Art and the Transitory Nature of Love
What happens when you let go of the things you love?
Art and creativity, an essential part of daily life. And while not common enough of a statement, the truth is that human creativity is always around. Billboards to radio, pamphlets and beyond, someone somewhere is out there making something so you can look at it and go “cool.”
But there will always be creations that touch you more than others, this essay is dedicated to those. More specifically, it’s dedicated to what it feels like to let go of the things you love, the specific creations that have had a real impact on you.
I’ve always been a creative, even though I didn’t realise it when I was young. And as I’ve always been interested in creative things, I have quite the list of artworks that are special to me. Yet it’s a list that empties itself just as fast as it fills. Because nothing lasts forever, love is transitory.
I’m Scared to Lose What I Love
The feeling that underpins this piece of writing is fear. Although fear may not be the most accurate way to describe what I’m feeling, as what we feel can often be a complex mix of emotions, I’ll go with fear as it’s a simple way of communicating my point.
I’m scared to lose what I love, and art is a great instigator to help bring out this feeling of mine, because we can form an attachment to people’s creations, as they speak to us in uncertain ways. Provoking parts of the self that we like, or even the parts we would prefer to hide. Either way, art can become a deeply personal endeavour, because even though it’s made by someone else, when it makes its way to you, if it speaks to something within you, it can bypass everything; like a mirror, you see yourself alive within the creation.
And when you find a piece of art that is able to speak to you, to skip the small talk and go straight to the big talk, it can be hard to let go. People always wish to meet someone that truly understands them, and truthfully, art can be there for you in that way. As you’re the interpreter of art, you’re able to see yourself in someone else’s creation. Whether you like someone else’s artwork or not is a statement about you, and not about the artwork. People’s creations are like mirrors that provoke you to question your own perspective.
A piece of art is just a piece of art, your opinion is just your opinion; don’t forget it.
But when you find a piece of art that reflects back to you exactly what you would like to hear, it’s like magic. Imagine going on a date and the person opposite you told you they were everything you have ever wanted. Art can do this, just in a more subtle way.
Your artistic interests, favourite paintings or drawings or films or songs or whatever you’re into, is a statement about you. And to find artistic creations that reflect back exactly what you’re looking for is a special moment. I have them from time to time, but there is an inevitable solemn reality that lives in the shadow of this wonderful experience. I’m clinging to my favourite artworks as if I’m a scared child comforted by his special teddy bear.
I don’t want to let go of the things that mean a lot to me, but I know I have to; it’s inevitable. I won’t remember my favourite song in 40 years, I hardly even know what it is now. But, I do know the songs that make me feel good, so I’m trying to preserve all of them. When I’m old, will I even remember that I liked these songs? I’m assuming so, but truthfully, I don’t know. And it’s not even really about the songs, but rather the way they make me feel that I’m trying to preserve.
Would it really matter if I lost my favourite song just to find another? No, probably not, because I could still rock out to my favourite song. I’m clinging to the temporary moment to preserve a positive feeling because I’m scared to lose it even though I know another will come along. We live in a funny world.
But that’s just how it works, I’m scared to use Spotify. What if one day their server crashes and I lose access to my entire library, only able to remember a few notable songs? Do I want to place my favourite songs in the hands of others? Admittedly, I’ve got a copy of all my music so I can keep my favourite songs till I’m old. Fate won’t take my music from me, I’m in control. But it’s this control that’s making me question myself. It seems as if something is wrong here…
I feel as if I’m stepping on my own toes a little, getting in the way of the flow of life by preserving my happiness too diligently. Does guaranteeing that I’ll have my favourite creations for the rest of my life really get me what I want? Is clinging to my favourite creations the solution to a happy life filled with artistic inspiration?
That’s the question we’ve got to answer today.
Life Is a Transitory Experience
A train that never stops rolling. Some people get on, others get off, but we’re never free to leave our train until we reach our final destination.
And like any good transport vehicle, there is only so much space to carry our goods. So much space to cling to the crap we drag with us everywhere we go. And like the endurance athletes running the marathon of life we all are, we have to question what’s worth taking with us, what’s worth carrying all those miles. Because we collect experiences as we live, in fact, we’re always collecting new experiences as we pass our metaphorical train stations. But we can’t take everything with us. We can’t keep every song we’ve ever heard, or every movie we’ve ever watched, although I do know someone who is trying.
All experiences are temporary, and most of them are supposed to stay that way.
Good art, great art, especially so. Because it’s not the artist that makes a great piece of art great, it’s you. You’re the final piece of the puzzle.
Art Needs You
The thing about art is that it’s an interaction between you and someone’s creation. There is no tree that falls in the forest without you, you’re either there, or you’re not. Art needs you, and because art needs you, your experience of a creation is going to have everything to do with where you’re at in the moment that you interact with it.
This takes us to a film I watched recently. I don’t really watch movies, I don’t know they’re just not my thing. But, occasionally, I will take the time from my oh not so busy schedule to watch a film, and I watched one the other day that pleasantly surprised me.
It surprised me because I wasn’t expecting to see myself, or at least a part of myself, in the movie. As if a piece of my personality had been stolen from me and put on the silver screen for everyone to watch long before I had even been born. And that got me thinking.
My resemblance to this film was obviously the work of its creator, as I had no input in its making. However, what made it special was me. Because had I watched this film 20 years later, or as a completely different person, it still would have been a good film, but it wouldn’t have been a special film. Because, and only because, this film spoke to who I am today, did I feel that it was a great film. It had fulfilled its role in playing the mirror to my life, as I don’t doubt it had done to many others before.
And, only through this experience did I begin to understand what was wrong with my incessant desire to hold on to my music. Because, watching this film made me realise that the nature of great art is transitory, in that truly great art will only be truly great in the right time and place, when it’s able to hold the mirror up to your life and shine your experiences back to you.
But this made me sad in a way, because I realised that I can never watch that film again the way I did the first time. The moment had already passed, the transition had already occurred, and with every day that passes it'll most likely get further from the great film it once was. But it had done its job, and that’s all that matters.
It makes me question if my thinking is flawed, if truly great art can only reach me in the right time and place, what good is it to assume that my favourite songs will be of any relevance to the version of myself that I’m soon to become? I sure hope I won’t be the same person when I’m old, so in a way I hope that my artistic interests change, as they’re a reflection of me, and I don’t want to stay the same person forever.
But it can still be sad to let go of what you love, even if it no longer works for you.
You’re in a Relationship, With Art
I can’t help but draw the analogy between art and relationships. People come into our lives at a certain time and they might make perfect sense in that moment, but with the passing of time and the changing of the self, we no longer look at them the way we once did, not because there is anything wrong with them, but because the eyes that perceive them have grown new lenses.
We’re forced to pass them on not because they’re flawed, or because they lost what made them special, but because the person that loved them has changed in just the right way to make them not relevant anymore. The unfortunate reality.
And like a relationship, what use is it clinging to your favourite song when you are starting to question whether it’s your favourite anymore? When the chimes of another bell are ringing just a little too loud to be ignored. You either fight yourself or let go of what you once loved before it finds its own way out.
But it doesn’t feel good to kick someone off your train, because there is always the fear that maybe nobody will get on at the next station, will the transition occur smoothly? Well, you’ve only got so many seats on your train of life, and if you don’t kick people off, you’ll have no room to let anyone on.
And that’s the decision I find myself in with art, I want to cling to every favourite song and every special movie so I can come back whenever I need a hit of nostalgia. But just like the tattoo on my shoulder, the one that belongs to two bands I haven’t listened to in years, you must pass your moments with grace. Not clinging to what needs to go and not clinging to what wants to stay, just letting them do their thing.
If it’s true that your life is a runaway train, it makes no sense to manage the guests that are willing to jump aboard or to lock away those who wish to leave. For as your train passes many stations, it may just be the perfect time for some to jump off and others to jump on.
The Transitory Nature of Love
What I’m getting at is that our favourite songs, films, and people, are gifts of the present. Something that should be enjoyed as they’re relevant, not to be preserved like a mummy out of fear that you might lose them one day, because truth be told, you probably will, and that’s ok.
Because the nature of truly impactful art is always transitory, in that the best stuff is the best stuff because it found you at the right time: showed you what you were feeling, said to you what you wanted to hear, inspired you to be what you wanted, brought you something you didn’t know you needed.
The beauty of great art is in its relationship to you, and although the creation may stay the same, you’re not going to, and with that comes the reality that one day you must let go, even if it’s on your final day.
But truth be told, everything special we let go of one day, whether it be pets, family, friends, art, or whatever else you hold dear to your heart. Nothing lasts forever in this world and the sooner you’re willing to embrace the transitory nature of love, the sooner you can get on to your next big adventure.
There’s a true curse to making friends with foreigners, I’ve had a few, because from the very first day you meet them there’s an understanding that this all goes away one day. At least with people from your own country you can pretend that you’ll be friends forever, but there’s a real truth to that foreigner friendship which comes in the form of “we’ve only got so much time together so let’s enjoy it.”
And truthfully, all friendships, all relationships, and even all art, is like this. We can pretend that it’ll be around forever, but deep down we know that’s not true. We cling to what we love in an attempt to hold on to that which is bound to leave one day, full well knowing that we can’t beat fate, hoping that maybe it’ll hear our plea for mercy.
Realistically though, life moves on and we’ll have to let go one day, so you’re better off letting it happen when it wants to, because you’ll make room for something else to come along, something that’s a better match to the new you.
The central theme of this essay, even though it’s focused on art, is the transitory nature of love, and of how we must be willing to let go of the things we love in order to make way for the new. Whether that’s music, movies, or people.
Everything special must go one day, let it leave graciously.
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Brady, you’ve managed to write a rare, raw, and deeply intelligent reflection. Reading this essay is like overhearing a conversation between Rilke and Nick Hornby in a smoky Parisian café, with Alan Watts topping up their wine.
You’ve made a vulnerable and philosophical case for the impermanence of artistic resonance: the way a song, a film, a painting, can feel like soul-contact one day and then, inexplicably, lose its spell. And your metaphor of the train (the finite luggage space of experience) is not only poignant, it’s necessary. Because we live in a culture that fetishises the archive, that rewards hoarding over surrender. Spotify playlists, Criterion collections, folders titled “inspo” as if by clinging tightly enough, we could outwit transience.
But no, as you so wisely put it, we are the final ingredient. The viewer, the listener, the witness. Great art is not static. Great art is chemically reactive, and we are the solvent. Which means it dies and resurrects with us, shifts shape with our seasons. You couldn’t have watched that film ten years ago or ten years from now, and seen the same version of yourself inside it. It was your personal eclipse. A private synchronicity.
The relationship analogy is painfully accurate. And perhaps that’s why the letting go feels so much like heartbreak. Not because the art has changed, but because we have. That’s the paradox you name so beautifully: that to cling is to interrupt the very flow that made the moment meaningful. Proust knew this, he tried to pin memory down like a butterfly, only to find it fluttering in the tea and madeleine crumbs of involuntary recall. The magic always arrives unbidden, and leaves without warning.
But there’s grace in that, too. In trusting the muse to return in new costumes. In knowing that what you love today, you may outgrow tomorrow, and that this is not loss — it’s evolution. I think of Leonard Cohen’s line: “Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.” Our connection to art scars us in this way: gently, indelibly, without permanence.
Let the song go. Another one is tuning itself to your frequency as we speak.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the most comforting thing of all……..
This was so beautiful and compelling. I have a lot of thoughts but I loved how you tied all of these concepts to love.