On Cicadas

A letter on beauty, the aesthetic experience.

S.R.

There I stood, in a farmhouse in Connecticut, and though my eyes were open, and I was alert, my gaze would narrow, and I would find myself at a distance from myself; over the course of the performance, I would chafe, swoon, wring my hands, step outside, look in through an adjacent window, go back inside, resume standing in the standing-room, survey the crowd, the set, the lights. I would close my eyes and dream while awake, no longer in that room, but somewhere far away outside of myself, or somewhere deep within myself.

I had already seen several performances of this musical in the course of a few months; I continued to become increasingly rapt by the narrative, by the performers, by my own involvement as a spectator, as someone tangential to the production.

I remarked that I could have seen it everyday for the rest of my life, persisting somewhere along the continuum of sleep and wakefulness, in a kind of aweful and pleasant contemplation.

At intermission, I remarked of the feeling that I longed to be a cicada, as the passage from Plato’s Phaedrus had come to mind:

“It is said that they [cicadas], were once a race of men, before the advent of the Muses, and when the Muses came into being, and song appeared, some of these men were so enrapt by song that they did nothing other than sing, forgetting the need for food or drink, until they died. From these men we get cicadas, who have this gift from the Muses: that they need no susteinance, but sing, continually, without food and drink until they meet their end, and then, go off to the Muses and report to each who honors them.”

Phaedrus 259b5-259c6 (my translation)

I often feel some variation of this experience–whether watching a performance, or listening to a piece, or reading something particularly beautiful.

it is the feeling that undergirds much of my artistic life: it isn’t one of loss or consumption, but rather a kind of longing to be at rest in something, outside of everything.

I was reminded, recently, of something that I said to a close friend–he had showed me a polaroid, and I rambled:

“..that feeling for me is akin to the significance that this polaroid holds, similar to what cherry blossoms, pomegranate flowers, and the months of August and September in Portugal signify for you. For me, there’s a delicious and complex poignancy associated with it. This is the feeling I chase in my poetry, philosophy, and explorations of Plato, as well as in midnight trysts, late-night conversations, moments among particular poets…

I’m drawn to a class of feelings that are almost the opposite of the widely discussed “flow” state in positive psychology. These are the moments that make you step out of yourself—not in a state of joyful ecstasy, but in a way that makes you savor and reflect. They puzzle you with their simplicity and complexity, presenting an ineffable quality that is both captivating and elusive. This simplicity amidst their multifaceted nature is what makes these feelings so compelling.

In brief summation, I’m chasing a particular class of feeling that phenomenologically makes me step out of myself, much like stepping out of a shower. It’s a moment where I pause and think, almost wanting to say to the clock on the wall, “Would you stop a minute? I have something to savor here.” Everything slows down, the world as it happens comes to a standstill, and I no longer feel as if I’m asleep. There’s something quite thrilling in a very mundane way. It’s not the sublime, but rather something interesting and fascinating, characterized by its ordinariness. This feeling, though not extraordinary, captivates me in a very simple yet profound sense.”

“That feeling,” is a kind of ekstasis. Something rings in my ears. I view myself in the third person. I step outside of myself. I am not quite wbsorbed by the moment, but, for a moment, exist outside of it. My thoughts, for a moment, exist somewhere between the “I” that thinks them, and the “What” of which they are thought. In some sense I am more fully myself when outside of myself in this sense.

And so, since we are theorizing–what shall we call it?

Perhaps “the aesthetic experience” will do, before we find a more appropriate name for it. Or perhaps it is a species of the aesthetic experience.

in any case, at this moment,

“Words fall through me.. And I’m painted black.”

Farewell.

Sincerely,

George