Y’know when you find shit that makes you really feel some type of way?
Like that one contemporary exhibit in DC I stayed behind at to stare at the pieces in prolonged hypnosis–
Or like the Japanese film photos that I became obsessed mid-Econ class. The ones with the weird lights, beautiful people, fuzzy looks. Later I said I wanted to be like that film photographer sans film camera, model friends and aesthetic).
Or like the cluttery winding dancing prose I have to stop reading (think: junior year when I swam in Nabokov’s words and hated how much I loved them), the books I have to put down because I’m on the verge of–verge of what? I don’t know.
But that’s when I know I like something. When there’s no word or phrase to describe how I experience something, just that I’m experiencing it and feeling some strange type of way. It’s not a flood of admiration or appreciation. It’s not feeling floored with emotion. It’s more like being quietly submerged in obsession, stricken with a raw sense of “holy shit, this is some shit“. Guess that’s just the way it is with art.