The Met
I nearly miss it in my hurry to find the Michelangelo exhibition. Brisk steps through the ornate hallway of European paintings are fixed on the destination, and I almost keep my gaze forward-only. But a force greater than me, something so strong I nearly feel its fingers on my shoulder, pulls me leftward, taking control of my eyes and causing me to stop dead in my tracks. I slowly float into the large opening of Galleries 819 & 822, where the works of Monet live and breathe… and, apparently, extend arms to yank up unsuspecting museum-goers.
I stand amongst the Monets at the Met, enveloped by the watercolor masterpieces, the strokes, the stories, the textures. I feel the warmth of my tears before I know I’m shedding them. There is no response but to behold what is all around me—absorbing me—and to take in the beauty and message therein. I cry for nothing and everything. I feel the universe of my humanity and everything is observable and identifiable by the language of color only. Joy is vermillion; peace is ultramarine; contemplation is cadmium yellow. This is visceral and real. I understand more of myself, more of the people around me, more of the artist by this simple immersion, and I am changed. This was the most honest of experiences, a gentle scar on my heart that I willingly carry and happily recall in great detail. It altered me in ways that aren’t fully knowable, but my perspective endured a serendipitous shift, and I am a better human because of it. That day at The Metropolitan Museum of Art is tattooed within. It was an immersion that became infusion, and it forever altered my look at what is possible with my own life.
See, this is what I want to do with my life. I want to create the “gentle scars” that people carry with them, the tattoos that ink the heart, the immersive experiences that become infusing experiences. The practical application of my Monet moment comes down to this: Designing experiences needn’t be complicated; this kind of design really only requires truth, and a commitment to consistently reveal it to people, over and over. Great experience design doesn’t need to beg for attention; it will stop you dead in your tracks without so much as a whisper. I believe experiences that shape us must first consume us. Therefore, this is the north star, the highest good in designing the experiences that remain on the lips of those who are shaped. Consume them; absorb them; immerse them; infuse them.
Do you have a memory of an experience that changed you forever? What was it that turned the experience from immersion to infusion? How can you take this approach in designing experiences, even if only for your home?
