Sarasponda

Experts say how sound effects the brain. Dissonance annoys it. Concord sends it purring to the couch. Igor Stravinsky's 1913 debut of his Rite of Spring, a case in point. Anarchistic sonic structures plunged the hearers' brains into a vat of neural chaos, followed by rebellion in the park. Sirs' and madams' canes and elbows bloodied up the lawn.

Sound is more like touch than cool abstraction. Sound waves burrow into open ears, excite the neural pathways to the brain. Here ensues a politics of nature, conservative and liberal at odds. The brain abhors the new, stores wine in ancient skins, tames the shrew with slews of rules and regs.

The enemy of sameness is the muse. Her work implores the snoozy brain to reconsider fondness for the lounge. With stealthiness and cunning Venus mollifies the comfort seeking neurons which, relinquishing their guard, allow the unexpected birth of a new child.

Most of us are ravenous for quandry. This scares us if we've lived too long in sameness. Enter art, the zenith of cognition, the subtle blend of homeliness and dashing, the beautiful extravagance of focus, the tender recognition of the new.

Art. The gaudy stranger at the gate.