David and I lay in his tent. On our backs, eyes closed. Music fills the space. Music actually fills everything that I’m aware of. All other experience has faded away, I can no longer feel, see, taste, smell or think - all I’m aware of is hearing.
Having him there helps hold the space, as well as remind me what we had set out to do when the inevitable thought does come and depend full attention. Our mutual presence evaded that we stay on track towards our goal of truly listening to music.
I haven’t done this enough in life, with any art form. To give art so much attention that nothing else exists is to honor it. David recounts a story when at an open studio, someone comes up to him while he’s looking at a painting and says “lovely red”. His observation about that was fascinating: this person was deeply unsure that they were experiencing the correct thing. They were reaching out in desperation to validate they’re experience. And there’s nothing wrong about the lovely red being the experience. Yet so often we reach out to other humans in an attempt to ask “am I doing it right?” - both in viewing art and in moving through life.
It’s ironically simple that the way to truly experience both art and life is to just observe the experience that is unfolding in the moment, whatever it may be.