Art

The lights dim and the chorus of excited chatter is extinguished.

I nestle into my chair. Rapt. A character strolls on stage and I burst into a wide, excited smile. Before a word is spoken, or a note is played, I’m humming with anticipation.

…

The cast bows and I’m on my feet, smacking my palms together and cheering until I’m hoarse. I feel moved. More, I feel something deep in my chest - a powerful, pulsating energy. 

I feel inspired.

…

It was the second time I’d seen Hamilton. And as I stood waiting for the bus home — gripping cash because my phone was dead — I got thinking. About how I felt all the same sensations last time, too.

Pride, shock, cringe, joy and sadness. The rest. 

I thought about how, across all art, there are very few things that bring me that intense, lingering inspiration. A great musical theatre performance is certainly one of them.

I considered some others:

• The novel I tear open at first light, on the bus, at lunch, and late at night when I should be long asleep
• The movie or show that unrests my thoughts for days or weeks at at time after watching
• The piece of music that inflates my chest with a strange combination of longing and satisfaction

The older I get, the more profoundly I react to brilliant art. 

‘Brilliant art' being absolutely subjective, of course. To me, it means anything that rounds up all those feelings I just described. 

I burst into tears at Les Mis. I mulled for hours after a screening of Green Book. I lost hours in hysterical wonder when I first read the Hitchhiker's books. 

When I first read Cloud Atlas I felt like I could, should and would write a thousand spectacular novels without taking a breath. 

And yet.

For every hour I’ve spent on these cathartic and inspiring experiences, I’ve spent a dozen or more consuming absolute drivel. Knowingly. Choosing dopamine-tickling, stimulation-regressing nonsense on the internet.

Reruns of the same old shows. YouTube rabbit holes. Safe books by the same author instead trying something different.

That rings true across all my favourite formats: books, music, TV, theatre. I imagine I'd adore great films, but I never watch them. 

And in the cold, waiting on the bus with who tells your story ringing in my ears, that realisation hit me.

That first group - the 'brilliant art' - awakens something beautiful inside me. A kind of warm, excited glow. A sense of easy possibility and clear purpose. It makes me want to do and see and be more. 

The second group…leaves me flat. Listless, or anxious. Or at best, unsatisfied. 

So why does it happen? Why do I flee to the safety of group 2 and not the exhilarating, wild pleasure of group one? 

I have two thoughts:

1. Just that: it’s safer

Committing 2 hours to a movie, or punting on a new author…that’s a risk.

I know it's a risk because my brain force feeds me anxiety or stress, and deploys its inexorable magnetic pull towards something known and familiar — like Rick and Morty, season six. Again.

And it's a damn convincing brain I have, too. 

2. Group one requires conscious effort

In other words, it's easier. 

You can’t appreciate something without giving it your full attention.

I can watch season 4 of Archer for the 5th time because I know it’s fun…and I can be on my phone, or exercising, or eating, or shuffling cards at the same time. I don’t have to invest anything in the content. It’s just a vehicle for not being alone with...the other thing I'm doing? 

Because I would never watch that season of Archer without something else going on. Because come on, I've seen it five times. 

If I’m trying a new show, or book, or album, then that’s the thing I’m doing.

Not the TV show and—

Just the TV show.

And there’s every possibility I won’t like it. The new book could suck.

They might have brilliant ideas and lousy execution — looking at you, Sanderson — or fail to resonate with me for a thousand other subjective reasons.

But what I’m learning — and what that lasting feeling of watching Hamilton reminded me — is that there’s nothing like enjoying brilliant art. At least, not as entertainment goes.

So I’m going to try and be a bit more intentional.

Instead of ‘watching some TV while practising cards’ … how about I watch what could be a brilliant and inspiring movie? Just the movie? 

Or the first part of a documentary. Or a hilarious comedy book. Or live shows and play and performances? 

Ray Chen played Edinburgh a few months ago and I didn't notice the poster until after the show. What an exceptional experience that could have been. 

Next time. Hopefully.