May 23, 2009

• Feeling Sublime

  The word “sublime” brings to my mind Caspar D. Friedrich’s Wanderer Above a Sea of Mist (1818).  That which is sublime contains obscurity; immensity; even fear.  For instance, the man in Wanderer stands precariously on a mountaintop while observing the clouds below him—as viewers, we feel the deafening, eerie silence, the solemn uncertainty of the man’s stance, and the palpable feeling of not having a safe space to stand.  Sublimity necessitates elements such as obscurity, vastness, infinity, and ruggedness, invoking awe operating in a manner analogous to terror (Edmund Burke, A Philosophical Inquiry).

  Although I’ve been to places that are beautiful, breathtaking, and containing spectacular views, the Grand Canyon is a different experience: it is not like a marvelous sunset, a hilltop view of the city below, the mountains and the clouds after the sun comes out on a rainy day, or the ocean waves.  Instead, it is an immense chasm whose size can scarcely be accurately imagined.  It is not waiting for someone to go explore it, but it is not exactly antagonistic (say, Mt. Everest).  It knows it will be there for a while.  The Grand Canyon is sublime, and its sublimity is attractive.

  I don’t dare say I can conquer it because I’d be the first one needing to be rescued, nor do I really want to think I can conquer it because there are some things that should be accorded the respect that nature deserves, the Grand Canyon included.  Yet, there is this desire in me to at least grow close to it--to draw close to the heart of the Grand Canyon.  Even though I know it is a dead thing, or at least not live in the way people have emotions, there’s something kindred that I long to connect myself to anyway.

  • 3:00 am
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