How do I reconcile,
A spirit so free with the
World that demands otherwise.
So, then, there’s a life, that
shines bright in the day, and
In the evening, just
Like sunlight melting into the darkness of sea,
I see, very well,
What this honest world never bothers
To show, I
Sing, all the melodies I belt, for
Their souls are to nice to
Hear me scream.
So, then, there’s a life, that
Stretches too hard to reach its
Own shoulders to
Maybe, there’s a way for one
To curl up into one’s
Own arms, wrap oneself around
One’s own warmth,
Maybe, there’s a way for one to
Live off oneself, to
Feed upon one’s own flesh, to
Savour one’s own tears to quench one’s thirst.
It is from a distance,
That I see it clearly, see
In its rightful smallness, stillness
And, then, there’s a life,
Away from this distanced world, away
From the orgies of its desires
I see that life
Straight in the face, I see
This life everyday, this life
Is all mine; it’s
Ugly, lonely; bereaved to the
Dust of the bones,
It’s fearless, and,
It’s never going back.
I almost bit my tongue for reaching at this public discussion at the time when chairs were being folded and conversations became private over tea. A talk on Hindi music ‘then and now’, four well-informed and passionate individuals came together at Oxford Bookstore to create a discourse on what they termed as a ‘transition period’ of lyrics in Hindi cinema. In whatever little time I had, minus the awkward hesitations, I managed to get few words from the two most interesting and diverging viewpoints – Shikha Jhingann and Gautam Chintamani.
Me: As I see this distinction between ‘then’ and ‘now’, I believe it’s because of the difference in motive behind making music; what was meant to be for engagement before, is made for consumption now. What do you think about that?
Shikha: I believe music was always made for consumption. It’s hard to imagine commercial production of music without there being a listener for it.
Me: Let me put this distinction into perspective. By engagement I mean a certain sense of emotional or cognitive relation one develops with the music, while consumption would be a pure non-critical ‘intake’ of music.
Shikha: That maybe true. But I believe that there’s no need of creating such distinction in the first place. I mean, the sort of music that we have today we had it back then as well, and vice versa. Even today, you have musical pieces with meaningful lyrics being incorporated in the movies.
Me: Agreed! But don’t you think discussions such as this one require certain sampling? Maybe a little more attention to what is being ‘popularly’ produced these days.
Shikha: You can do that but I don’t see the need of it. I’m more interested in how music is being used in films rather than what sort of music it is. Earlier, we had musical pieces that existed independent of the main plot of the film and were shown with actors lip-syncing and suddenly breaking into choreographed moves. Now, we see songs getting embedded in the narrative that no longer requires lip syncing and just stoically plays in the background.
Me: What do you gather from this distinction?
Shikha: I think that has led to further alienation between the listener and the song. We no longer relate to the song or remember the lyrics. Songs are just reduced to a background score.
Me: But I think I relate more to songs that are consequential to the narrative and are being played alongside the scene. It creates a more holistic and meaningful relationship with not just the song but also the context; taking it back to my point regarding engagement.
Shikha: Well, some people do relate to the ’embedded’ style of music. But I still feel that the lack of independent space for songs in films affect our connection with not just the lyrics but the song itself.
Just after my conversation with Shikha, I managed to take Gautam out of what seemed like a lighthearted private discussion, and had a brief talk with him that centered around similar questions.
Me: Do you see the distinction as one concerning with ‘engagement’ and ‘consumption’?
Gautam: of course there’s consumption. There’s a process in place that sees music as a product and the listener as a consumer. As attention span of public is getting shorter, producers are making music that can catch the fancy of the listener by the earliest.
Me: So, do you think there’s some sense of ‘research’ involved in deciding as to what sort of music would be suitable for commercial interests? For instance, psychological studies, market research, etc.
Gautam: I don’t think so, no.
Me: Then what is understood as ‘commercially viable’?
Gautam: One that was a major hit last week.
Me: Shikha pointed out to me that there’s no need for classifying music as ‘then’ and ‘now’ for there are all sorts of music present even today. Do you agree with her?
Gautam: No, I don’t. I believe such distinction is important merely because it is happening. There’s a cultural shift in the way we produce music today and people should have a knowledge of it. Such distinction and its consequences cannot be made apparent if it is not recognised and discussed thereof in the first place.
Me: Agreed! But as Shikha pointed out, what is the purpose we are trying to serve by creating such distinction? Is it political, cultural, or anything of value?
Gautam: It may not be political; it may not be of value. But it is definitely significant for critically evaluating the development in musical practices or identifying the best ones of an era. There’s a big change in how Rahman produced music in the late 90s or early 2000s and the way he produces today; same applies to Gulzar and his music. And nothing of it can be understood without sampling and classifying the ‘transition period’.
My talk with Gautam was ended abruptly by the arrival of his cab and unfortunately he had to leave without answering my further questions. However, whatever little that we discussed, one can gather some insight into how we critically evaluate musical practices, both in terms of as they exist and in relation to their development. On the other hand, Shikha shed some light on an interesting way of looking at our engagement with music; something that is often ignored by the viewer of a film. Apart from their diverging views, I managed to find a single concurring theme – and that – is our engagement with music. Out of the many things debated, both Shikha and Gautam want us to engage with music critically and emotionally and reflect upon such engagement at levels of varying degrees.
Indeed, no cruel man is so cruel as he whom he has misused believes; the idea of pain is not the same thing as the suffering of it.
In The Nile Hilton Incident, I see characters exist outside the debate on moral settlement. What I also see, is space, I see Cairo, in both its making and unmaking; in its residue and revival.
A police officer (Faris) who discovers a murder of a pop singer in Cairo’s Nile Hilton Hotel soon finds himself in a position where he has been asked, and later threatened, to not to pursue the same by the social and political elites of the land. In between this equation lies a helpless Sudanese maid (Malik), a daily wage worker at the Hotel who is also the only witness to the incident. The plot is set in the Cairo of 2011, just days before the breaking out of the Arab Spring.
The characters are unapologetically non-dichotomous, so much so, that they are very much living. The very fact that they have survived in such a milieu, and continues to do so, is because of the certain flaws that they both internalise and resist. Noredin (Fariz) is committed to bring down the man who is backed by a system which has corruption and nepotism seeping through its every possible branch. However, at the same time, he demands bribe from the local sellers, and pockets confiscated money. Salwa (Malik) is aware, to some extent, of the gravity of what she has witnessed, but still proposes to enter into a financial compromise to stay quite; perhaps forced by her unprivileged socio-economic status. Even in the most insignificant of characters, we see the same characterization being reflected.
The plot seems to be resting on an unsettled bedrock; of many upheavals happened, and waiting to happen. There also exist turning points; moments that changed the pattern of how characters went on to exist and function. ‘Dignity cannot be bought, son’, as said Noredin’s father while aimlessly glaring at the television screen.
The political revolution of Cairo runs parallel to that of Noredin’s; having a synonymous evolution. What started as a mere sub-narrative, the revolution grows into a climax and finally ends with the only thing left standing. The two narratives, of the revolution and of Noredin, are unaware of each other until they both find each other engulfed in the agony directed against a common enemy. The development of this relation is slow yet apparent and cathartic.
And amidst all this, there is Salwa. Just like the plight of Sudanese refugees in Egypt, she lives in silence and denial until she decides to remain silent no more. She is made aware of both the triviality of her life and the significance of her death. She continues to live under the bridge, both literally and figuratively, until she decides to finally surface and speak up. After an illegal arrest, attempted deportation and an attempted murder, all directed against her, we see her running hysterically in an open field. Noredin asks her to go away and set herself free, but just like the plight of her community and her gender, we see an inconclusive end to her story; or maybe, just the continuation of how it ever was.
The Nile Hilton Incident is a story of both the people and the land; told in isolation but very much shared and lived together. The multi-layering of these elements sets up chaos and uncertainty that gives meaning to life that existed during the Arab Spring; both of the land and the people. As the main character fails and collapses, there is victory of some virtue within; a virtue that also marked and led the revolution to finally bring down the system in the days to come.
It is striking here that the places people live in are like the presences of diverse absences
– Michel de Certeau
What is it to see the city stripped off its subjects; of its people and their perils. How would you ‘look’ at the space when all that is there to see is stillness. A still photograph imbued in a thread of many, unlike a movie, moving in time but not in motion.
As I board my cab for the airport at around 2 am, I become one of such subjects. I look at the city, like the still photographs, passing by but not moving; with every frame, image, capturing a still scene of what may be the city’s identity, or the part thereof. What is this ‘city’ anyway? How and why do I perceive this space to be a ‘city’; that too a city very orderly differentiated and demarcated from the other spaces (maybe, other cities). What is it that propels an understanding within to see this space as a limited and structured display of self which is given to be demarcated from the limited and structured ‘other’; that ‘other’ being either experienced or imagined. Maybe, in that ride to the airport, I take this limited and structured demarcation to be a ‘given’; much like a Gramscian development of an internalised and rationalised hegemonic belief. Or, is it the pure ‘uniqueness’ and the aesthetic of the same, reflected in the stillness of the city-scenes, that lifts my conscience from the profanity of material understanding of meaning to the spiritual escape into the metaphysical.
Either way, I continue to travel; being driven on the route predestined by an app that maps my movement, my journey from the start to the end, and introduces it to me in a faceless display with an alien voice. But, how much could the market and its technology assert control over my journey? What is this ‘journey’ anyway? Is it the mere physical movement within the material space, or does it carry possibility of constructing non-physical movement termed as ‘experience’? If the literature of the past and present (and hopefully future) is anything to go by, the journey is more conversational than didactic. It is the development of oneself through an array of meanings, both constructed and understood. Yes, there is materialism, though not always, involved in what we understand as a ‘journey’. But the meanings that we construct are not always constructed upon or within the space orchestrated by such materialism. And, even if we do, let’s say, my journey is foundational and is well within the voids structured by the materialism; there is no ‘given’ in terms of interpretations I gather off the well-defined material space. Neither, do I, bound myself to the singularity of meaning that the materialism of the space might expect off me. So, dear ‘mobile cab-booking app’, and the hideous display of inhumane manipulation of the space that you create by ‘mapping’ my movement, you can never control my ‘journey’. You might be able to control the fodder that feeds the construction of my meaning, my relationship with the space, but nothing of your volition will ever be able to decipher the understanding I rationalise through this self-driven ‘movement’ called ‘journey’.
To be continued…
Human cells live, but not forever. The blood, and what makes it red, dies, exists, and then comes back to life. There’s a life within a life; a cycle of constant birth and death of the same thing, but in a regenerated form.
Greta Gerwig’s coming of age directorial debut ‘Lady Bird’ is a celebration of the ordinary. Out of many themes, captured and then put in frames of a solipsistic photo album, there’s one that stands out; and oh so bravely and unapologetically. And that is, we change.
What we understand of ‘self’ and every extension of the same is a construction; purely hedonistic. We often face flak for not staying ‘true’ to ‘who we are’, and quite interestingly, it always comes from the outside. It’s like all the voids we try to fill in, eventually we tend to outgrow, but somehow still make ourselves ‘fit’ into the same spaces. It is not natural, no, it can’t be. When the elements that constitute your body and make it ‘live’ each day do not remain constant, how can the idea of it remain constant? There is a movement in the understanding of life and the life itself. It may be retrospective, but it’s always moving forward. There is no linear movement, if that may appear from the word forward, rather, it’s the complete opposite of it.
Saoirse Ronan, in one of the interviews she gave to a talk-show host in LA, mentioned her take on the relatability of Christine’s (Ladybird’s) character in the film. She said it is not the specificity of Christine’s life but the very abstracted idea of it that makes the movie and the character so relatable; even in a very gender-less way. It’s like having to look at oneself through various costumes until finding one that fits perfectly; and then, maybe, changing even that one, again.
From love, music, theatre to Sacramento, we finally see Christine moving forward in the movement of life but finding truths about herself that lie not ahead but in the past. Or maybe, they always existed but never realised. Even though she chooses to be who she never thought she would be, the reason why she still prevails is the fact that she exercised a choice. There’s no defined qualitative and ‘identifying’ element in the movement of life. The forward movement in life may not always be marked with a forward movement in one’s understanding of self. And more so than ever, it is the shooting off from one’s own position, that makes a ‘decision’ what it actually is.
So, the lesson I learn, or should I say, what I see being a reiteration of something I already knew, in Ladybird, is the idea of being non-linear in the movement of life; and in the understanding of the same. We are always a ‘work in progress’ and never in any moment could we be reduced to an identifiable description of self. And let’s just say, it would be a heinous crime to self, by self, if the self is being seen and understood from the mind of the other.
In power there lies denial. The distractions aplenty that prevail over the mind in power and of what becomes of it. Of these distractions, many have been discussed, felt and written about. However, there is one that is only felt and never pondered upon; one that inevitably manifests but never looked into. And that is the distraction off the body. Of all the conscious denials that a powerful being accords himself to, this particular denial is the most precarious for it marks the beginning of an Ultimate Denial; a probable demise.
Power is what that reflects in the eyes and resonates in the hearts of the subjects. The strength of a sovereign is always valued on the scale of his command and reverence. The reverence so commanded is a corollary to an idea or a form that the sovereign represents. If only a sovereign could have been reduced to be seen as a mortal, what inspiration the subjects could have looked for that is not seen in their own faces.
This is what engenders the Ultimate Denial; the denial of decadence. Like the robe of honour that a sovereign adorns upon coronation, the body of the aforesaid grows to be nothing more than that robe; to be worn and worn out. Gravity finds the sovereign in the same brevity as the divinity does. Although, the celebration and pomp that marks the rise stand proportional to the oblivion that marks the Icarian fall.
The sovereign thus cries. In solitude is where his heart actually beats. The counting of laurels run parallel to the counting of days; marking of legacy with marking of the will of succession. The beating of retreat, the practice of the march past, stomps like the sound of the church gong. These are the days where the air coincides with the vacuum, the audience with voids and the life with death.
But there lies duty in denial. A sovereign errand that must be run before the mighty gets engraved in stone. And that is the rearing of the next immortal, the next robe that shall occupy the form that represents an idea; the one who continues to exude inspiration. A sovereign that begins to look too far wishes to look no more. So the duty is served within closed doors, dressed in the superficial pretence of what it shall look like, and knowledge that both the parties to the pact conveniently ignores.
This may be the denial that over time, becomes a truth. Like orders, ranks and manners, this denial runs like a custom to a sovereign. And when the time arrives, the time where the sovereign is disabused of his denial, the great act of departure begins. Followed by endless eulogies and accounts that remember the departed, nothing of the ultimate denial is ever fancied. No words that give meaning to the life preparing to bid adieu, no song or sonnet celebrating the ending truths dealt with, of the duties so mournfully served. Maybe that is what we shall call the Sovereign’s Ultimate Denial.
Art: Conor Harrington
Okja is undoubtedly a reflection of Bong-Joon Ho’s evolving auteur. A mouthpiece of environment advocacy shied down by wry humour and avant-garde character design. As any film review would define it, Okja is a story about the journey of a young South Korean girl who fights against all odds to get a genetically enhanced pig which does not belong to her either physically or intellectually. The movie never deviates from its central plot and each shot is quite smartly put to create a fast moving progression of the primary storyline; something which really fuels the existing anticipation. However, despite its strict editorial work, there are few shots in Okja that really stand out for reasons other than the central narrative. These shots are not about Mija (Seo-Hyeon Ahn) or Okja; rather they come across as a didactic commentary on a post-modern understanding of human relationships.
Hayao Miyazaki, a Japanese anime giant, has given us a dreamlike depiction of Mija’s life in the hills. The sounds of running water and breaking branches engulf the viewer in the serenity and simplicity of a life closer to nature. In almost all the shots we see both Okja and Mija developing a personal relationship not between themselves but also with the natural bounty around them; whether it be the giant rock or the flowing streams. We hardly see any sign of modern technology but there is contentment abound. There’s a prevailing of a selfless yet a settled sort of a happiness which is not dramatically over joyous or unnecessarily indulging.
And then we move to Seoul; a city to its every definition. Suddenly, we see panoramic and aerial shots being taken of the herd of people moving towards the railway station – just like the ones showing the hills in the beginning of the movie. These shots sort of reintroduce the viewer to the narrative of the film, maybe emphasising on the shift in the storyline. However, I also see them as a conscious effort on the part of the director to showcase a distinction, and that too of a stark one, between a rural and an urban life. However, this distinction is not just physical but also emotional. The aerial shot of the herd of people moving towards the railway station focus only on the quantity of the subject matter and not the identity. So, we just see a faceless crowd moving uniformly towards a common destination reflecting the growing mechanisation of human activity. This is in complete opposition to the free-moving and unregimented movements of Mija and Okja on the hills.
This regimented and mechanised ‘city-life’ is shown to have a distracting capability of its own. On one hand, we have a determined Mija trying to find a familiar face and on the other, we have an association of beings spatially so close yet empathetically so separated. This brings me to the second most profound didactic theme – alienation.
When Mija reaches the Mirando building in Seoul she is met with a surprisingly empty office and a lot of glass walls. One of these glass walls separated her and the receptionist who then asked Mija to use the telephone placed on the other side of the glass wall to communicate to her, ignoring the most obvious of Mija’s signals. That glass wall represented the alienation that has become a characteristic of the urban milieu where people are more comfortable in communicating digitally. This also stands in contrast with the kind of communication and understanding Mija shared with Okja despite not understanding each other’s language. This sign of digitally induced alienation is also visible in the scene where a girl who is running away from Okja in a supermarket chooses to make a Snapchat video rather than actually experiencing the feeling of being afraid.
Within the scenes of Korea, we see another sign of post-modern emotional deficit – Animal Liberation Front. This sign is very subtle and confusing for it operates in overlapping meanings. Modern day organisations walk the line between being phoney and being relevant. And then sometimes we come across organisations or people who cannot fight a cause until it is contextualised; neither can they connect on emotional levels without putting that connection under a contextualised category. ALF failed to grasp both the emotional simplicity of Mija’s relationship with Okja as well as its own decaying ethos – respecting the animal life. Though their understanding does change in New York when they are faced with some disturbing visuals and an unknown fact from the past, the way they operated as an organisation as a whole does reflect a sort of contextualised understanding of animal rights. Their faith in non-violence and ecological conservation did become a part of Bong’s wry humour but it also reflected as to how modern day organisations have become increasingly normative; vying for immediate short term impact rather than aiming for long term structural changes.
Okja is not a narrative with explicitly enlarged sub-narratives. These sub-narratives are very subtle and can be subjected to interpretations. However, the use of camerawork at certain shots forces a viewer to delve further into the intentions of the director. The central narrative may or may not promote vegetarianism or at least the abandoning of corporate food processing units, but it sure does try to create an awakening about the rising emotional decadence in the digitally connected urban beings.
I have not been much of a success on dating apps. Like unread books in my library, these set of ‘romantic constructions’ just glare at me from my mobile screen hoping to be touched and looked into. Despite such blatant apathy I’m unable to delete them. I often find myself split into a binary while addressing a momentary excitation to just pull them off the roots. Rather, I often end up using them while thinking of doing the contrary. Why?
If you’ve ever followed my writing, you would know the river that I am. While flowing through territories of life, I often have people embarking upon me. And I; I carry them to their intended shores. However, the approaching spring of this year has put me to think about the larger question of self. What and where am I in all this processes I flow through?
I often defend my falling to the fact that I’m a human. I reduce my identity to a digital shot of a frozen smile snatched away from the moment it belonged to because a ‘prospect lover’ on the other side of the screen wants to ‘know me more’. Why? Because I’m a human. I make mistakes. I need to make my knees weak so that I can be held in alien arms. To be loved and understood in language and gestures that is not mine but I somehow construct to help others in understanding myself. And an excuse for all this and many more being – I’m a human!
It pains me to think that how conveniently we have alienated the idea of being self contented and emotionally strong to a metaphysical state of being. I’m expected to reach a sense of spirituality to put my life in order; spirituality which itself has been taken away from my own soul. This “meta-humanizing” of something so essential to our existence is anything but celebratory. To me, it is a construction of a digital world that has done to the idea of being human a slippage of meaning.
I think we need to understand this association of alienating oneself from one’s own answers with humanness is very dehumanizing. It is this illusion of humanity through which we have to look for the real one. And look no far but within. It is not your falling that makes you human but your strength to survive it. To me, it is that flicker of light I see in a distance, the only light in girthed darkness, and I know it is my calling. That flicker of light is no one but myself; moving a little away from this to reach a somewhere there.
What is music to our eyes? It is not the metaphorical use of the word for a visual aesthetic substance but an inquiry to understand the coordinated relationship between the two.
It is when the words drenched in rhythm are let loose on one’s senses that one realises the transcending nature of oneself. It is hardly conflicted that music holds potential to transcend our conscience of its physicality. So, how is it that we often find ourselves in a redundancy of materialism where the context of our physical presence does not resonate with our mental understanding of our own existence? Well, that is the extension that I’m seeking to establish here.
Gaston Bachelard, a celebrated French philosopher, talks about paradoxical nature of time. In his seminal work Intuition of the Instant he quite scientifically establishes the paradox of time in which time’s essence lies in duration, but creativity, in everything that breaks free from it. Duration and Time then come across as antithetical to each other. Duration, to Bachelard, is something that is continuous and creates an artificial distinction between present and future. To the contrary, time is something that is ‘instant’ or ‘in the moment’. Therefore, time is a severing away from the linearity of duration (something that he calls mutation) and can only be creative in the present.
It is Bachelard’s fascination with originality and uniqueness that makes him the centre of inquiry in this essay. To him, originality or creativity cannot be understood through Duration because in the realm of Duration, every moment has to have a connection with something in the past. Therefore, he argues that creativity can only happen when action (time) breaks away (sudden mutation) from the historicity of duration. So, the ‘time’ that exists at that moment of sudden mutation is the only action worth understanding and hence is natural. The other distinction of past and future is a mere artificial construction.
We can see the parallel of the same principle in Bachelard’s explanation of science. To him, science rests on an Epistemological Break which says that true creativity in the history of science is possible only when the history is discontinued and the past theory is negated at a particular time.
In the theory of Roupnel, something that Bachelard responded to in his work, art occupies a significant position. According to Roupnel, constant innovation (renewing mutation) is important for evolution and since art is created through original sensations, it becomes an ‘instant’ and hence occupies a key place in this process. In both of these explanations we see a great emphasis being put on the instantaneous nature of creativity, something which I would like to extend to the notion of existence within time.
Coming back to my hypothesis, I’m here to question what is the relationship of music with our eyes. Is it a mere artistic involvement or is it a higher process of transcendence that outs the very idea of existence and time into question?
When we listen to music, we make a choice. The choice, either consciously or subconsciously involves a selection, a song or a beat, that carries a meaning in itself. As a walker, I often listen to music when I’m travelling or walking from work to home or vice versa. So I can say that music is involved in my life when I already exist in a specific spacio-temporal milieu in time which is relative to my surroundings and is universal for each person around me. So it is also safe to say that the involvement of music in my life (for instance while walking from work to home) is a Duration (In Bachelard’s sense). “I listened to 5 songs while walking from work to home”, justifies the same. This principle might please Bergson but I say that it holds only to a voyeur.
The very idea that we choose a particular song at a particular moment speaks a lot about our cognition of letting an external output coordinate with an internal motivation of brain (neurophysiology argument). The decision making process of the brain, an emotional structure that involves hypothalamus and cerebral cortex, evidences that our music selection is a choice that involves a goal orientation approach. We choose a song which our limbic system and reticular formation tells us to be of a good yield in the past.
So it can be safely accepted that involvement of music in our life is mostly a choice. Therefore, it can be said that there is some sense of instantaneous action (sudden mutation) involved in our music listening practice. Hence, I would deduce that when we listen to music we are not just responding to what has happened in the past, or being just a point in the chain of Duration, but we are generating or experiencing something original and unique. We are living in Time and not Duration. Or it can be said, it is a real perception of time within a realm of Duration garbed as artificial Time.
Now, let’s extend this postulate to the question of one’s existence in the designated spacio-temporal environment. So the question that emerges is when I listen to music while travelling from work to home, do I exist in the time and space of my surroundings or do I transcend to a different instant of time. If I rely on the premise forwarded by Bachelard, my process of listening music is mutation from the historicity of the context around me. And since it’s a mutation, whatever is created during that process of listening music, through my cognitive methods, is original, hence creativity. So it would be safe to say that during the music listening process, I exist in Time and not Duration.
Now that my question of existence is sorted, I shall now move on to my question of creation. So, when I use my eyes while listening to music to envisage a deconstruction of the context around me, am I being an artist or maker of that process? Theodor Lipps in his radical hypothesis on art said that the power of an artwork doesn’t lie in the work itself. It is involved in the process where the viewer considers that artwork to be beautiful. It depends on what viewer makes of it. Hence, it is the viewer who becomes the artist of this new creative process. Extending Lipps postulate to the study of music, I realise the parallels can be drawn. Beethoven would not mean the same to the Liberal Arts students in Ukraine as what he stands for a 60 year old housewife in France. However, I do not stop at establishing semiotic nature of music. I want to take the liberty of extending it to the idea of construction (creativity). I believe that sometimes music becomes a catalyst to a higher creative process sourcing from ourselves. It is us who reach a moment in time where it is not the inherent meaning of the music that we are responding to but rather a new construction of meaning that forms a distinct artistic narrative. So it is when we listen to music that we are involved in a process of artistic construction (keeping in mind the Bachelard’s idea of mutation).
After analysing every inch of my mental curiosity, it would be good to condense my conclusion into a nutshell. I believe that when we listen to music (not as a voyeur) we divorce our existence from the spacio-temporal milieu of our surrounding and transcend to a new instant of time (since time has been proven to be relative). This instant of time is marked by a mutation from the Duration that we were involved in while not listening to music. It is in the instantaneous moment of music listening process that we are involved in a creative activity of forming original works (since art is premised on the freshness of original sensations and every moment in music listening process is mutated from any historical attachment). Thus, it is we who are the artist of this new artistic construction that is formed while we exist in space of time that is severed from the historicity of our physical surrounding in the context it exists.
. I feel empowered now of the fact that music no longer alienates me from my own artistic constructions. I wish I could put them down to concrete works of literature (sometimes I do though) but I get too consumed in the momentary meaning of my own constructions.