Learning to Breathe: Absurd Lessons from the Pandemic

Among the many great lessons learned from the pandemic—how to make a mean sourdough, how to be alone, or where lies the fine but critical line between “just passing time” and “alcoholism,” to name a few—one particularly distresses me. That lesson is this: our perceived rational dominion over the world is a sham. Every claim to order is precarious at best.

The pandemic is perhaps the most stark, far-reaching, and proximate testament to the fundamental meaninglessness of the world that we have had the misfortune of experiencing. In fact, we may be even so inclined as to call these past eighteen months (or so) entirely absurd. In Myth of Sisyphus, Camus describes the absurd as a fundamental existential truth: the confrontation and subsequent “divorce” between us and the world in which we are situated, or in more specifically, man’s continual projection of meaning and order on the world and the world’s inherent lack thereof. Oftentimes we are made aware of the absurd through cer-tain visceral and even inarticulable feelings that can be experienced in our day to day, such as when the tearful philosophy student, recovering from her third breakdown this week, poses the fateful question: “what’s the point?”

But the COVID-19 pandemic has wrought more drastic and jarring disruptions to our structures of meaning and order than these everyday moments of consciousness. Conflicting medical advisories at the outset of the global response (and even now, with contradictory recommendations regarding newly emerging COVID variants) already betray the limits of science, the epitome of our affinity for meaning and order. But we have also experienced disruptions to more primordial structures such as time, or, more specifically, clock time. This is evident in the disruption of routine or the sentiment that is revealed when one says “every day has felt the same.” Even our notions of space have been altered, demonstrated by the newfound perils of visiting

a place as mundane as the subway or the grocery store, or the dissolution of the partition between workplace and home.

Perhaps most significantly, the pandemic has caused disruptions to our senses of self. With the interruption of future projects and the uncertainty of what’s to come, we find ourselves suddenly unable to anchor our identities to such possibilities, and imposed distancing and isolation have estranged us from once familiar relationships. The phenomenon underlying all of these experiences is the same: previously anchored realities have been revealed to be wholly mutable. The meaninglessness of the world is revealed with the very admission that the times we live in are strange and that we are completely unsure (of truth, the future, and ourselves). So, what are we to do? Well, Camus urges us to revolt. We must live while maintaining full consciousness of the meaninglessness of our condition—and all “without appeal,” while declining to project meaning. In other words, we must live for life itself. But it seems naïve to suggest, as Camus does, that by sheer force of will we can fully embrace our condition and persist through disorder. After all, though the pandemic has continuously thrust consciousness upon us, it has been incredibly difficult to preserve it with the full-hearted gusto Camus asks of us. Instead, our response to the pandemic has been largely characterized by stubbornness: an unshakeable desire to retain some semblance of past order (the feeling of “nostalgia,” as Camus would say). In saying “when things go back to normal,” for example, we appeal to

this structure, supposing that the world will inevitably correct itself and return to this “essential order.” Yet, this outlook mistakenly assumes that such an order ever existed, and further, arbitrarily excludes the madness of the pandemic from that supposed order. Even those who flout mandates and protest restrictions do so in order to tighten their grip on their desired reality.

But acknowledging this predilection admits defeat, or loss. Specifically, it admits a loss of belonging in the world. Our efforts at preserving awareness give way to an overwhelming and crushing weariness; consequently, we find that it is easier, or even better, to create order than accept that life is truly meaningless. Thus, the difficulty with Camus’ response is the leap he makes from the moment of crippling consciousness to the decision to revolt. In the midst of the absurd, even if revolt is possible, it does not seem to be achievable with the framework Camus has provided us.

It looks like we have been dealt an unsatisfying hand. While granting Camus the importance of maintaining consciousness, what I propose is the possibility of bridging Camus’ leap through the aesthetic appreciation of the ordinary. In one of Camus’ earlier works, “Nuptials at Tipasa,” Camus himself explores the role the aesthetic has in regards to the absurd, writing that the natural beauty of the world as it is formed by the scents, sounds, sensations, and sights of his environment grounds him. “This sun, this sea, [his] heart leaping with youth, the salt taste of [his] body and this vast landscape in which tenderness and glory merge in blue and yellow” make him proud of his human condition, and they are the only things which do not seem futile. It seems, then, that the aesthetic may be the crucial bridge from the moment of consciousness to revolt. In other words, it can serve as an emotional and psychological grounding force which permits us to live without appeal.

While perhaps not immediately apparent, the mode of aesthetic appreciation Camus describes in “Nuptials” is unorthodox. For instance, when Camus writes, “deep among wild scents and concerts of somnolent insects, I open my eyes and heart to the unbearable grandeur of this heat-soaked sky,” he reveals a particular mode of aesthetic appreciation which diverges

from the way one might aesthetically appreciate, say, a painting in a museum or a flower growing in a field. In these cases, aesthetic appreciation is derived solely from one’s visual and at most intellectual apprehension of the object, while Camus’ case requires a much more holistic and immersive approach. Berleant captures and explains this mode of aesthetic appreciation with what I will refer to as his “Total Immersion” theory.

Total Immersion theory, as presented in Berleant’s “The Aesthetics of Art and Nature,” responds to the difficulties created by the traditional Kantian emphasis on disinterestedness and distance. When we consider how we appreciate certain art forms, such as architecture, performing arts, and literature, we can see that insisting on a disinterested attitude—that is, detachment from the subject’s relationship to that object—fails to capture the ways we actually engage with these works. However, such intimate ways of appreciation are vital to accessing the full spectrum of aesthetic potential. For instance, the bodily and affective responses inspired by music and dance, or the necessity of entering and walking through a building to fully appreciate its architecture, or of using one’s imagination to place oneself in the world built by an author, seem to be at odds with disinterestedness and distance. The way we tend to appreciate nature especially escapes containment by traditional aesthetics: when we stroll through a garden, not only are we entirely surrounded by the “object” of aesthetic experience, which compromises the use of the “object” label, but we are encouraged to “make a reciprocal contribution through our movement and change of location and vantage.” The aesthetic of a meal, too, is not simply in its taste or presentation, but also in the order in which one chooses to consume each item on her plate and the combinations and succession of flavours which result. This is all to say that such aesthetic experiences are formed by the subject and made possible only by her immersion in and engagement with the natural world which ultimately allows for a sense of unity.

I think Berleant’s first claim, that Total Immersion is distinctive to the way we aesthetically appreciate nature, is true. Seeing the Grand Canyon on a postcard does not induce the same aesthetic experience as seeing it in person precisely because it does not and

cannot afford the same depth of experience. Philosopher Yuriko Saito would chalk this up to the fact that seeing the Grand Canyon on the postcard create the same “ambience” afforded by a live experience: it lacks the coming together of its complete sensory qualities. The lack of ambience is why contemplating the Grand Canyon at a distance affords a much less lucid and striking experience than, say, actually hiking through it. But further, I posit that the Total Immersion view can be extended to encompass not just nature, as Berleant discusses, but the aesthetic appreciation of the everyday—in Everyday Aesthetics, Saito also posits that ambience is a key aspect of everyday aesthetic experiences. I will refer to this mode of aesthetic appreciation as simply Immersion.

At least empirically speaking, Immersion allows us to experience everyday moments which are typically overlooked and regarded as unaesthetic in a completely Imagine, for instance, that you are standing in Dundas Square on a summer night: the air is warm and humid, and it blankets you like a second skin. Surrounding you are flurries of colours which flash across gigantic LED screens. You listen to the steady and muted hum of the city’s night life—a melody of cars, laughter, drunken declarations, banter, and your own breath. An unfamiliar boom bap record plays through a speaker, peeking through the drone. Above you, the sky is clear and the deepest blue.

In such ordinary experiences, it is the subject’s sensory awareness, immersive perception, and active participation in her environment which endows it with an aesthetic quality—a quality that is importantly positive, even beautiful. With Immersion, even something as trivial as taking a sip of tea can be-

can become unequivocally aesthetic: the curling steam emanating from the white porcelain mug, the heat of the mug seeping into your palms, the delicate aroma of the tea wafting into your nose, the blooming warmth that spreads through your body as the tea trickles down your throat. Such everyday moments are, importantly, available even in the confnes of one’s home.1

But how exactly does Immersion grant this specific instance of drinking tea with special aesthetic qualities? There are four elements at play: phenomenological reduction and deconstruction, defamiliarization, experiential distinction, and the engaged subject.

I. Phenomenological reduction and deconstruction

First, Immersion demands a Husserlian phenomenological reduction and deconstruction. Briefly, given in Husserl’s The Basic Problems of Phenomenology, the phenomenological reduction requires that one “bracket” the external world from one’s perception of a given phenomenon such that the phenomenon is instead apprehended as something in itself. That is to say that phenomena are abstracted from any sort of metaphysical or scientific conceptions of the world, including the existence of correlated external reality and one’s own body. It is also abstracted from any notion of the empirical “I,” the experiencing person, a consciousness with character traits and dispositions posited as being joined to the body.2 To this extent, it involves a certain “quieting” of the consciousness which leaves behind

pure experience. 3

With the phenomenological reduction, we also see that a phenomenological deconstruction occurs. Phenomena are effectively savoured and “pulled apart” into their individual sensory elements. For example, the experience of licking chocolate ice cream becomes the coldness and creaminess, the slight resistance met by your tongue as it touches the ice cream, the ice cream dissolving on your tongue, the nutty and sharp sweetness, and so on. In other words, in the phenomenological attitude, the consciousness deconstructs an ordinary experience as it occurs such that its simple phenomenal components—namely, specific sensory qualities—are then fully in view.

The aesthetic experience then arises as an immediate reaction of the consciousness to these atomized phenomena as they are made present to the mind and come together to form a whole experience. III. Experiential distinction

The ordinary thus becomes something that is simply not ordinary. That is, there is a transformation in the experiencer’s subjective relationship to the ordinary such that, for example, the daily commute on this particular Tuesday morning has a new and distinct phenomenal character. While phenomenological reduction and deconstruction induce the defamiliarization of experience and its consequent elevation from its ordinary status, they simultaneously enhance, and even facilitate, the aesthetic experience, just as a gemstone’s appeal is enhanced by the fact that it is uncovered from a rock that is otherwise nondescript.

IV. The engaged subject

II.Defamiliarization

The phenomenological reduction and deconstruction aid in the aesthetic experience of the everyday in effectively inducing a defamil-iarization of ordinary experiences. Unfamiliar or typically unrecognized features of ordinary experience are brought to the light, infusing the experience with a new sense of novelty. 4

Finally, Immersion necessi tates an engaged subject. The subject is engaged insofar as, over the course of the aesthetic experience, one is made an active participant in one’s environment. That is,

unlike distanced appreciation of an artwork, in which the subject is fully removed from the artwork and merely looks at the piece, the subject is fully immersed in the aesthetic experience itself. The subject’s own emotional responses to her environment are formative of the experience, as are her interactions with it: her footsteps, her breathing, and her sensations are all vital to creating the overall aesthetic atmosphere. The subject is both the centre of experience and the experience itself, and, as such, the aesthetic is lived.

So, the aesthetic experience granted by Immersion is one that is dynamic and holistic, contingent upon the phenomenal experience of the subject. Meanwhile, the “object” of aesthetic experience, namely the objects and routines of daily life, is made unfamiliar and extraordinary in the transformation of the subject’s relationship to the experience via phenomenological deconstruction and reduction. Working in tandem with each other, phenomenological reduction and deconstruction, defamiliarization, experiential distinction, and the engagement of the subject open up an otherwise mundane experience to aesthetic appreciation. Now we can begin to understand how Immersion can serve as a catalyst for revolt. At a more superficial level, we may say that, as Kevin Melchionne claims in his essay, “The Point of Everyday Aesthetics,” these moments of beauty contribute to one’s subjective well-being. In other words, though for the past however many months life as we know it has been turned on its head, the pleasure taken in the beautiful experiences of the everyday can afford us the ability to accept this and simply live—without taking shelter in meaning. But more significantly, in my participation in the aesthetic experience and the full occupation of the consciousness with one’s subjective perceptual experience, I become a part of the world as the world becomes a part of me. I am, in other words, both witness and participant. This reciprocal relationship— the world being made present to me in my experience and my contributing to the world—brings the two together in a psychological union. In experiencing the beauty of the world, the despair engendered by our frustrated attempts to derive order and meaning is thus replaced with feelings of contentment and belonging. Rather than feeling alienated from the world, we can continue to live fully and

lucidly. The world remains unknowable (that is, devoid of any inherent order and meaning), yet we experience it as it is and derive pleasure from it. Indeed, even experiences which may be characterized as aesthetically negative (e.g. disgusting, ugly, horrifying) can serve to reaffirm and strengthen me. As an active participant in such an experience, I still find that I am more present, more engaged, and more unified with the world. The sentiment becomes: though life is meaningless, I am alive in the world, and the world is alive in me.

In the midst of the pandemic, where every day challenges us with the weight of pure existence, this immersive approach to everyday aesthetics seems especially crucial. There is a particular quote from “Nuptials” which feels especially pertinent to my thesis: “but watching the solid backbone of the Chenoua, my heart would grow calm with a strange certainty. I was learning to breathe, I was fitting into things and fulfilling myself.” Above all, the aesthetic appreciation of the everyday forces us to slow down and contemplate, as many would say, “the little things in life.” Consequently, one may find a sense of reassurance in a world that is otherwise alienating, an anchor in a life that is wholly uncertain. Indeed, over the past year, the little things were often times my only source of sanity: blinking city lights and abandoned streets, strangers on Instagram dancing on rooftops, the warmth of a big plate of spaghetti, the soft glow of my salt lamp, the breeze licking my face while I read in a park. Recognizing and appreciating the beauty in these little things, in turn, made me feel more at home in the world. It seems that there is another great lesson to be learned from the pan-

Learning to Breathe: Absurd Lessons from the Pandemic

demic: life, though meaningless, can nonetheless be beautiful.

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[1] I do not mean to claim, however, that such ordinary experiences will always give way to positive aesthetic qualities. Granting that all aesthetic experience is inherently subjective in that it is contingent upon one’s personal feelings towards the object of aesthetic appreciation (or in this case, the experience), all ordinary experiences have the potential to be appreciated in a positive or negative aesthetic manner; what one might find beautiful, another might find disgusting, ugly, or frightening. Nevertheless, some initially unappealing experiences of the ordinary, such as that of gazing at a dilapidated building, may be revealed to have some positive aesthetic value through Immersion—for example, in the textures of the peeling paint, the silhouette created by its sagging roof, or the stark whiteness of the graffiti sprayed across its stained exterior.

[2] In Myth of Sisyphus, Camus in fact praises phenomenology for this quality, though he rejects Husserl’s subsequent attempts at deriving essence. [3] However, this is not intended to present a claim on how the world is, i.e. that the world is purely phenomenal, devoid of materiality. We are primarily concerned with the method of aesthetic appreciation that phenomenology offers us, and as such, we perform the reduction as if the world is purely phenomenal for the sake of the aesthetic experience, though this may not be the case in reality, nor do we act as if it is so afterwards.

[4] The role of defamiliarization in opening up an object for aesthetic experience is not uncommon. For example, found objects and readymades are ordinary in that they are literally (made of) ordinary things, but they can nonetheless be granted the special status of “art” when they are removed from the everyday, namely in being turned into something which is for contemplation, whether through literal display in a museum, the particular combination of objects, or the conferring of a formal “artwork” designation, such as in the case of Duchamp’s Fountain. This is also found in representational art: in depicting ordinary objects, representational artwork effectively highlights “the special qualities of the mundane” and effectively renders it something other than mundane. It is the role of the poet, the novelist, the artist, to capture the particular specialness of ordinary objects and highlight those qualities for our apprehension. Likewise, phenomenological reduction and deconstruction effectively frames everyday experiences in a new light, one which, like the role of the museum, the painting, or the poet, renders the ordinary unfamiliar and thus opens it to aesthetic appreciation.