As a philosophy which is in effect a way of life. Zen has offered insights into most aspects of human activity from the martial arts to motorcycle maintenance. Here. Adrian Cairns, formerly associate principal of the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School in Bristol, analyses the ways in which, despite their widely different origins, development, and purposes, the tenets of an Eastern philosophy actually mesh with the principles common to most western styles of acting.
In this century, much effort has been spent by great teachers (1) in a search for a discipline of mind and body which would serve the actor in pursuit of his art and craft. Their analyses and exercises have often come up with findings and procedures closely resembling those of the masters of the ancient philosophy. It is my purpose here to examine a little of this interesting relationship by considering some of the actor's ways and means in relation to a few tenets of Soto Zen. The tenets are drawn from the informal talks of Shunryu Suzuki. (2)
Zen, and Japanese Soto Zen in particular, offers instructions for 'a way of life', a manner of existence, a behaviour, which happens also to adumbrate the requirements for training an actor in the techniques of simulation. Zen, as a philosophy and procedure, may be appropriately used in the 'doing' of anything, from archery and painting to flower-arrangement and motor-cycle maintenance; so it is not surprising that it applies so closely to personal expression in acting. Drama, of course, by a linguistic subtlety known best to Greek scholars, means a thing performed, as when ritual became theatrical art - the dromenon itself (a thing done, or being done, a rite). The actor's raison d'être is to engage in the preparation for, and the performance of, this 'thing' called a play - which in Zen is "life".
A Zen School is something like a rehearsal for life, a way to be taken onto the stage of the world outside. For the monk with a vocation, the rehearsal itself may become the way, the induced 'state of being' permanently repeating the action which is 'non-action', desiring nothing further than the given pattern of self-less existence in a monastery. The actor in his vocation, too, often may prefer the rehearsal process to the actual performance in public. Peter Brook once commented that his famous production of A Midsummer Night's Dream was never more satisfying than on a semi-private occasion when performed especially for some children.
Soto Zen is mainly concerned with 'just sitting', a form of meditation known as zazen. As in acting, zazen entails directing one's attention. The actor commits his train of thought to the business in hand, interpreting his script and simulating the 'life' for which it asks. The object of zazen is simply 'to be'; and simply 'to be' on-stage, in character, with nothing to block or detract from the realisation of that character, is the object of acting.
Acting has in common with meditation the image that it walks a knife-edge between spontaneity and control. The actor's split attention, the means by which he plays being a character at the same time as watching himself do so, is analogous to our own character - our life-role, our subjective consciousness - being watched by that part of our mind, our objective consciousness, which sees it 'on-stage', as it were, in the theatre of the world. The Zen comment on this is that true mind is watching mind. (3)
There is a quality of directness in both the right conduct of life and the right acting of a character on-stage which leaves nothing uncertain or tentative. As the saying goes, right thinking leaves no shadow: (4) that is, it has no accretion of separate notions and irrelevant connections which might confuse its true shape. Both right acting and right living communicate by means of an uncluttered demonstration. They both use only the essential actions and words. Zen calligraphy and painting, in a similar way, prepare for the quintessential stroke, the statement which is already liberated from mind and hand, which already 'exists' in the instant of execution when thought and muscle act together. And so it is with the expert player interpreting his role.
Metaphysical explanations of human nature are not the point. (5) They are not relevant for the actor, who has to think as his character, not about him, while he is playing him. It is for the audience to observe the character in its larger context, if they wish. Indeed, it is for their profit to do so, for they may then recognise the cause of some tragic or unnecessary conflict in the play as coming from some fixed, one-sided idea in the mind and life of the character, which they can then more readily recognise when similar conflicts may be trapping themselves or others in the real world.
Most western acting in our age is behavioural: that is, it is meant to give the illusion of life observed through the keyhole, the 'fourth wall' of the average set, or the mirror-window of television. Actually, of course, there is nothing 'natural' about behavioural acting. It is just as technical in performance as opera or old-fashioned melodrama; which is why amateur behaviourist acting can sometimes be such an agony of false pretension. Yet, for a plant or a stone to be 'natural' is no problem. Why, then, should the human being, the actor, often find it difficult to reproduce the illusion?
The special human quality of self-consciousness would seem to contain the answer; and the resolving of the problem is achieved by taking the consciousness away from the self and placing it (that is, giving attention) somewhere else. In meditation, the attention may be on the breath, or in the hands and other parts of the body, or it may be focused on some object outside the body. In action, it will be given to the muscular business in hand. In everyday life, it may be given to the consideration of others and their problems rather than to one's own welfare.
For the actor, the secret lies in the handing-over of oneself to the character being played. It involves a giving of the self rather than a hiding of the self, it is to be private in public; and sometimes there is such happiness experienced in the process - at least in recollection - that life inside the theatre seems more real than life outside. Likewise, in the 'sitting meditation' there can be more reality experienced than in the most frenetic achievements of an everyday life.
Nature takes her time. To achieve the benefits of meditation, we have to co-operate with nature; we have to take it easy, relax, and give our feelings, our sensitivities, a chance to take root in the essence of our being. That is also what the actor has to try and do in rehearsing his character, and indeed, each time he performs.
In Zen philosophy, a work of art is considered not so much as representing nature as being a work of nature itself. The very technique of Zen art is artlessness, or the 'controlled accident'.(6) This is also the paradoxical difficulty in the art of acting - that the harder you try, the more technical effort expended, very often the worse the result. Most great acting looks so easy, almost effortless. It is, of course, the art which conceals art, like the master water-colourist who lays such few and simple washes to achieve a complex effect.
What is essential is the judgement and experience which can recognise difficulties before they arise and which silently precede the simple act of execution. Real difficulty is when you don't know there is a difficulty.(7) Moreover, 'the secret lies in knowing how to balance form with emptiness and, above all, in knowing when one has said enough'.(8) The precept of Zen for acting technique, as of Zen for archery, is to practice relentlessly without ever 'trying'. After much practice, the action - whatever it is - just happens. The point is the doing rather than the accomplishment, and the joy of encountering the unexpected, the unintended, on the way.
The real secret of the arts is: always be a beginner.(9) This tenet aligns itself with the constant requirement for the actor to play any performance 'as if for the first time'. It is also vital in taking an open-minded approach to well-known classic roles, as if they had just been delivered into the hands of the actor with the ink still wet.
The beginner can trust nothing to expertise alone. He must test all his ways and means, weigh his ideas, take action only with care and singular intent, and try to retain something of that freshness which, in the first encounter with a role, is his alone. Truly original work is always a new departure: a beginning which, although it may not be able to see its own ultimate destination or development, is nevertheless a vital part of the journey.
In the beginning of anything, as with a seed, lie all its future possibilities. We often speak of 'getting off on the wrong foot', of making a bad start; in other words, we miss the rhythm, the timing, the accurate placing of our initial effort. In both life and acting, we are advised to give our attention to the moment, the ever-changing 'now'. It is said to be the secret of happiness; it is also the secret of acting a role successfully - one 'lives it' as one goes along, neither looking back nor too far forward. It is not just living for the moment, it is living in the moment: that is, with one's attention fully conscious of 'now' and not dreaming of the past or future.
One of the main reasons for forgetting lines on-stage is letting the attention wander from the present moment in the play, either to something which may have just happened unexpectedly, or over-anticipating some line or action which is about to come. The best way of remembering lines when you 'dry up' in this way is to stop trying to remember. Very often, the text will return to mind unaided. Attention, albeit like an automatic pilot, has been allowed to take over the present again. The Zen philosopher notes that, in life, giving up trying to do something often achieves something.(10)
Closely related to the foregoing is the way an actor should listen on stage. He has to listen in character (which is not to say that he will not also hear and be conscious of coughs in the audience, a noise in the wings, or a siren outside the theatre). By listening in character, the actor will find himself correctly seated in his performance. This is because a person usually hears statements as a kind of echo of themselves; they are actually listening to their own opinion.(11)
Zen and acting, then, are correlated so closely because, in the final analysis, they are both essentially concerned with the 'thing being done' in its timeless present. Drama and 'theatre' itself, however, are another matter. If, as Aldous Huxley suggested, drama only begins where there is freedom of choice, then there can be no such thing as Zen theatre. "Choosing is absurd because there is no choice." (12) Conflict is only one of life's illusions. There is no side to be taken when all opposites are seen in each other, and by virtue of each other.
Zen's fundamental vision is of harmony and completeness. Zen drama is a contradiction in terms because Zen sees the end in the beginning and the idea of dramatic development has nowhere to start and nowhere to go. It is only in western drama that the dialogos (the creative word) and its use, dialectic, have taken root and developed as a philosophy and a way of life. Without contraries there is no progression.
Since the ancient Greeks, western civilisation has favoured the process of reasoning, of refining arguments and human conflict of ideas to a logical conclusion, rather than trusting a direct apprehension. Aristotle's theatrical principle of anagnorisis - of making clear that which is not clear through a gradual unravelling of truth - is still with us.
Most plays still state a dilemma, develop it like a musician playing variations on a theme, and eventually resolve things to a final chord. Zen, on the other hand, would tend to see the experience directly, as a whole. There would be no travelling, no destination to be sought, no argument to be resolved nor judgement to be made. The only theatre of Zen is all apprehended creation: things are.
Notes and References
- For example: Stanislavski, Meyerhold, Brecht, Michael Chekhov, Saint-Denis, Grotowski, and Peter Brook.
- Shunryu Suzuki, Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind: Informal Talks on Zen Meditation and Practice. New York and Tokyo: Weatherhill. 1970
- op. cit., p. 134.
- op. cit., p. 62.
- op. cit.. p. 56.
- Alan W. Watts, The Way of Zen. Harmondsworth: Penguin. 1972. p. 193.
- Suzuki. op. cit., p. 61.
- Watts, op. cit., p. 198.
- Suzuki, op. cit., p. 22.
- Suzuki. op. cit., p. 47.
- Suzuki, op. cit., p. 87.
- Watts, op. cit.. p. 137.
