Perception: not as constant as you might think

Reality cannot be accurately defined by the eyes of man.  This is because what we see and how we process it has infinite variation, dependent upon both characteristics and conditioning.  We’re already aware when walking through an art gallery that some see art and others see a splattered canvas.  What I want to talk about is how perception has more depth than the visual, and can be altered.  It was in reading two books randomly alongside one another, The Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley and The Chosen by Chaim Potok, that I really began to appreciate this fact.

In The Doors of Perception Huxley recounts his experiences in taking mescaline for the first time.  Upon taking it he finds his world completely transformed.  Colours, ‘an intellectual luxury rather than physical necessity’, took upon new vibrancy and became ‘innumerable in difference’; folds in trousers became ‘labyrinths of complexity’; and a chair could be gazed at for hours. This chair, it is claimed, was ‘obviously the same in essence’ to that seen by Van Gogh (embedded after the jump).  In looking at his piece there is a certain… seductive phosphorescence, but Huxley feels that even this, in spite of Van Gogh’s genius, fell short of the extreme reality. 

I’m not now going to begin advocating experimental drugs, so that we may all enhance, or (worse) align, our perception of reality.  The crucial point I would like to draw from Huxley is that perception is not immutable.  Unfortunately his preoccupation with psychedelic sciences and focus upon the visual (understandable as mescaline saps the willpower to engage in anything perceived as less important than a pretty flower pot *i.e. everything*) prevents exploration of a more human, applicable, and emotional transformation, which personally fascinates me. 

It is here that The Chosen by Chaim Porok provided perfect compliment.  The book follows the friendship of two gifted Jewish boys growing up in America.  One has a mind of unfathomable potential, which is denied freedom by a father who refuses to talk of anything but his faith, and by his birth right to become the next tzaddik (Jewish leader).  The other boy has great aptitude for mathematics, but is given freedom, and has an insightful, listening, loving ear for a father.  As time passes and the story backdrop (the reveal of the Holocaust to the American Jewish community and subsequent development of Zionism) escalates character relationships are gradually peeled back and exposed to the reader.  I say backdrop because the true intention of the story is to act as a mirror, providing insight into ourselves and human interaction.

I cannot will myself to say any more of the plot specifics, as I would fall very short of doing the text’s emotional power justice.  What I will say (or echo, as the book was first similarly recommended to me) is that The Chosen is a much underrated classic, which manages to both entertain and educate (it’s a shame more do not care for the latter).  I will also share the questions reading the novel left with me, as example of its ability to educate and encourage thought.  Prior to the book’s climax I thought ‘no one should have to learn through so much pain’, after finishing I wondered ‘is pain the only road towards true compassion?’ 

What I had been given in reading these books was a more refined outlook upon human suffering, empathy and perception.  I wondered if there was almost some frequency/wave length that we can only tune in to with experience?  Perhaps we only make sense of the external, through the internal, and perhaps understanding and empathy are more conditioned than they are innate?  Or, because I love epigrams: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. As much as hell has sought to destroy the mind, it has opened it.

However as cool as that epigram sounds (to me anyway, let me have my moment), something still seemed to be missing in these thoughts. While people might be more appreciative (those in poorer countries smile at the smallest of sentiments and those spoilt feel forever unfulfilled) it would be very wrong to conclude that those that suffer are thus understanding, caring people.

People are selfish, negative creatures, and I am breaking no ground in saying so.  We preoccupy the majority of our thoughts with what others think of us, not with what they are thinking; we are at risk of recalling only semblance of a person's positives, while retaining and revisitng their negatives; we judge others by what they do and ourselves by what we intend to do (paraphrasing Ian Percy); and, to borrow a little Bradbury, we are often more inclined to burn than build.  The reality is that anger, violence, and hate are also equal reaction to the hell of the world.  Why then are some imbued by the fires around them, while others are consumed as fuel? 

I am afraid I do not have definite answer.  All I can offer are my own thoughts on something I do not entirely understand – this is a blog after all, and I am mind splurging/purging.  What I believe is that part of the distinction lies in a person’s ability to reflect, and ‘hear the world crying’ (The Chosen).  Along these lines I also heard an interesting belief from Harold Bloom, the ‘bad-boy’ of the literature world, a few months ago: reading can save the soul.  Anecdotally, one of the most understanding, perceptive people I know has endured a lot in life.  I don’t think it a coincidence that they are also an avid reader, and deep thinker. 

No two people walk down the same dark road, through the forest of life.  I think the power of art is in sharing perception.  This is again somewhat inspired by Huxley, if we take his comments on Van Gogh’s effort to capture the chair (falling just short of reality) to be true.  This also brings, for me, more meaning to Ghandi’s famous phrase “be the change” (disclaimer: I know literally nothing else about Ghandi, or his teachings).  People without experience (art can provide this, if not necessarily with same clarity) are partially sighted.  It is up to those that see to be the change they want to see in the world, or to impart it through mediums like art (rather than vitriol on Facebook). 

I would consider this my definition of a good artist.  They use art to impart, and create resonance (i.e. experience) in the mind.  A good viewer/reader is a person receptive to it; they take time to reflect and thus open their eyes to the world. 

 

Unfortunately we are a very vain and shallow people.  We sooner opt to build ourselves physically than mentally (if we bother at all), because we care more about how we are perceived than how we perceive.  My wider reading is still pretty crap but for those aspiring, like me, to open their eyes I’ll share a little of my own philosophy.  It helps pick me up if ever I’m feeling I haven’t got anywhere. 

It does not matter how much you comprehend in a first reading.  Provided you learn and retain something, no matter how seemingly small and insignificant, you have developed yourself as a person.  These often imperceptible advances are not unlike the shifting of plate tectonics.  At some sudden point, not unlike the build up of strain, accumulated knowledge will reveal itself.  Reading is the moving of mountains.