“The artist . . . believes in progress and evolution. His faith is that humankind is advancing, however haltingly and imperfectly, toward a better world. The fundamentalist entertains no such notion. In his view, humanity has fallen from a higher state. The truth is not out there, awaiting revelation. It has already been revealed.
Fundamentalism and art are mutually exclusive. There is no such thing as fundamentalist art. The fundamentalist reserves his greatest creativity for the fashioning of Satan, the image of his foe, in opposition to which he defines and gives meaning to his own life.” (Steven Pressfield, The War of Art)
Steven Pressfield wrote these lines for aspiring artists - painters, poets, musicians. But his observation applies to horsemanship just as much. I’ve met plenty of fundamentalists. They are easy to recognize. They worship the great masters of centuries past, or their chosen guru of today’s clinic scene, unconditionally. Horsemanship has, according to them, fallen from a higher state of perfection, practiced in a mythical past, for example in European riding schools or by California vaqueros. Fundamentalists condemn most modern practices as non-classical, or downright abusive. They also spend a disproportionate amount of time criticizing and vilifying competitive riders, recreational riders, or any student of a tradition of horsemanship that’s not their own.
I’ve also met a few artists in the horse world. Like fundamentalists, they are dedicated to the pursuit of horsemanship, devoted even. But they rarely condemn and criticize. Instead, they show up and work with their horses, every day. They take lessons from teachers they respect, but they don’t worship their teachers. They read books and watch videos, but they know the information they find there is not gospel truth. They know they, ultimately, will carve their own path to good horsemanship. They know horsemanship will always resist dogma - because horses are individuals, because riders are individuals, because the act of communication that takes place between them is a living, evolving, adaptable, ever-changing thing, not a commandment carved in stone, not a mathematical formula. The truth of good horsemanship is not a fading picture of perfection from days past, to be imitated as best we can. It’s a multi-faceted truth, both the same since the days of Xenophon and ever-changing, from horse to horse, from rider to rider, from ride to ride. It reveals itself, one glimpse at a time, if we’re patient enough, if we hone our craft enough, if we listen well enough to our horses, if we keep showing up at the barn every day, undeterred by how slow our progress is. Artist-horsemen don’t feel threatened by riders from other traditions, or with other approaches to training. They may disagree, but they also feel curious. They look for common ground. They are slow to criticize mistakes in others because they know they make lots of mistakes themselves. And they can laugh about those mistakes.
Fundamentalists are, of course, made, not born. Fundamentalism grows well in hierarchical environments. Condemnation, shaming, harsh judgment, and various degrees of ostracism are potent fertilizers. What would happen if we stopped using that fertilizer? What would happen if we looked at horsemanship as a creative pursuit, a building of communication and partnership over time, with room for a range of artistic expressions, not a quest for perfection? I hazard a guess: the horses would be happier.
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