Art’s weakness.

Even though I want Bientôt l’été to be fairly accessible, to some extent its interaction is about experiencing art. Or at least similar. At least in my experience.

Regular entertainment affects one quickly and directly. We read, we watch, we hear, we play. We are immediately moved. We get it. Without much effort. Without even paying much attention. Or, in a way, we can’t avoid paying attention. Such entertainment is loud and/or spectacular. It attracts attention. It’s jaw-dropping. It’s awe-some. It’s epic!

This, however, is not my experience with art. At least my best experiences with refined works. It’s perfectly possible to stroll by a painting and not feel a thing. One can read an entire novel and not be moved. The most heavenly music can serve as a sing-along background when doing the dishes. It’s only when we stop and pay attention and allow the work of art to function, give it space in our mind and heart, concentrate, and are silent, that the true deeply felt bordering-on-religious-ecstasy, cosmic-transcendental art effect can take place.

Art does not jump up and grab you by the throat. Even in an humongous piece like Saint Peter’s’ basilica, we can see a never ending stream of people pass by, completely unmoved by the all to obvious splendor of the place. It’s perfectly possible to not feel a thing if you don’t allow yourself to.

As such the experience of beauty feels similar to that of love. But that’s stuff for another post.

The mechanic of closing one’s eyes to interact in Bientôt l’été is almost a direct expression of what experiencing art feels like to me. Or at least of creating the conditions for such an experience. Stillness. Concentration. Attention. Focus. Perhaps a bit of tuning, trying to find the emotional frequency where the signal is at its clearest. Sometimes walking away and then trying again. From another angle. Looking at a painting is almost like closing my eyes. Almost like eating it. I stare at it and I absorb it. I’m no longer looking at the object hanging on the wall, but feeling the presence that my brain is projecting on the inside of my skull. My entire body becomes a sensory organ. Directed inward! The imagination as a form of sensing?