What I feel when an a, e happens,as the creator, is a little of what
both
of you are mentioning.
Not being loved,but falling in love, a "shiver" as william said and
"pride".
The biggest surprise for me is, how did it happen or how did I get here?
mando
On Mar 1, 2010, at 2:31 PM, [email protected] wrote:
William writes:
" See my post re love."
Here's that post:
"I'm taking a shot at answering Cheerskep's quest for what happens
in the
aesthetic experience.
"It is the feeling of being loved, throughly understood, accepted, and
admired. The "oceanic feeling"? In this way the work of art is
like a magic
mirror, an objectified consciousness, momentarily surpassing, or
forgiving,
our flaws. I'm suggesting that the aesthetic experience is always
the
private, even secretive feeling of being loved even when,
paradoxically , the
art work reflects our own sense of projected resistance or
unworthiness."
When I read this, I wasn't sure if you were characterizing the a.e.
of the
contemplator or of the creator.
In either case, it's impossible for me reasonably to deny that you
feel
that way.
If indeed that is the way you feel as a contemplator, your
experience is so
unlike mine it adds yet more mystery to a.e. As I cycle through my
mind now
the varieties of a.e.'s I've had, I have to report that I can
recall none
that gave me or reminded me of the feeling of being loved. Indeed,
it's
possible that part of the experience as I "shivered" at, say, a
great tragic
ending, was a sense of the moment's indifference to me. As the hero
died, I was
like an unseen urchin witnessing the death of the great man.
When
I think about, it seems to me that effective "sad" works in
general -- on
stage, in music, in poetry - leave me somewhat with a comparable
feeling of
being an unnoticed member of the swelling rain, accidentally
privileged
perhaps, but of no concern or interest to the eminent principals at
the center
of the tragic event.
As a creator, I've had moments when, as I observed what I'd just
written
down, I was convinced I had nailed it. (Recall: I consider every so-
called
"work of art" to be an aggregate of many "works".) The faulty but
suggestive
image that just came to my mind was that of an artisan who
painstakingly
constructs a birdbath on his grounds and then takes a kind of
personal credit for
the pretty creature that has just glided down to it. When le mot
feels to
me juste enough, I get a minor a.e. cum fleeting glee - "Look what
I just
did!" - but, again, as I search the feeling, I can't say it is, for
me, one
of being loved.
I find the sensation that is often called "pride" to be
interesting. I've
numerous times taken "pride" in a moment that I played no part in
creating.
As I sit here groping for glimpses into the nature of a.e., it
occurs to me
that the sensation of pride is a not-too-distant cousin of aesthetic
experience.
