Editing

My Dinner with Andre Royo, Part II: “Beginner’s Mind”

Read part I first

At the start of a project I’m usually fresh and energetic, and approach the edit as if it were a blank slate. I’m eager to look carefully at all the footage, objective in my assessment of its strengths and weaknesses, open to ideas and connections as they arise, and excited to think about possible themes and storylines. Beyond that, there’s the simple joy of discovering a whole new world I don’t usually know much about, and finding, in the mass of material that passes before my eyes, images which can be beautiful and poetic, meaningful and thought-provoking, when juxtaposed with one another in creative and interesting ways.

“At the start of a project I’m usually fresh and energetic, and approach the edit as if it were a blank slate. I’m eager to look carefully at all the footage, objective in my assessment of its strengths and weaknesses, open to ideas and connections as they arise, and excited to think about possible themes and storylines. Beyond that, there’s the simple joy of discovering a whole new world I don’t usually know much about, and finding, in the mass of material that passes before my eyes, images which can be beautiful and poetic, meaningful and thought-provoking, when juxtaposed with one another in creative and interesting ways.”

However, when I began editing My Dinner with Andre Royo in May 2007, I was thoroughly burned out. Having spent the previous four and half months on the now defunct Be Seen & Be Heard, I had looked at the footage of Andre’s interview so much that I was unable to see it with fresh eyes. Although I felt intuitively that something could be made out of it, my mind was conditioned to seeing it as part of Be Seen & Be Heard, with all of the themes, hopes and ambitions which accompanied that film. Every time I sat down at the computer and looked at the footage, I felt like running away: Nothing looked interesting, everything seemed stale and lifeless, every word Andre uttered I already knew verbatim. I found it hard to watch, to make cuts, to distinguish between what could be good thematically and what was not. I would begin to assemble something, only to scrap it and then start over. I felt like the stereotypical writer struck with writer’s block, the one in the movies who types a line, rips out the piece of paper from the typewriter, crumples it up, throws it way and then begins again, and again, and again. Additionally, I felt the pressures I always feel when starting a new project: a desire to do something great, or at least good, something worthy of my abilities as a an editor, a filmmaker, an artist; something that will make my collaborators happy and audiences respond in a positive way to the story and characters. Overcome with all of this anxiety, and sensing that I was quickly descending into a creative morass, I decided to take some much needed time off. I needed to reflect on the project and, if possible, find the inspiration to begin anew.

A week later, after taking walks in the park to clear my head and watching a number of movies to forget that I had to make one myself, I found inspiration still sorely lacking. Quickly exhausting a variety of avenues for insight, I decided randomly to turn to my bookshelves to see if something might catch my eye. As I glanced at the titles, one suddenly jumped out: Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind: Informal Talks on Zen Meditation and Practice by Shunryu Suzuki. I had never read this book but the way it came to be a part of my library was itself an interesting story. Many years ago, during an in-between stage in my life (before I moved to New York City to be a film editor and filmmaker), I worked at a cafe. One evening, when cleaning up, I was about to throw some things away when I noticed a book in the trash can. Pulling it out, I discovered Zen Mind, Beginners Mind. The book was well-worn, with bent corners, creases and a tearing spine, but not soiled or damaged to the point of being rendered unreadable. It looked as if it had already lived one life, and its worn state gave it character in much the same way that leather acquires after years of use. Perhaps someone interested in Zen practice decided it wasn’t worth the effort after all, or maybe after years of practicing that person had given up the way and made a clean break by throwing the book in the trash. Maybe it was associated with a romantic relationship that had turned sour and now had to be expunged just like the former lover. Regardless of why it was discarded, I felt compelled to keep the book; filled with potentially enlightening material, I couldn’t possibly let it go to the landfill. So I kept it but for some reason never got around to reading it. Years later, when I brought a number of books with me to New York from California, it was among them. Now I was staring at it in my hands.

I began reading and the prologue alone shattered my whole approach to the project, and to editing and creativity:

People say that practicing Zen is difficult, but there is a misunderstanding as to why. It is not difficult because it is hard to sit in the cross-legged position, or to attain enlightenment. It is difficult because it is hard to keep our mind pure and our practice pure in its fundamental sense…

In Japan we have the phrase shoshin, which means “beginner’s mind.” The goal of practice is always to keep our beginner’s mind. Suppose you recite the Prajna Paramita Sutra only once. It might be a very good recitation. But what would happen to you if you recited it twice, three times, four times or more? You might easily lose your original attitude towards it. The same thing will happen in your other Zen practices. For a while you will keep your beginner’s mind, but if you continue to practice one, two, three years or more, although you may improve some, you are liable to lose the limitless meaning of original mind.

For Zen students the most important thing is not to be dualistic. Our “original mind” includes everything within itself. It is always rich and sufficient within itself. You should not lose your self-sufficient state of of mind. This does not mean a closed mind, but actually an empty mind and a ready mind. If your mind is empty, it is always ready for anything; it is open to everything. In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities; in the expert’s mind there are few…

“For Zen students the most important thing is not to be dualistic. Our “original mind” includes everything within itself. It is always rich and sufficient within itself. You should not lose your self-sufficient state of of mind. This does not mean a closed mind, but actually an empty mind and a ready mind. If your mind is empty, it is always ready for anything; it is open to everything. In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities; in the expert’s mind there are few…”

In the beginner’s mind there is no thought, “I have attained something.” All self-centered thoughts limit our vast mind. When we have no thought of achievement, no thought of self, we are true beginners. Then we can really learn something. The beginner’s mind is the mind of compassion. When our mind is compassionate, it is boundless…

So the most difficult thing is always to keep your beginner’s mind. There is no need to have a deep understanding of Zen. Even though you read much Zen literature, you must read each sentence with a fresh mind. 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…(p. 21-22).

I realized immediately that I had lost my “beginner’s mind.” I had looked at the footage so much and taken so many passes at it that my original attitude, my freshness and objectivity were completely gone. I was carrying the baggage of Be Seen & Be Heard, and burdening myself further with my own expectations and desires–the desire to make something great, something meaningful, to “attain something.” In the process, I was losing myself in the quagmire of my own discrimination, imposing limits on myself without realizing it. Having lived with the footage for so long, I had unwittingly become the “expert” who sees few possibilities. If I was to continue, I needed to become a beginner again, to have an empty mind that is ready for anything and open to everything.

I decided to remove any expectations I had and to see if my mind could again be a blank slate. If I had no experience editing, no history with this project, if I was seeing this footage for the very first time with no particular goal or outcome in mind, how would I approach it?

I would start…at the very beginning.

Next: Part III: From Nothing to Something

© 2008 TIMECODE.