Zen Artistry in the Modern World
The Road to Zen Artistry:
About this Project: Richard A. Gershon
When I was an undergraduate student at Goddard College, I remember taking a class on eastern philosophy by an instructor named Chin Sei Yu who offered this class on a Monday morning at 7AM. As a Professor in my own right, I’m not sure that
I’ve ever met anyone past or present who had the daring to offer a 7AM class on a Monday morning. And so it was that
about eleven other students and I took this class and it was there that my interest in Japan and eastern philosophy first began. At the time, Goddard was on the vanguard of experimental colleges at that time in keeping with such schools as Antioch, Hampshire College and Reed College. Goddard prided itself on the close working relationship between students and faculty. It followed the Oxford university model of small group tutorials. Best of all, Goddard was an early promoter of foreign studies abroad. Later, in that same semester, Professor Yu convinced me that I should study abroad and in the winter of 1972 I boarded a TWA flight for Tokyo, Japan.
That winter, I was enrolled at Sophia University; a Jesuit school that stood in marked contrast to Goddard. Sophia University was my first exposure to Catholic education. It was a highly structured environment and setting. The Jesuits prided themselves on their intellectual and academic rigor. One of my more memorable classes that winter was a course in comparative religions taught by a Jesuit Priest named Father De LaCampagna. Instead of attending the first week of class, I hopped a tramp steamer in time for the start of the Winter Olympics in Sapporo. Arriving late the next week (and 20 minutes due to subway slowdown), I soon discovered the error of my ways. I entered a classroom where all movement was suspended in time worn leather antiquity. There, sitting before me, were twenty-eight students impeccably dressed in jackets and ties. They hailed from some of the best Catholic universities from around the world. They shifted their attention momentarily from the pew where Father De LaCampagna spoke, to the intruder standing at the doorway. Several looked somewhat astonished at the student from Vermont who wore jeans, headband and a tee shirt that read, 'Are you going to show up to the Mountain with the same old pair of feet you had last year? Sherpa Snowshoes'. There was one empty chair located in the first seat in the first row. Without breaking stride, Father De LaCampagna simply motioned to me to take the unoccupied chair. He was not impressed.
While at Sophia, I also trained in Shotokan karate at the Japan Karate Association's main dojo in Suidobashi. The training emphasized discipline, perseverance, and respect. My instructors were among the best in Japan, several of them former Olympic champions on the national team. Each possessed a distinctive style — one was known for lightning speed, another for power and defense, and still another for an uncanny ability to read an opponent. There was one instructor in particular, Mr. Yano, who as it turned out; had no particular style. His approach was to simply corner you on the dojo floor and beat the daylights out of you. One important rite of passage occurred when the JKA student obtained his brown belt. In recognition for that accomplishment, the student got to spar with Yano for 15 minutes in the full presence of everyone on the dojo floor.
It was something that none of us looked forward to. In preparation, our international group would take our fellow classmate
out for a couple of beers the night before his scheduled bout with Yano. When it became our time, we would each adopt the same losing strategy which was to avoid him as best we could for those 15 minutes. But eventually, Yano would catch up
with the young student initiate and teach him a Shotokan lesson in humility. This JKA class, like all classes, was followed by
a traditional bow, kneeling for a few minutes in silence and then washing the dojo floor with brushes and water. It was very old school to be sure. What we shared in common was a commitment to the discipline, the traditions of the sport, and a willingness to learn from those who had devoted their lives to its practice.
That summer, I hitchhiked throughout much of Japan, traveling across Honshu and Kyushu with a backpack and a journal.
Along the way, I spent several weeks at a small Zen temple outside Kyoto. That experience deepened my interest in Japanese culture, Zen thought, and the relationship between art, simplicity, and everyday living. The journal I kept during those travels eventually became the basis for my honors thesis at Goddard College, a travel narrative entitled Coals and Mist. Drawing inspiration from the work of the seventeenth-century poet Matsuo Bashō, it combined observations, reflections, and haiku poetry from my travels throughout Japan. Professor Yu agreed to serve as my advisor and generously contributed a series
of brush-and-ink illustrations to accompany the manuscript. Beyond his artistic contributions, Professor Yu offered a lesson that stayed with me long after graduation. He often remarked, "To a mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders."
More importantly, he believed that Zen artistry was not something reserved for monasteries, paintings, or formal study.
It was something to be practiced in everyday life. How right he was.
After college, I continued to travel, including a year-long stay in Israel. Upon returning to the United States, I accepted a position teaching English at Rice Memorial High School in Vermont. This was my second go-round with Catholic education. During my interview, the principal, Father Roland Rivard, asked whether I could handle teaching in a Catholic high school.
"Absolutely," I replied.
"Splendid," he said. "Oh and one more thing. Can you teach a new course for us in Media and Communication — and
can you coach the hockey team?"
Without breaking stride, I said ‘yes’ to the first; I needed a job and a polite ‘no’ to the second; he had probably never seen me skate. I’ve often said that what I learned about teaching came from my five years as a high school teacher at Rice. What I
didn’t know at the time was that teaching this course on media and communication would set me off in a professional direction that would later include a Master’s Degree from the University of Vermont and a Ph.D. from Ohio University. If Goddard gave me some early lessons in the principles of Zen Buddhism and Eastern philosophy, it was my time at Ohio University that provided the foundation for my work in media management and telecommunications.
Over the next three decades at Western Michigan University (WMU), my teaching, writing, and research focused on media business strategy and technology innovation. My work took me into classrooms, boardrooms, research laboratories, and several international projects, including a return to Japan as a visiting professor at Nihon University and participation in a major research project with the Sony Corporation. During my time at WMU, I published ten books as well as multiple journal articles and book chapters for various edited works collections. Yet while my professional career was increasingly devoted
to the study of communication, technology, and innovation, the lessons I first encountered in Japan — the appreciation of simplicity, discipline, intentionality, and thoughtful design — remained a quiet but enduring influence. All of this, of course, raises an obvious question: How could someone whose career centered on technology and innovation choose to write about
a subject as subtle and timeless as Zen artistry?
Perhaps the answer lies in embracing paradox. At first glance, the two interests would seem worlds apart. Technology and innovation encourage experimentation, adaptation, and future-oriented thinking. Zen artistry, by contrast, offers reflection, craftsmanship, and intentional living. Together, they suggest that innovation and Zen artistry are not opposing forces, but complementary ways of engaging with the world. The most enduring achievements often combine efficiency with wisdom, creativity with discipline, and progress with purpose. Throughout my years as a professor and writer, I often promised myself that one day I would return to the subject of Zen artistry and the lessons it offers in modern-day life. Retirement finally provided the opportunity. Rather than write another academic book, I chose to create a website that could evolve in real time and invite conversation across a wide range of topics.
In many ways, this website represents the convergence of two lifelong interests. One is rooted in innovation, communication, and the study of how technology shapes society. The other traces back to a Monday morning class at Goddard College, a winter in Japan, a small Zen temple outside Kyoto, and the guidance of teachers who encouraged me to look more carefully at the world around me. The purpose of this site is not to teach Zen Buddhism as a formal religious discipline. Rather, it is
to explore how the values often associated with Zen artistry continue to find expression in everyday life. The presence of Zen artistry can be found in many unexpected places whether one is designing the interior space of a home, developing a new technology, creating a work of art, or simply seeking a more intentional way of living. The principles of simplicity, mindfulness, and thoughtful design continue to resonate across cultures and generations. So, my wife Casey and I invite you to join us in exploring Zen artistry, its rich traditions and enduring influence in the modern world.
Rick & Casey Gershon
New Bern, North Carolina USA