#1 ·
I was sitting in a quiet corner of a library the other day, just trying to get some reading done, when I realized how much I’ve started to crave "bigness." Not big in the sense of being loud or obnoxious—I actually find a lot of modern pop production to be incredibly grating and shallow—but big in terms of scale, complexity, and sheer physical presence.
There’s this specific kind of awe you get when you encounter something that feels like it was built to challenge the very limits of human perception. I’m talking about those massive, monolithic works of art or music that don't just sit in the room with you, but actually seem to vibrate the floorboards and settle deep in your chest. It’s a different sensation entirely from listening to a singer with an acoustic guitar in a coffee shop. One is an intimate conversation; the other is a confrontation with something much greater than yourself.
Lately, I've been thinking about why we are so drawn to these "monsters" of the art world. Whether it’s a massive pipe organ that can shake your very bones, a sprawling epic novel that takes a month to finish, or a cinematic masterpiece that uses every bit of sound design to create a physical sensation, there is something deeply primal about it. It’s almost like our modern lives are so sanitized, so digital, and so "small" (everything fits in our pockets now!) that we are starving for something that has weight. Something that has a physical footprint.
I remember visiting a cathedral in Europe a few years ago. I wasn't even particularly religious, but when the acoustics of the space hit a certain frequency during a performance, I actually felt a sense of vertigo. It wasn't just that the sound was loud; it was that the sound felt architectural. It felt like the music was a physical pillar holding up the ceiling. It made me feel tiny, but in a way that was strangely comforting rather than diminishing. It reminded me that there are things in this world that we cannot fully control or even fully grasp.
But I also wonder if we are losing our capacity for this. We live in an era of the "snackable." We want the three-minute pop song, the 15-second clip, the quick headline. We are being conditioned to avoid anything that requires a massive investment of sensory attention or physical stamina. If a piece of music is too dense, or an instrument is too overwhelming, our instinct is often to turn it down or skip it. We seek comfort, and true grandeur is rarely comfortable. It’s demanding. It asks you to stand still and be swallowed whole by it.
I’ve noticed a weird divide lately between the "minimalists" who want everything stripped down to its essence and the "maximalists" who want to push every medium to its absolute breaking point. I find myself leaning toward the latter. I want to see the limits. I want to see how much a single instrument can do, or how much emotion a single room can hold before it overflows. There’s a certain bravery in creating something that is purposefully "too much."
I’m curious to hear what you all think about this. Do you find yourself seeking out those massive, overwhelming experiences—the kind that leave you feeling a bit breathless or even slightly intimidated—or do you prefer art that stays within the bounds of the "human scale"? Is there a point where "grandeur" just becomes "noise," or is the pursuit of the monumental a necessary part of the human experience?
There’s this specific kind of awe you get when you encounter something that feels like it was built to challenge the very limits of human perception. I’m talking about those massive, monolithic works of art or music that don't just sit in the room with you, but actually seem to vibrate the floorboards and settle deep in your chest. It’s a different sensation entirely from listening to a singer with an acoustic guitar in a coffee shop. One is an intimate conversation; the other is a confrontation with something much greater than yourself.
Lately, I've been thinking about why we are so drawn to these "monsters" of the art world. Whether it’s a massive pipe organ that can shake your very bones, a sprawling epic novel that takes a month to finish, or a cinematic masterpiece that uses every bit of sound design to create a physical sensation, there is something deeply primal about it. It’s almost like our modern lives are so sanitized, so digital, and so "small" (everything fits in our pockets now!) that we are starving for something that has weight. Something that has a physical footprint.
I remember visiting a cathedral in Europe a few years ago. I wasn't even particularly religious, but when the acoustics of the space hit a certain frequency during a performance, I actually felt a sense of vertigo. It wasn't just that the sound was loud; it was that the sound felt architectural. It felt like the music was a physical pillar holding up the ceiling. It made me feel tiny, but in a way that was strangely comforting rather than diminishing. It reminded me that there are things in this world that we cannot fully control or even fully grasp.
But I also wonder if we are losing our capacity for this. We live in an era of the "snackable." We want the three-minute pop song, the 15-second clip, the quick headline. We are being conditioned to avoid anything that requires a massive investment of sensory attention or physical stamina. If a piece of music is too dense, or an instrument is too overwhelming, our instinct is often to turn it down or skip it. We seek comfort, and true grandeur is rarely comfortable. It’s demanding. It asks you to stand still and be swallowed whole by it.
I’ve noticed a weird divide lately between the "minimalists" who want everything stripped down to its essence and the "maximalists" who want to push every medium to its absolute breaking point. I find myself leaning toward the latter. I want to see the limits. I want to see how much a single instrument can do, or how much emotion a single room can hold before it overflows. There’s a certain bravery in creating something that is purposefully "too much."
I’m curious to hear what you all think about this. Do you find yourself seeking out those massive, overwhelming experiences—the kind that leave you feeling a bit breathless or even slightly intimidated—or do you prefer art that stays within the bounds of the "human scale"? Is there a point where "grandeur" just becomes "noise," or is the pursuit of the monumental a necessary part of the human experience?