BY BENJAMIN MARTIN
It is said that Bartok had a special fondness for fir cones and sunflowers. Given their degree of logarithmic elegance, my guess is that snowflakes might also have appealed to him, and so it is from here that I take my cue for the following variations on a strikingly misunderstood theme of nature and classicism.
Some things are so overwhelmingly self-evident that we often fail to take them into proper account. For instance, although our physicality as human beings is one of balanced proportion and appears symmetrical – or approaches symmetry – we are fundamentally asymmetrical in design. You may be sure that not a single person, past or present, has a face one side of which precisely reflects the other. Yet if this seeming imperfection appears to be one of nature’s regrettable aspects, you might consider this: a snowflake is an exquisitely proportioned thing. But no snowflake is perfectly symmetrical and still, we find it beautiful. Why? Because despite that it possesses the appearance of symmetry, we, being also properties of nature’s design, intuit that its dimensions are asymmetric.
Hence, a situation of extreme tension is created via our perceptual faculties being caught between identifying with the snowflake’s asymmetry and by visual evidence to the contrary. This moment of tension which plays upon our sensibilities lends a snowflake its extraordinary power of attractiveness.
This has some very interesting implications. For instance, truth – in relation to this example – amounts to identifying with – or trusting in – the deception of appearances. I’ll return to this point later. Moreover, it signifies that beauty offers exquisite degrees of sustained tension (although chances are you already knew this). But particularly telling is that via our effort to distinguish between an object’s seemingly perfect proportions and an unattainable symmetry, a situation of high tension is created which, in turn, lends an object its beauty.
Now the notion that proportion and symmetry can find themselves at odds with each other is unlikely to seem particularly self-evident. For starters, is it not an obvious fact that certain things are plainly symmetrical and are accordingly proportioned? And surely – in the classical arts, for example – these qualities often go hand in hand? The notion indeed appears ludicrously counter-intuitive; that is, if you take it for granted that perfect symmetry actually exists, as opposed to it belonging purely to the abstract realm of thought. In other words, symmetry made directly tangible is always rounded off, and so the resultant proportions are never truly symmetrical. Moreover, the frequent assumption that balanced proportion and symmetry are basically interchangeable is a misunderstanding that more than likely has distorted our identification with many things, not least the classical arts.
The symmetrical aspect needs to be understood within its proper context, which is one of dynamically proportioned design from which symmetry is approached. This brings classicism, for one, into its proper relation with our own quasi-symmetrical design. In other words, classicism at best reflects our innermost nature, never overbalancing into geometrically static territory – with all of its straight-laced, pop-art, wig-wearing connotations – but constantly approaching and receding from a point of exquisitely balanced tension.
Wagner wrote a wonderful snowflake known as the Prelude to ‘Tristan und Isolde’. Every aspect of trust in the deception of appearances is not merely evident, but sustained over ages. Take the opening for instance; the expected resolution of each successive cadence – which, by the chromatic voice-leading, approaches symmetry – and, in turn, each moment of expectation met by a cadential deception. Yet despite the mounting tension resulting from each successive unresolved cadence, we trust all along that all will resolve itself.
But hang on. Isn’t Tristan a romantic work?! In truth, it is a creation of extreme classicism; its extraordinary tension tears apart all cobwebbed classifications (such as those which try to distinguish classical from romantic), and classically fossilised categories (such as those which regard proportion and symmetry as synonymous terms).
Let’s look further. As stated, although we are highly proportioned by design, we are fundamentally asymmetrical beings. Therefore – given that one cannot create something which transcends the origins of its design – we may never create anything of perfect symmetry. When a creation seemingly supersedes the quasi-symmetrical dimensions of a snowflake and appears perfectly symmetrical, it registers as a simulation of symmetry, never the actual thing. Why? Because we recognise that the basis of its design seems contrary to our own, and was therefore manufactured to appear to be something other than it is.
Yet our form is very nearly symmetrical; we approach symmetry. Moreover – somewhat miraculously – we recognise symmetry as a quality external to ourselves, which is why we instinctively identify with what it is that the snowflake approaches. The influence that such moments of tension exerts upon us is actually so great that we unceasingly strive to put symmetry right out there in front of us. We want to possess it. At the same time, however, symmetry is something we prize very highly; it is not something won easily. Our environment is literally littered with evidence of this deep-seated contradiction. To take just one example, the instant that the mobile phone – a fine example of designed simulated symmetry – loses its function, it becomes junk. Whatever sleek, aesthetic appeal it may seem to have pretty much vanishes the instant it stops working.
Ultimately, such devices as the mobile phone or laptop may never completely convince us within our quasi-symmetrical sphere, just as we shall always make for imperfectly symmetrical machines. But temporarily, an object can be dressed up as something representing the unattainable, in order, through its functioning power, to convince us that it inhabits a reality beyond ours.
But surely a laptop or a mobile’s symmetrical-type shape is simply one of convenience? Its actual shape is not the issue here, but rather how its shape is idealised. Sleekness has a feature; specifically, its featureless-ness, exhibiting spatial properties of a higher order, suspended in time. This feature of design – suggesting dimensions of a perfected symmetry – lends function a highly idealised context.
That exquisite circle you may picture in your imagination right now; you will never see that replicated in nature, nor will you ever be able to duplicate its perfection on paper. However, you can suggest it artistically, and approach it. And if you do it exceptionally well, you will have created the foundation for a situation of great tension, just like the snowflake. Someone will respond to it, because they will intuit something within its design that they immediately recognise as essential, yet cannot discover within their simulated, hyper-symmetrical environment. To do without such impressions of the imagination is to go without a point of reference from which to identify ourselves, a point balanced so exquisitely as to avoid tipping into an irrelevant, symmetrical void, a black hole from which nothing of ourselves can be reflected.
To learn more about Benjamin Martin, visit his website and read our interview here.
Image bkaree1 via Flickr, CC 2.0.
