You’re in a museum bored to death, strolling through the galleries, when you see it: the painting on the far wall. Its visual content draws you in before you can even articulate what you are seeing. As you move closer, the combination of specific shades of paint does something to your psyche. Not that you can articulate that experience, either.

Or, say you’re in a small alley near a popular mosaic art museum in South Philadelphia. Suddenly, you realize the mosaic continues here, like a shoot of bamboo meters away from its plant mother, the tile-laid images surrounding tiles painted with block letters, stretching along the brick wall above an old exposed air conditioning unit. And the letters make some message about art and making meaning and your eyes well with tears, reading them. As you stare with wonder and cry, a stranger walks past you down the alley, looks at your tear-stained face, and shrugs, “What? It’s just an air conditioner.”

Or, say you’re in the home of a new friend. They give you a brief tour of their apartment and their personal home decor quirks. Suddenly, you see it: the objet d’arte on the bookshelf in the bedroom. Is it a vase? But there’s no opening. Does it have a function? It looks functional, but you couldn’t say how one might use it. And that shape. Something about the shape of the object does something to your psyche. Not that you can articulate what exactly it does. Suddenly, you covet this object more than you covet the relationship with your new friend…you’d almost rather steal it on your way out and burn the bridge, to keep the object that speaks to you so much rather than the friendship that merely fills your social calendar.

Whether or not these experiences resonate with you, and whether or not they are autobiographical, click here to learn more.