Joyful Complexity

Daniel Coffeen, PhD

Writing, Thinking, Strategy, Philosophy, Art, Rhetoric

daniel@joyfulcomplexity.com

LinkedIn • Emphatic Umph (blog) • Twitter

A thing is one thing that is many things. It is a multiplicity, an assemblage of elements visible and invisible. The visible elements are obvious — a book has words, maybe some images, a font; a film has sound and images; a painting has colors, shapes, perhaps some forms; a flower, scent, color, size, density; a glass of tequila a taste, color, weight. But all these things have invisible traits, as well. Of course, sound and smell are invisible but they are sensual and measurable. When I say invisible I mean the moods and affects and ideas of a thing.

Everything carries it with it an invisible yet palpable, knowable vapor trail. Everything has a mood, a history, and if not an idea it at least has relationships with an idea or two. A rose, for instance, has an incredible presence. The texture of the leaves, sensual and somehow strong; the scent, so decadent; the surprisingly firm stem protected by thick callouses of thorns. And then there is the mood of this or that rose — it droops, sadly; it leans, contemplatively; it surges with aspiration. Picture selecting roses from a florist: each has a certain promise. And roses have ideas — ideas of love, of the quaint — as well as a network of associations from The Grateful Dead’s and San Mendes’ different American Beauties to valentine bouquets and so much more.

Often, the visible and invisible elements have strange and shifting relations. David Lynch flourishes in the juxtaposition of visible banality and invisible oddity. In his short film, Quinoa for example, we see Lynch prepare his meal of quinoa and broccoli, an innocent enough event. Nothing strange happens in the course of this short film (the film lasts as long as it takes him to prepare his meal and eat a bite). If you just look at the film, or even just listen to his stories and the music, you might say this film is extraordinarily boring. But then there is the affect, achieved through sound and shot, tone and timbre, that shifts between creepy, funny, mysterious, and menacing (if not more). This is all to say, there are the things we see and hear and then there are the states of being that we experience in watching this combination of sights and sounds. These states of being are affects, it is what we experience that is not just a pinch or pang or tickle.

We might want to say that an affective state is always subjective, that the text gives us a visible and sensual experience but the affective experience is solely subjective and not part of the thing — the movie is violent but I feel horrified. But let’s think about that a little. First of all, and perhaps most obviously, when I experience something while watching a film — fear, delight, joy, exuberance — from where does this state arise? Is it only from my personal well of memories, thoughts, and experiences? Or could it be that the film affected me? Well, of course the film affected me.

But then perhaps the question is: did the film affect me and others the same way? Yes and no. Clearly, we are all different and hence enjoy different experiences of things. This is obvious when watching movies in the theater and hearing different reactions — maybe everyone laughts but you don’t find it funny. But even at these moments, we can understand why those around us are laughing. We may not experience the mirth but we can see the mirth in the film.

This is to say, things have affects (“have” is not quite right; things are affective). And these affects and the affective state of me may very well be different. This is a difficult distinction to maintain but it is important. It is difficult because while we feel we can objectively measure the visible states of a thing — its size, color, density, smell, sound — we can’t objectively measure a thing’s invisible states. There are no tools, no measuring system to which we can all agree — the fear is a 5.3, the mirth a 2.6, etc. Visible states are quantitative; invisible states are qualitative. And only quantity, we believe, is objective; qualities are always subjective.

And yet things have affective qualities that are not the same as our individual affective states — the affective states are literally objective, of the object. We say that the films of David Lynch are creepy; that the art of Joan Mirò is joyous; that this or that person has a great mood about them. And when we say these things, we are not saying that we feel this way. Even if we don’t always agree — and perhaps rarely do —, we are comfortable saying that it’s the thing that is this way.