Anatomy of Reflection

There is something distinctly disturbing about self-reflection--those of us who seldom take part in it or abstain from it find themselves in the grips of a confidence or bravery, and those who can’t but indulge in it regress into the depths of self-doubt. A sobered mind might dismiss this observation as coincidental, or might refrain altogether from such an inquiry because of inherent difficulties associated with dissecting any criteria for emotional distress, but the question nonetheless presents a profound opportunity for growth that cannot be denied, and it is a question which is only avoided by cause of fear--those with little to hide are more apt to inquire, and those with deep-seeded regrets will be equally averse. In the least, one’s aversion to the subject serves as an indication of their valuation of themselves.

The question of self-reflection must be distinguished from the subject of reflection at large. Reflection in general is posed in light of an other; if the subject of inquiry (ie the person being reflected upon) is a stranger, a neighbour, even a spouse or one’s child, matters of and observations concerning self-reflection, belief, doubt and abstinence all easily come to the forefront of our minds. In these instances it is easy to assume the reasons or contributing factors to the conduct of others, because any and all assumptions can be defended by they who propose them, and any arguments against such claims can be discredited by they who stand accused. But these numerous instances of abstraction are not in the realm of self-reflection; rather, they are solely mediums of discourse concerning others. And whatever opinions one holds are wholly inconsequential instances of guesswork predicated on the intentions, biases, and frames of mind of they who are inquiring.

Self-reflection is distinguished from the rest in that the figure of concern is the self, and the subject of reflection is truth--not truth in an empirical sense, and not truth in light of confirmation, but truth in light of oneself. One is the closest thing to their selves, being privy to the entirety of its beliefs, reasonings, fears, cravings, etc. There is an important distinction to be made between one and its self--the self is the one in being; the banker, mailman, lawyer, wife, gambler; it is the individual who wakes up late for work, who becomes impatient with their child, who prefers to eat their kiwis ripe, or sour. It is, in essence, that iteration of being which communes with life around it, which acts, thinks, believes, and corresponds with others. One, however, is more than its self. One is a grander body of being--the totality of that individual, personified perhaps in the moment, but never outside the light of the whole that it represents. One may, for example, be of the mind of a janitor for a time, but then more closely represent an artist in another. Similarly, an individual may be strongly religious in their youth, then come to atheistic resolutions as they age, or vice versa. That is to say, the self can and does, in any one moment of time, represent one modus of being or of belief, but this cannot be confused with the properties of the one, which is exempt from characterization.

The pain associated with self-reflection grows from the dissimilarities between the one and its self; an individual who transitions from one modus of belief to another is suddenly presented with a seeming paradox--they are at once in disagreement with themselves, and must seek a resolution. The pragmatic solution would be to conclude that one of the two systems of belief (ie that which was believed, and that which is believed) is naive, or otherwise incorrect. What undoubtedly happens is the one will conclude that the current self, that which is present, is altogether more informed than the latter, and thus is the correct frame of mind. This conclusion is inevitable--the human mind is in a perpetual state of self-affirmation; one is entirely unable to consider itself to be incorrect, and revolves suredly around its present system of belief. As such, in the act of self-reflection, should differences arrive, one is altogether forced to be at odds with itself, and must turn on itself in perpetuity. 

The alternative, however, demands more of the thinker, and risks the deterioration of certainty of the minds that entertain it. Given that one most definitely will find cause for disagreement with their selves--long past or recently past--one is presented with an opportunity for understanding its self as a whole; it would be fallacious to assume that a given self is correct, because each disagreement one has with its self is an indication to the contrary. In being of a different belief at different times, the self demonstrates its own limitations, and these limitations can be dissected, reviewed, and assessed. The procedure circumvents the conventional biases of a present instance of self in reflection: one does not therefore need to be in disagreement with a past self, for that past self was correct given its present. An obvious fallacy presents itself here, for one might be provoked into the belief that they cannot be wrong--on the contrary, what should be understood is that they could not but be wrong.

Reflection is not, therefore, an exercise that produces a result other than the diminution of one’s sense of correctness, but that is not to the detriment of the individual partaking in it. The revelation hiding behind the painful veil of reflection lies in the stunning truth that we are blind in a profound way--that the totality of our selves, the one, is altogether absent from experience but as an echo, as a byproduct of reflection, and that the self operates counter to its cause in its efforts of resolving its deficits through belief.

Reflection thus serves not as a means for the one to further understand itself, for at its furthest depths one discovers only the mechanism at fault for our blindness, and the proper totality that is the limitation of our perspective. Here, the question is diverted from concerning the self, to concerning the one: Is clarity for the self not a matter of determining the transcendental property of the one? And with respect to self-reflection, is it not, at its core, the search for the blindness we know we embody, but fear and resent? It comes as no surprise, then, that confidence is endowed upon those who so strongly believe in themselves--perhaps they know better than to inquire further.

Contemplating an End

There is something awful about being confronted with a blank canvas--it watches you, unblinking. You feel an obligation, a pressure to address some demand: that you must imprint, thereupon, to the best of your abilities, the greatest measure of meaning you can manage. And it should have nothing to do with you.

This is the artist’s dilemma: that they are both the authors and the subjects of their works. An artist who essays expression for the sole purpose of demonstration or exhibition is naught but a narcissist. Art demands more than talent--it demands a concession. Nothing is more offensive to the true artist than the suggestion that they either demand or deserve praise; all one searches for in art is a means of expression that facilitates the profoundest of appreciations for the most nuanced of subjects.

Even in a painting bred from memories of trauma or of bliss, or from meditations concerning this abstraction or that, the canvas must represent more than its maker--when painting I must allegorize myself in order to understand my self to be an example of some grander trope. If one paints on the subject of pain from a memory of pain, then the painting should be of pain and not of that memory, for experience is meant to be drawn upon only as a means. The artist must, then, be flexible in their intent--they must be both in direct address of their inspirations and exempt from considering themselves privy to the whole of the making of it. This is most plainly seen in light of authorship; that an author has claim over a narrative concerning happiness is distinct from their having a claim over happiness as a whole. Is happiness not greater than any example of it? And is one’s personal experience of happiness not more profound than its narrativization?

Happiness is an end, and every peripheral not but a means of its address.

There are ends of two kinds: those which exist at the centers of given truths, and those which exist at their absolute peripherals. They are measures of finality, discontinuation, or fulfillment in either spectrum--both totality as well as conclusion. In a sense, ends cannot be cogitated, as, they being totalities, they exclude everything that does not constitute a part of that whole. An individual cannot, then, consider ends proper, but only as abstractions, for they are mutually exclusive from experience, and exist only in light of themselves. 

That a person is an end is wholly paradoxical. While a person knows themselves at present and in light of the past, they do not know themselves in light of the whole of their being. Abstracting this point in terms of the future most obviously underlines the truth of it: How can one wholly know oneself if one has not lived the whole of their lives? How can one lay claim to the knowing of themselves if they know not themselves at fifty years of age? At eighty years? What will their children pass on to their children, and so how specifically will one affect future generations? What of their will will be passed on? Will one’s employment some day lead to revelation? Revolution? One’s future contributions extend endlessly, and cannot be accounted for; again, ends are wholly mutually exclusive. Likewise, the past is entirely absent from consideration--one is never the who that they were, but only who they are. In order for an individual to understand themselves as true ends, they must not only understand their own totality, but the totality of their implicitness in being. The scale is altogether beyond comprehension.

How many canvases will I have the luxury of suffering through? Will they be beautiful? In my studies, I contemplated upon William Hazlitt: at thirty years of age, he could never know the beautiful thoughts he would one day record, or the volumes he would write. Every author has their number, and the question looms--what will my number be?

With every canvas concluded, one reaches closer to their end. It is a selfish right, but one should be allowed a desperate flee from thoughts of their own ends--that totality no doubt confounds and terrifies. This is the Figure Contemplating, who speaks, regardless of its ragged disposition, to the multiplicity in all things--it is, in itself, concluded, and not; a being both itself, and something else; an emblem reminiscent of the fact that, much like how one should not judge a film before the credits roll, or a battle before the last soldier falls, one cannot judge itself before its last breath is taken. That to do so would be naive.

In considering one’s end, one considers one’s blindness--that we are not just what we are, but more.