It was a holiday weekend, and in Binghamton University I still remained. It was Sunday, Sept. 28, on what was the gloomiest day of the school year thus far — the kind of weather in which you are constantly tired and sleepy, and you end up saying “to hell with life.” The skies were literally every shade of gray, and the wind blew with the gleeful nip of an inevitable winter while it shook down all the colorful leaves, which smartly smacked me in the face as I trudged stonily up to my apartment from my feeble attempt at studying in the library.
The vibrant fall trees are actually the only physical objects that give credence to the University’s “nice campus” description, and it is indeed a bit sad that the only time of year when this institution does not look like a penitentiary must be so brief. However, upon reaching my living quarters and looking out over the University and surrounding hills, I realized that despite the lack of sunshine and warm, dry weather, the view nevertheless looked singularly good. That is, its out-of-the-ordinary appearance made it attractive (i.e. blackening gray shades intermingled with dark-colored autumn foliage).
Then I thought, if every day were warm and dry and sunny, then how would we distinguish a “gorgeous” day from an “ugly” day? I further wondered: what really makes a “beautiful” evening sunset or a “good” book or movie? A few minutes of sophisticated thinking passed. Finally, the impossible happened and my brain began spewing supposed answers and mingled thoughts at intensely high speeds: the memories of all the sunsets, books and/or movies that were lame, or not as stunning — in short, it is the lack of uniqueness in my memory of sunsets that made this particular one beautiful. What we perceive to be the “best” is based on how much we have historically seen the “worst” and vice versa.
Ultimately, whatever our judgment may be, our classification rests upon both the amount and quality of what we have seen. And based on the authentic longevity and strength of what we take out of what we have observed, we then define it as “good ” or “bad.” And what exactly is in art that inspires us? Why, originality, a particular feel for discovering the hidden colors of our bland existence. Depths and levels of originality are dependent on the viewer’s mindset (but “Pineapple Express” will never, ever, be better than “The Shawshank Redemption” … if you thought otherwise, get help).
Lastly (I was panting at this point), human-produced art will never surpass our natural surroundings in revealing the everlasting wonder and mystery of our existence. Nature is objectively the true art. “Whew, done!” I finally said. Then I thanked the normal, gloomy, gray Binghamton day and passed out.