Use a Hammer
Reflections on escaping your story
Welcome to this thirteenth reflection on In Fragments — this week exploring Use a Hammer, a ritual to shatter and burn the images of nine outdated identities:
Why is it bad luck to break a mirror? This superstitious belief may date back to ancient Turkey, where chunks of highly-polished black obsidian (the first man-made mirrors, around 6000 BCE), were thought to provide a glimpse of the soul. Millenia later in ancient Rome, where life was believed to renew itself every seven years, shattering a mirror was said to leave you cursed until the next seven-year cycle began. These ancient beliefs are still with us today, where breaking a mirror is still widely considered to result in seven years of bad luck.
Breaking a mirror is what we call a “taboo” — but what exactly is a taboo? The word “taboo” first entered the English language in 1777 through the diaries of James Cook, who overheard its use while exploring the islands of Tonga. It was translated to him as “consecrated, inviolable, forbidden, unclean or cursed” — which is basically how we use it in our culture today: something dirty and dangerous to be avoided.
However, more recent etymologies trace the word’s origins to the Proto-Polynesian “tabu” (sacred, forbidden), which is similar to the Hawaiian “kapu” (forbidden, sacred, holy, consecrated). Given this new understanding, a taboo is something that is set apart and forbidden precisely because it is sacred and powerful — like the apple on the “Tree of Knowledge” in the mythical Garden of Eden, perhaps the original archetypal taboo.
Instead of avoiding the sacred power of taboo, how can we use it with care and respect to accomplish our goals? Were the ancient Turks somehow correct — do mirrors indeed provide a gateway into the soul?
In this “thirteenth” (itself a taboo) ritual of In Fragments, I build a large wooden easel and place it on the grass outside the barn at High Acres Farm late one night in September. I place nine body-length mirrors, one at a time, on the shelf of the easel, and wearing nine different outfits, I approach each mirror and smash its reflection with my grandfather’s hammer. The nine outfits represent nine distinct identities that defined me over the years — The Baseball Card Collector, The Comic Book Lover, The Porn Concealer, The Deerfield Boy, The Water Polo Star, The Princeton Man, The Young Bachelor, The Ted Speaker, The Empty Vessel. I discard each outfit on the growing heap of broken glass, and later use a butane torch to set the pile alight.
I remember standing in the dewy grass under the stars, my naked body feeling the warmth of the fire and the cool autumn breeze. I remember taking a seat on the cold ground and watching the flames, thinking of all the many experiences wrapped up in those former identities, now tumbling through the sky in a rising cloud of sparks.
Sitting there naked on the grass, I felt that I had crossed over into something unknown, something strange and forbidden — that a new and transgressive energy was suddenly present there on our land, and within me. Perhaps it was the sacred power of taboo, called upon here as an ally in this process of liberation and healing.
Having shattered and burned my former identities, I felt lighter and freer, but also chaotic and off balance, unsure of who I was without them, and who I was becoming. I knew that another step was needed: that the broken pieces were awaiting integration into a new and larger whole (we’ll get to that next week).
This simple and iconic ritual was a way of escaping my story — that form-fitting suit that I never knew how to remove, that narrative costume that defined me for so many years in the eyes of others, which, like mirrors, reflected me back to myself.
Our stories come at a price — they help to make us who we think we are, but also make it hard to realize who we really are. By escaping the golden cage of our stories, we gain the power to create ourselves anew, itself a sacred act.
What old stories, identities, and self-definitions might be holding you back? How can you use the sacred power of taboo to help you break free?
Who are you beyond your story?
— Jonathan
From what I observe, as a woman, it’s not possible. It’s not only social processes and economic structures but also some sort of navigational systems in interpersonal relationships, (even between the most promising people), that keep me and probably a lot of us feeling unseen and unheard. The fulcrum that keeps a healthy balance between all the different roles melting together in the crucible of life is a purpose where your viewpoint can meet with others. Mind you, saying that I don’t disbelieve your experience. I can’t help wondering the endless combinations of top and bottom reflections of roles that combine when no one is watching... which is probably where humour is born. It must be brilliant to feel that relief of nakedness. Then I’m thinking, is there a taboo when you ignore it? Who asks the question? And who is watching? Effectively a mirror offers a fragmented view, if the space around us isn’t ‘talking’, i.e the light and the wind isn’t moving. Isn’t exactly like that the nature of digital? It can mimic the organic but it’s fragmented and possibly recycled by it’s own mechanisms but still it’s not environment.
*[At this pivotal moment of awak- ening to industrialism's effects on humanity and to the theoretical aspects of this transformation of the human condition, Thomas Carlyle (1795–1881) coined the term 'environment' in the Lowlands of Scotland in 1828.]
When something is and isn’t there, like glass or mirrors, movement can
reveal its inner qualities but it’s complex. The space between aesthetic object and artistic practice is in a way positioning a mirror towards other’s projections on your space, while finding cover behind it to move to the rhythm of your own drum. What others see is either their projections mirrored as an aesthetic object, or the patterns of your movement towards creating a new space. The juxtaposition between movement and stillness is that area I think, between multi-dimensional space and that which isn’t changing. The wind is known by it's effect. Fragmentation versus Synthesis. Digital versus Organic. That’s it, i burned my brain...
Incredible. This idea of story telling, renewal and letting it all go on a constant refresh. How often we hold on to images and stories about who and what we are in the moment, a consistency or familiarity that extends the mirror outward and inward. It seems there is a desire to present a consistent image to others, while internally questioning "is this really me"? Truly a fragmented view. Did you experience any deeper meaning from this ritual - of the self?