While watching the the interior design episode of the Netflix docu-series Abstract, I couldn’t help but think of what goes on behind the scenes.
There’s a scene where iconic designer Ilse Crawford, the main subject of the episode, walks to the exact beat of the background music. I wonder: Was she told to walk a certain pace? Or was the music timed perfectly to her steps?
It’s probably the latter, but of course, it doesn’t really matter which came first. The resulting scene was bound to be as delightful either way.
A younger version of me wouldn’t have bothered.
He would’ve simply enjoyed the scene. He might have thought to himself, “wow, her steps are in sync with the music,” and that would be the end of it.
Present-day me wonders and doubts more because I know more.
I’ve been behind the scenes of shoots before. I’ve seen how these things are planned. I’ve experienced the consequences of believing without reading between the lines. The more you are bitten by reality, the more careful you are not to trust it so easily.
However, I do sometimes miss being oblivious, being out of the loop, even blind.
When we were kids, magic was actually magic, and not simply tricks.
I’m a huge fan of the deliberate suspension of disbelief. You would know this if you spent a day with me. Awe is among my top five favorite emotions. I attribute my love for movies to this constant search for awe.
I remember when I used to watch—on average—one movie a day in 2021. But when the pandemic ended, so did my intense movie watching era. At the time, I was particularly magnetized towards movies with internally conflicted male leads. Somehow, these genres made suspension of disbelief much easier due to their relatable nature.
Like all things, there is a danger to taking this to the extreme. We’re prone to manipulation and deceit, but I also think there are instances when the risk is worth it.
To take reality and—for just a second—put it aside as irrelevant, this might be how life is fully unlocked.
I still remember the mental photos I took seven years ago.
It seems to me, the department in our mental faculties that takes charge of processing and storing mental photos also handles suspension of reality. In other words, the part of our brains that inhales reality is the same part that suspends it—this is likely inaccurate physiologically, but this is how it feels.
Total immersion into just being.
Whether we’re dealing with reality, a fictional piece of work, or our own imagination, is immaterial. When we take a pause on disbelief—that a moment could last longer than a moment, that a work of art can take us on a trip, that we can surprise ourselves with our own creativity—we take a pause on ordinary time itself.
We take control by letting go.
I’ve taken the same approach when I write. A year ago, I would write with an end in mind. That was not nearly as enjoyable as my current process. It was too much forcing, not enough openness, barely any trust in the process.
Now, my preferred method of writing is to begin somewhere and let the words take me where they want to go.
Thinking through the act of writing, without forcing the thought to go one way or the other. In some strange way, it already knows where it wants to go. If we listen and if we’re open to the possibility of being wrong, we arrive somewhere entirely new.
Willing suspension of control. Life is more fun this way.