicating my research should be founded on honesty. As a Vipassanā practitioner, prior to committing to the training in Samādhi – the one-pointed concentration – and prior to cultivating the faculty of Paññā – the wisdom or insight – you have to take care of Sīla. Sīla is the purification of bodily and vocal action. Each spiritual tradition has its list of commandments about what is morally healthy and what is not. And in a post-modern society like ours, where relativity and quantum physics question any sort of absolute value, some of these rules sound absurd if not ridiculous. Yet, when you seriously undertake a spiritual path, you have to cope with the fact that these ‘rules’ are not just moral impositions, but real supports. Without the foundation of Sīla, you might remain stuck in your meditative practice for ages, without actually making any progress in terms of inner joy, freedom, and loving compassion. The fifth Sīla, in Buddhist tradition, is: do not tell lies!
So, I saw three choices in front of me: I do not use the picture and I forget about all my idea; I publish it and I explain that it was just a short rehearsal; I embrace the challenge, and I make the picture become true. I finally gathered my courage, and chose to be a scientist for once. I went for the third option. I went back to sit on the floor, ready to suffer to fulfill my experiment.
And what an embarrassing surprise was to realise that I could do it. In the end, it was not that challenging: I meditated on the floor for one hour and forty-five minutes. Only a small cramp on my left buttock caught my attention at some point. I found a posture for my legs and feet which did not disturb my blood circulation. The floor was a much more grounding experience than the bed. After the meditation I felt so inspired, that I rushed my lunch in order to come back to my room and start writing.
Today I said what I did. It was when I took the picture of myself on the floor, inspired by my visual instinct. Then I did what I said, when I went on meditating in order to make my mental vision become true. Did I behave like a saint on like an actor? I do not know where to locate myself. But I know where I see myself going. I want to be a spiritual artist. And maybe, one day, an artist of the spirit.