Your Aesthetic Origin Story
Art that defines you before you can define yourself
I can still picture the room where I listened to the song on a friend’s phonograph the first time. And also the second and third time. An enclosed sunroom, of some kind. I sat on the floor. The words and melody, together, pierced my pre-adolescent soul. Strange emotional combinations arose in me: Melancholic, yet satisfied. Sad, yet transported. Wistful—when surely I had no idea what that meant.
This is my first memory of a purely aesthetic experience.
The real world—the physical world—was irrelevant while the song played. My inner life was teeming. I could not possibly have put words to any of the feelings I experienced at the time. I was pure feeling.
Over half a century later, I intentionally play this song again. I had not heard it in decades, and so I heard it fresh, as if for the first time—yet not quite. For just as you cannot step into the same place in a stream twice, life had altered my perceptions. Layered them, I should say.
I heard quite clearly why I had fallen in love with this song as a girl of 11 or 12. I was relieved to experience the exact same combination of sadness and solace, especially when the simple verse—a sequence of four descending notes—sounded yet again.
But time had wrought changes, too. I noticed how simply the song was constructed and how much it was pinned to its time—the simple pop of the late ‘60s. And the singers’ voices gave them away: They were so young! Young enough to be my children now, which took me away from the music and lyrics as I reflected on how their lives had turned out, for I knew all about that.
I still love the song, but not with unselfconscious abandon or unbridled passion.
I love it now because I loved it then. I love it because it still holds up as a simple piece of satisfying music. I love it in combination with all the other pieces of music and art that have moved me and continue to move me, every time I listen or view them.
Your first aesthetic experience can be triggered by all sorts of things. Perhaps horseback riding just as much as listening to music. Or smushing paint onto a canvas with your fingers.
The point is, there’s something about your aesthetic origin event that defines you even before you have the tools to define yourself.
There’s a resonance that you cannot predict or explain: a harmonic match, of sorts, between the source material and the innermost you.
I connected with a slightly minor-key melody that matched my naturally melancholy temperament. I’ve always lived with an undercurrent of sadness and now I can understand why music in a minor key would feel, well, right to me.
For me, music has always expressed complex feelings I could not, or dared not, speak out loud. An aesthetic experience will do that: Speak for you, speak up for you, even.
I have to believe that every single day, no matter what else is going on (or going wrong) in the world at large, a young person is undergoing their first memorable aesthetic experience.
That notion gives me hope for the future of our species.
And now: I sincerely want to learn about your first aesthetic experience—the first time a work of art made you feel something so deeply, you can still remember that feeling. Please share in a comment or through Notes!
Oh, and by the way: The song in question? Shades of Gray written by Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil, and performed by The Monkeys.
IT’S JUST ABOUT HERE!
WRANGLING THE DOUBT MONSTER: FIGHTING FEARS, FINDING INSPIRATION
“Wrangling the Doubt Monster is a transformative guide for creatives and leaders navigating the highs and lows of their journeys…If you're ready to push boundaries and chart your own path, Wrangling the Doubt Monster will help you harness your inner doubts and unleash your creative potential.” —Govindh Jayaraman, Founder of Paper Napkin Wisdom, and Coach of Leaders and Organizations
How do I not know this Monkees song? I was a huge fan. I still have my Davy Jones Love beads in an old jewelry box.
My aesthetic origin story would be about story. My dad used to read me Dr Seuss books—all the Hopping on Pop, the One Fish and Two Fish, and Cat in the Hat. We had a subscription for a new book every month from the Dr Seuss library, but they weren't all penned by Seuss. One month it wasn't cartoonish rhyme-filled word play, it was a book titled Little Black, a Pony.
It was the story of a young boy and his loyal friend and pony, Little Black. The boy loved little black but wanted so much to ride the big horse, Big Red. He snuck out one night on Big Red, and the little pony was sad to see the boy ride off into the night without him. I think there was a winter storm as well for extra tension. Little Black follows the pair. At some point, the boy and Big Red end up on a lake, and the boy falls off the horse and through the ice. The big horse can't help because he is too big and heavy. Little Black is able to go low and slow out on the ice and pull the boy to safety. It ends with the boy and pony being best friends again.
I vividly remember feeling so sad for the pony when he was left behind. And so scared when the boy fell through the ice, and so happy that not only was the boy saved but he realized what a great friend he had in Little Black and all was right with the world. I used to take this book off the shelf and pretend I was reading it, remembering the drama along with the pictures. I was about four years old, and aside from Seuss, my only other knowledge of stories was fairy tales. This book was story grounded in a world that looked like mine. Unconsciously, I think it was when I realized that books weren't just silly or fantastical, they could make you feel things. I was forever hooked on stories about everyday people dealing with complicated feelings and situations.
Sorry for the long reply, but you asked!