Why create interesting objects, or perform interesting actions? A whole branch of experimental aesthetics documents how, whenever a sight or sound becomes familiar, individuals avert their eyes or tune out. And, as a contrast, when deviation from the "new norm" emerge, these attract attention instead, unless they have become so complex that they cannot be assimilated. But once the new stimuli become familiar, they too lose the capacity to command attention. Therefore, to maintain interest, one must continually raise the ante, though not always in the same direction. That is, when interest in A has piqued, one moves on to B, and then to C, but sometimes a return to A proves more attractive than a continuing movement in the direction of D, E, and F. In a version documented frequently by experimental psychology, over time individuals prefer to look at polygons with increasingly many sides (say, more than twelve or twenty) until a peak is reached, at which point preference reverts to simple, classic geometric forms having a small number of sides.
These "trajectories of interest" transcend the experimental laboratory and emerge across the range of art forms. Consider the evolution over the centuries of serious orchestral music. Following the classical work of the Mozart-Schubert era, romantic composers like Berlioz, Wagner, and Liszt began to challenge the supremacy of tonality. Then, in their respective ways, at the beginning of the twentieth century, Igor Stravinsky and Arnold Schoenberg created alternative systems of sound. Thereafter, as twelve-tone classical music became ever more complex and recondite, minimalist forms of music—constituting the sharpest possible contrast—gained in attractiveness. In the words of minimalist composer John Adams: "In comparison to the flamboyantly Baroque display at the New Complexionists [a self-styled intricate musical style of the middle of the twentieth century], the matter-of-fact notation of my own music was like a pup tent squatting next to the Chartres Cathedral. I had to move away from this setup and had to remind myself of how the notion of 'complexity as progress' is in fact a posture, an intellectual house of cards and always has been." Comparable forms of minimalism arose in the literary arts (Samuel Beckett) and in the graphic arts (Donald Judd), with much the same line of justification as that proposed by Adams.
Interestingness in itself, of course, is not particularly symptomatic of the arts—if it were, then mere newsworthiness would qualify an object or product as artistic. For me, this stretch does not compute—a single symptom signals neither a disease nor an objet d'art. But once the element of interest is embodied in a form or format sufficiently powerful or evocative that it will be remembered in that form, one has clearly moved toward the arts. In this way, we approach the possibility of experiences of beauty.
Conceptual art provides an intriguing example. It might seem that conceptual art is about an idea, and it suffices just to repeat or paraphrase that idea. But that is not the case. In One and Three Chairs Joseph Kosuth presents a chair and a photo of that chair alongside a dictionary definition of a third in a whimsical version of a classroom punishment of earlier decades, John Baldessari has his wayward pupil repeatedly write: I will not make any more boring art. In each case, a potentially interesting idea-what is a chair, how to avoid boring art—is wedded to a format, that is itself memorable, even unforgettable.
Joseph Kosuth - One and Three Chairs (1965)
John Baldessari - I Will Not Make Any More Boring Art (1971)
With memorability of form, the artist distinguishes herself from an epistemologist or an exhibitionist. An intriguing example comes from the contemporary performance artist Marina Abramovic. In one of her flagship performances, Abramovic sits motionless in a chair facing whichever visitor to the gallery chooses to sit in the second chair; the visitor can sit as long as he likes and the artist remains essentially immobile for seven hours. This unusual behavior certainly elicits interest. While anyone with fortitude could assume the Abramovic role, this artist takes consummate care in selecting the color and style of her costume, her head and hand positions, the expression on her face, her bodily posture. Not only does Abramovic stimulate us to reconsider what it means to attempt to have a relationship to a startlingly unreactive fellow human being; her appearance and behavior often remain unforgettably poignant for the participant and those who view the encounter. More casual, informal, or ill-considered choices could undermine the effectiveness of the artistic performance. Just as actor Laurence Olivier long "owned" the role of Hamlet, Marina Abramovic sets the parameters for others who would hope to emulate her seated performance.
The third antecedent of the experience of beauty is the impulse, the inclination, the desire to encounter again, to revisit the object, scene, or performance. What I'll term the invitation to revisit can arise from each of several factors: One likes the experience, one has curiosity to learn or to understand better, or one has a feeling of awe—which can derive from wonder, scintillation, overpowerment, or uncanniness. Absent a desire on the part of an audience to revisit, an experience does not qualify as beautiful—immediately or ultimately.
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