Summary

A person encounters a profound painting that represents the dualities of life, prompting a deep philosophical reflection on the nature of reality and perception.

Abstract

While walking past a café, the narrator is captivated by a large, hovering painting filled with intricate, moving figures that seem to embody the dichotomies of existence, such as right and wrong, good and evil. As the narrator gazes at the painting, they realize that the figures within it perceive these dualities by looking up or down, a realization that leads to a personal interrogation about their own beliefs. The narrator ultimately concludes that these dualities are a construct of being an integral part of the 'canvas' of life, and that true understanding transcends such dichotomies, aligning with the Buddhist concept of Upekkhā, or equanimity.

Opinions

The narrator initially questions whether they share the painting's portrayal of dichotomous realities.
The painting is personified as impatient, pressuring the narrator for an agreement or disagreement with its depicted dualities.
The narrator comes to understand that perceiving the world in terms of dualities is contingent upon being actively involved in life's 'canvas'.
The narrator reaches a state of equanimity, seeing beyond the dualities, which resonates with the Buddhist principle of Upekkhā.
The narrator implies that to fully embrace and perceive these dualities, one must be 'painted' or 'created' within the context of the world, suggesting that participation in life is necessary for the perception of such contrasts.

The Painting

Canvas of Reality

Bodies, minds and hopes — all painted on the canvas of dichotomy

One fall day in 1968, nearing noon — echoes of the cool autumn morning still lingering in the shadows and in the clear, crisp air despite a warming sun — as I walked past the little café on my left (and as I turned towards it) I saw a very large painting leaning up against the small, red building.

Perhaps not leaning, a closer look revealed that it hovered, rather, in the air between me and the windowed wall (farther from me than from the wall), new and brave and talkative.

Surprised and amazed, I stopped to look. It was very detailed.

And as I studied the canvas, I saw living, moving multitudes: scores of people lingering, dwelling, looking, crowding, doing, pointing — they could have been painted by Hieronymus Bosch (“The Garden of Earthly Delights” comes to mind now that I look back); brilliantly painted, these multitudes, and so alive, so magically moving and alive.

And as I gazed upon this wide, deep, and three-dimensional scene I knew that those on the canvas (perhaps in the canvas is the better preposition), that when they looked up, they saw right and when they looked down they saw wrong; that when they looked up they saw good, and when they looked down they saw evil; that when they looked up they saw God, and when they looked down they saw the Devil; that when they looked up they saw white, and when they looked down they saw black; that when they looked up they saw love, and when they looked down they saw hate; that when they looked up they saw brave, and when they looked down they saw cowardly, and so on, one dichotomy after the other, looking up and looking down, up and down ad infinitum.

Up and down, up and down, this looking multitude.

This I saw, this I knew.

Then they asked me, these lookers up and lookers down, if I agreed. Is this how I saw things as well, how I felt about the world?

I studied the canvas some more, and I took my time because I wasn’t at all sure that I did agree. And as I stood there musing and gazing and musing some more, the painting turned impatient with me. Well, said the multitude, what is it, agree or disagree?

But as I looked some more I found that I could not agree, for no matter how hard I tried, looking up I could see no right, and looking down I saw no wrong, no love and no hate, no braves nor cowards. All I saw was higher up on canvas and lower down on canvas: all I saw was impatient painting awaiting my reply.

Then, before answering the painting, I turned away from the canvas and its multitudes and looked to my right at the long, autumny lawn, stretching for a long, well-tended acre and tenderly leaved here and there by autumn’s golden whisper. And what I saw was that this world, too, the one in the fall sunshine, was but a painting where looking up yielded good and looking down frothed evil. And then I realized that I was no longer part of this canvas either. I realized that you had to be part of the canvas, you had to live, and breathe in the painting, painted, to believe and perceive these many, many, many dualities.

You had to be painted (aka created).

And gazing across the lawn, I saw all as painting, neither up nor down, neither good nor evil — just painting.

The Buddha knew all about this and even had a word for it: Upekkhā.

I never got around to answer the impatient canvas.

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