Work as Art

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=40 BGCOLOR="#000066" TEXT="#F7F7FF"> <div> <FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#66CCFF" FACE="Arial" >Selected Writing:  Work as a Work of Art</FONT>     | <A HREF="index_home.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Philosophy"><U> H</U></A><A HREF="index_home.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Philosophy"><U>ome</U></A>  |  <A HREF="id19_writings_1.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Writings: Philosophy Psychology"><U> Writings Menu</U></A>  | <A HREF="id17_bio.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Bio"><U> Bio</U></A>  |</div> <bR> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" width=210 BGCOLOR="#000066" TEXT="#F7F7FF"> <div> <B>OTHER ARTICLES</B></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id26_lear.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Selected Writing: On Lear"><U><B><IMG SRC="11815150.gif" border=0 width="21" height="21" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#66CCFF" FACE="Arial" ><I><B><---Language as a Metaphor:  Translation as a Model for Understanding Johathan Lear's Analysis of Freud's    Concepts</B></I></FONT></div> <div> <FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#111111" FACE="Arial" ><A HREF="id27_myth_metaphor.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Selected Writings: Myth"><U><B><IMG SRC="11815150.gif" border=0 width="21" height="21" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A></FONT><B><----</B><I><B>Myths, Metaphors and Mental Worlds:  </B></I></div> <div> <I><B>An Incorporative Model for Describing Ego Dynamics</B></I></div> <div> <FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#111111" FACE="Arial" ><A HREF="id28_karla_faye.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Selected Writing: Karla Faye"><U><B><IMG SRC="11815150.gif" border=0 width="21" height="21" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A></FONT><B><----</B><I><B>Texas' Stone of Stumbling:  On the Occasion of the Texas Execution of </B></I></div> <div> <I><B>Karla Faye Tucker</B></I></div> <div> <I><B>(February, 1998)</B></I><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#66CCFF" FACE="Arial" ><I><B>   </B></I></FONT></div> <div> <FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#111111" FACE="Arial" ><A HREF="id18_writings.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="When A CatAngel"><U><B><IMG SRC="11815150.gif" border=0 width="21" height="21" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A></FONT><B><----</B><I><B>When a Cat Is Really an Angel:  Target Data vs. Imagination in CRV</B></I></div> <div> <A HREF="id80_cassirer.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Selected Writings: Cassirer/Buchanan"><U><B><IMG SRC="0bd18180.gif" border=0 width="24" height="24" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#66CCFF" FACE="Arial" ><I><B>Cassirer, on the Expressive Form of Mythopoeic Thought: A Foundation for Buchanan's Concept of Ambiance </B></I></FONT></div> <div> <FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#111111" FACE="Arial" ><A HREF="id53_they_die_young.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="King Memorial"><U><B><IMG SRC="0be15150.gif" border=0 width="21" height="21" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A></FONT><I><B><----They Die Young:  In Memorium to Dr. </B></I><I><B>Mar</B></I><I><B>tin Luther King</B></I></div> <div> <A HREF="id55_johnny.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Byline: Johnny"><U><B><IMG SRC="0be15150.gif" border=0 width="21" height="21" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#66CCFF" FACE="Arial" ><I><B><----Byline:  Johnny Can't Read</B></I></FONT></div> <div> <FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#111111" FACE="Arial" ><A HREF="id85_disappearing_amer__dream.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Byline: Disappearing American Dream"><U><B><IMG SRC="0bd18180.gif" border=0 width="24" height="24" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></U></A></FONT><B><---</B><I><B>Byline: </B></I><B> </B><I><B>A Disappearing American Dream</B></I></div> </td> <td valign="top" height=440 BGCOLOR="#FFFFFF" TEXT="#080000" bgproperties="fixed" background="09880803.jpg"> <div>  <A NAME="work_as__art"><IMG BORDER="0" SRC="1x1.gif" HEIGHT="1" ALIGN="bottom" WIDTH="1" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" ></A></div> <bR> <div> WORK AS A WORK OF ART:</div> <bR> <div> A PHILOSOPHY OF TIME FOR PERSONAL FULFILLMENT</div> <div> <B>(Luncheon speech presented to State of Virginia Social Services Conference at Virginia Beach, Virginia, October 3, 1989)</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>By</B></div> <bR> <div> <B>Bill Stroud, Ph.D.</B></div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> Isn't it a sobering thought:  that more than one-half of our waking hours are spent on our jobs.  And can you imagine a greater sense of dread than to take that tiny bit of time which fate allots to us--that small span so pitifully sandwiched between one's birth and death--and to fill it doing something you simply despise?  Is there any greater tragedy that getting up in the morning and saying, "Oh, God, I've got to go to work again today!"</div> <bR> <div> As I think about our American culture--the everyday hustle and bustle, everybody perpetually in motion, always in a hurry--it seems to me that we are such busy Americans.  And I think that we are not just hyperactive people.  We have come to hate the sound of silence.  We run from the isolation of solitude. There are times when I find that in every room of my home there is a radio playing or there is a TV on. What is happening to us? Why is it becoming commonplace to be so perpetually stimulated? Sometimes I wonder if we simply don't like our own company, that we are afraid to visit with ourselves, afraid of any inner communion. Maybe the outer noises save us from having to talk to ourselves; and even worse, having to listen.</div> <bR> <div> As pessimistic as he was, I get a chuckle out of old Schopenhauer. Arthur Schopenhauer, the German philosopher who wrote The World as Will and Idea, saw life, as he put it, as "some kind of mistake." Man, to him, was evolution having messed up. And oh, how he hated women. He saw women as symbols of procreation, reminders that from them will be born other lives to bear the burden of the despair which comes with the very fact of having human consciousness.</div> <bR> <div> It may be a apocryphal story, but it is said that one day Shopenhauer was sitting on a park bench leaning forward with one elbow propped up on his knee, his fingernails hooked over the edge of his bottom teeth. He was staring out into space, obviously consumed with existential despair. As the story goes, a policeman walked up to him and said, "Old man, who are you and what are you doing here?" Shopenhauer replied, "Oh, my God. I wish I knew. I wish I knew."</div> <bR> <div> What is it all about, Alphie? And if it's about something rather than nohting, what role does our time play in determining what our life means? And let us be reminded again: most of the waking hours of our lives are spent "from eight to five."</div> <bR> <div> Isn't it ironic that we often laugh at the tragic? I heard of a surgeon who said that in all of his practice, he had never seen a patient in the last minutes of his life look up at him from his deathbed and say, "Oh, Doctor, how I wish I had spent more time on my job."</div> <bR> <div> Beneath this humor, don't we find a sad commentary about the philosophy of work in American culture? Is our time merely occupied? Is that where we get the word "occupation?" Is time something merely spent and passed? Isn't it tragic if we look back and see most of the waking time of our life as if it were a poor investment? Life lived this way truly becomes a "tale told by an idiot." But this type of tragedy is a personal one. We write this play, not Shakespeare.</div> <bR> <div> I wrote an article some years ago about finding meaning in ones work. My opening line was a candid declaration: "Anyone who tells you that he likes to work is either lying, confused or psychotic." My conclusion about the matter?  Confusion.</div> <bR> <div> Simply put it to a test. When someone says that he enjoys work, ask him to carry boulders from one side of the room to the other-and back-and back-and back. Now that would be work, but I don't believe anyone will say that he enjoys doing something like that every day, eight hours a day. What people do mean when they say that they enjoy work is that they enjoy accomplishing something. Time then becomes a medium for shaping activity into meaning. Like art, it takes on some form because one has filled it with personal meaning, and it stands there forever because it becomes ones personal history, an expression of his personal existence in the form of time.</div> <bR> <div> Some years ago while in a workshop which focused on the dynamics of psychotherapy, the training therapist conducted a very interesting exercise. Each of us was to lie o the floor on his back. With eyes closed, we were to pretend that we were in a casket with people passing by looking down at us lying in state. At first, I felt a bit nervous about the entire affair. However, I must say that I was pleasantly surprised at what happened. Lying there reflecting on my past, as if it were now over, I started laughing. I started thinking about some particularly good experiences I had had at certain times and at certain places and with certain people--and some of them are none of your business--and I immediately began to say to myself, "You know, if this is it and it's all over, this has been a trip! If I were to exit today, I can look back and smile and truly say that this has really been a trip!"</div> <bR> <div> God forbid that anyone go through life without some joy in the journey!</div> <bR> <div> In my work, I've had the opportunity to get to know all kinds of people. I've had the privilege of a broad and diverse education. I studied theology. I even got a doctorate in that subject. I moved far afield from that discipline and got a second doctorate with specific attention being given to philosophy (which I taught at the university level for four years). I then moved to a study of psychology and have continued to focus my attention on that subject for the past fifteen years, with special emphasis on the dynamics of psychotherapy. Now that's quite an odyssey. I know that this doesn't make me a Homer, but I'll share with you one of my observations about life and death. I am convinced that people do not become depressed over growing old simply because they're concerned with life after death. That possibly could elicit fear in some people; however, it seldom breeds depression. Many elderly are depressed over the prospects of death, not because they feel that there may be no life after death; they are depressed because they feel there has been no life before death. It is quite pitiful, isn't it, to exit before you've had any parties? If one hasn't had a good trip during life's day, he probably won't see a sunset in its evening.</div> <bR> <div> Somehow I get the distinct feeling that we, as Westerners, seem to hate time. We get bored with it. We spend an extraordinary amount of energy trying to "fill it." We spend time "killing time." (How ironic: to kill time--when it will die a natural death.)</div> <bR> <div> We have no philosophy of time, at least no philosophy of present time. However, Eastern philosophy knows about present time. What I mean by a philosophy of present time can best be illustrated by the response given by Dr. Suzuki, who, when asked by a student about the difference between a Zen person and a typical Westerner, said, "Will, when a Zen person is drinking tea, he is only drinking tea."</div> <bR> <div> Most of us, I'm afraid, when drinking tea or when doing most other things, are, at the same time, reviewing our past, planning our future and probably after drinking it, can't even remember whether its taste was good or not. Our minds seem to spin off everywhere except to the content of the present moment.</div> <bR> <div> Since most of our time is spent on our jobs, any philosophy of time must, to a great degree at least, become a philosophy of work. I'm afraid Western civilization hasn't wrestled with a philosophy of work since Marx. Now don't get your socks in a wad when I mention Karl Marx. Just keep in mind that a clock that doesn't run at all is right twice a day.</div> <bR> <div> Eric Fromm, who wrote that beautiful book, <I>The Art of Loving</I>, also wrote one on Marx. Fromm said that if Marx knew what the Soviets had done with his philosophy, he would turn over in his grave. And that if he knew how American citizens thought of him he would do the same. So there is one thing that all of us capitalists can learn from him: he focused on the meaning which work can give to man's life. Work, according to Marx, should be creative energy expended on time by man for the purpose of turning man's life, through work, into a work of art.</div> <bR> <div> To Marx, work, therefore, was no curse because time was for him like a potter's clay. It was matter upon which one could impose his talent and form something of significance. And, dear God, when we look at the grimaces on the faces of people on their way to work, when we hear Wednesday called "Hump day" and when we hear Friday greeted with "Thank God Its Friday," we know that our American culture needs a philosophy of work.</div> <bR> <div> Marx was clear about what constitutes a terrible philosophy of work. According to him, it was one which sees man as no more than--as he said--"an appendage to a machine." It is that philosophy which generates descriptions of laboring men as "hands." Marx had a heart that focused on the dignity of work as a medium through which a man could become more of who he is by doing more of what he does.</div> <bR> <div> Richard Bach has shown us what it means to be caught up in the sheer joy of work as a work of art. His little book, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, depicts Jonathan, a young seagull, as the exemplification of a life which is determined to find a significant meaning for time. Jonathan was driven by the existential question, "Who am I and what am I doing here?" He strove to find the answer not in philosophical thought but by philosophical action. Jonathan was determined to know just how high and just how fast he could fly. His peers told him to relax, that if he were meant to fly as fast as a falcon, he would have been given wings like a falcon. However, Jonathan said, "Maybe so, but I just have to know how fast I can fly." So he would make his way up to great heights, fold in his wings and take a nose dive. He would sometimes miscalculate and hit the water so fast that, on impact, he would lose some of his feathers. But Jonathan said, "I just have to know. I just have to know." </div> <bR> <div> What managers need to remember is that every person has within him some of that existential drive. We all have that inner need to express who we are by what we do. That's why every manager and every president of corporate America needs to understand that, by golly, some things about a man you just don't have the right to even try to buy. Every man needs to know that there are some things in life that he must never sell. One may buy production, but nobody must be so presumptuous as to think that he can own the privilege of curtailing another's growth. If work is activity alone; if one cannot relate to the finished product of his efforts and see a project as an expression which through time tells him more about himself, then he is more an inmate than an employee.</div> <bR> <div> Years ago, when I had at last put the final touches to my first dissertation, I laid that magnum opus on my dining room table and, as I was later told by a friend, actually started walking around the table looking at it. You must remember, that that was no mere stack of pages. I had spent more than a year on that work. My professors wouldn't even allow a white-out. It had to be just right. Now that was my baby. That stack of pages, actually worth about two dollars as paper goes, was no mere stack of paper to me. It was an expression of my life. It was somewhat like my offspring. To you, however, it might be a boring stack of paper. To me it was an expression of my creativity. To me it was a work or art. You may not be able to relate to a dissertation, but I'm sure you can relate to the following:</div> <bR> <div> I'll never forget when my first born son was a member of the pee-wee football team. When I went to the first game, held one day after school, all the parents stood along the sideline. Now the little cheerleaders, all decked out with their pompoms, had made a double line forming an aisle with a large paper covered hoop standing like a closed door at one end. Keep in mind that I had never seen my son dressed out in a full football uniform--pads and all. In a few minutes, here comes the team! Each young player, about ten years old, in a single file ran onto the field, jumped through the hoop, ran down the path between the little cheerleaders and then passed by the sideline where the parents were standing. And there he was, my son, holding that helmet under his left arm. As he came by where I was standing, he held up the index finger of his right hand, gave it a little shake to greet me.  And I welled up with tears. I wanted to yell out to the world: "That's my boy! Hey, everybody, that's my boy!"</div> <bR> <div> He sat on the bench the entire game. And that doesn't matter. He was still my boy. </div> <bR> <div> And our work, like our offspring does not need to be perfect. It is important, however, that our work, even if imperfect, bear out own names. It simply gives meaning to ones life to be proud of that which is personally yours, to be able to point to your personal time and know that it represents something that is part of you, something that lets you infuse part of your own being into its growth and, in turn, to let you grow. Then, time receives depth as well as extension.</div> <bR> <div> I suspect that we have failed to develop a meaningful philosophy of work because we have been immersed so deeply in a philosophy of history. A philosophy of history is a perspective whereby events aren't seen as merely a string of unrelated happenings. Having a philosophy of history means seeing events as moving meaningfully forward. A  philosophy of history is a very Western phenomenon, a Western phenomenon with a messianic Judeo-Christian bent. In fact, the very birth of the concept of meaning in history came from a perspective which sees time as extended somewhat like linear space along which things develop toward some goal on down the road. Along this time-line, history is moving toward some end, i.e., today is important not in itself but as one more step in preparation for the future. We want to see America as on the move. We will build the great society. We see our nation as if she were a person born to accomplish some eternal purpose. We even idealize her beginnings. We give our nation a virgin birth, and we promise her to be a savior of the world. In fact, a type of messianism has always infected our culture. We are obsessed with our future at the expense of our present. The now of present time is not important. We are impatient. No wonder computers have become our gods. They serve absolutely no purpose for us except to do what we already know how to do. They simply do it faster and save us time. </div> <bR> <div> To most of us,<I> meaning</I> is in tomorrow, and<I> now</I> is like a post-dated check, with real value only in the future. How obsessed we are with retirement! And don't you agree with me that it is a little sad to see certain of the elderly who have toiled and toiled and saved and saved--never taking vacations nor having any fun and now barely able to get around--looking up at each other and saying, "Well, Ma, are we having any fun yet?"</div> <bR> <div> I like the bumper sticker which says "I'm spending my children's inheritance."</div> <bR> <div> It may be correct to state that we have a philosophy of work but not a very good one. Part of the reason we have a bad one is that we are becoming so under-educated. I read in the Wilson Quarterly a few years ago that our present generation is the first generation in the history of our country, the very first time since our New World beginnings, that we have produced a generation in which the children are less educated than their parents. How frightening, and that is not the worst part of it.</div> <bR> <div> I'm not saying that our children aren't successful. They are driving late model cars, and they are busy. Many of them are making more money at twenty than their fathers are at fifty.</div> <bR> <div> We are no slouchy nation. We have been the epitome of an industrialized nation for decades. Mechanics and mechanism are  our trademarks. We produce goods with finesse. We make things happen. I call such a production orientation a philosophy of work because this mechanistic model has spilled over into our definition of what education means in our culture. We are fast becoming a nation of people who are highly trained but poorly educated.</div> <bR> <div> I sometimes insult physicians--unintentionally, I must be quick to say--when I say that many of them are extremely uneducated, yet highly trained. I facetiously call them body mechanics. They know very well the various oils for the body machine. They now even have an after-market of parts for substitution. And I don't mean any disrespect; they are experts in their field. However, like many of our engineers, they have studied little in the area of the humanities. Many of our so-called experts have limited perspectives on history. Few read even one book a year. And note: many of our colleges now teach wine tasting and other such subjects while yearly reducing the requirement in the humanities. The epitome of this trend is also seen in the rapid rise of technical schools and institutions which focus on the very practical in contradistinction to the philosophical. We are indeed a highly trained society, but I'm afraid that we are poorly educated.</div> <bR> <div> This technical mindset often spills over into our philosophy of work and our philosophy of time. If a two-wheeled vehicle won't do the job, we simply go to four-wheel drive. If it won't run fast enough with four cylinders, we make it six or eight. And if eight hours a day of a man's time doesn't satisfy us, what do we do? We offer him a big carrot made of dollars and ask for his evenings and his weekends. Now we are not only buying his time, we are in fact buying his life. If his work has become his life and if he sees all of his time as dedicated to it as his life's work of art, then he stays happy and healthy. Otherwise, we have done something which is akin to prostitution. We have tried to buy something he shouldn't with honor sell. We have tried to separate his production from his life.</div> <bR> <div> I am no idealist who thinks that the job of every person is America industry can be so suited that it becomes the perfect situation for self-fulfillment. Every job, though, should have some meaning, be it ever so humble. Managers need to remember that no one will ever work for them. They, at most, will have someone who will report to them. People work for themselves. The greatest amount of work, the most creative work and the least tiring work, will always be that work which is somewhat akin to art-man making himself as he makes his day.</div> <bR> <div> Every man owns something precious. It is his time. Only his time can serve as matter to be formed into meaning. Every man knows that the real joy of living is not how far you stretch it out, it's really how deep you fill it up.</div> <bR> <div> Let me challenge you to go ahead and travel; move on to new goals; set yourself fantastic destinations; but be very wise and remember: have some joy in the journey.  Joy is never tomorrow.  It is now.  And it is time.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>