Pain By Numbers

I love art.

From a soothing ASMR makeup tutorial to the cyberpunk worldbuilding of an indie video game, I have a deep appreciation for witnessing unique, personal work. Whenever I marvel at the San Francisco skyline, ride a corkscrew rollercoaster, or savor the greasy richness of fresh homemade lumpia, I engage with the emotional core of the artist. I could have no knowledge or connection with the artist, yet find resonance or disturbance in their artistry.

Art has no rules, no objective morals, no exclusion. The pure expression of art is boundless.

I hate math. The process is cyclical and tiring. The journey is mechanical and repetitive. The results are uninspired and colorless. I remember lugging around dog-eared multiplication tables and bulky algebra workbooks before I knew what a semicolon was. Papers would sprawl in my backpack as they waited to be repurposed as campfire kindling at summer barbecues. Seated in a cramped desk, I would scavenge through my pouch of shoddy pencils, trying to salvage any signs of life in the ash-filled morgue.

Each worksheet presents a mind-numbing puzzle coded in convoluted language that commands me to "show your work." I laugh at the instruction.

What work belongs to me? I did not create the formula to solve for x; I copied the teacher to maintain my GPA. Creativity is maimed when the answer is predestined. With no personality, I have zero connection to the work. Forgive me for failing to make polynomials avant-garde!

In all fairness, the point of math is to be definite and impartial. Math is for objective truth. Gas prices and weather forecasts may change, but their succinct information provides direct communication and stability. These aspects require clarity, not artistic interpretation.

I must remind myself that numbers tell, not show. Providing concrete statistics and lounging around in tax returns is their job. The pure definition of math creates these fixed boundaries. All to force me to calculate the earnings of fictional bake sales.

I love talking about music. One push of a button can transport me to a brand new universe. Within this unexplored reality, I encounter a mix of characters: the carefree whimsy of refined pedal steel, the drunken stupor of a rollicking bassline, the dissonant yet alluring seductress of an augmented piano chord, the brazen shriek of an immigrant mother.

Whenever a person vividly recounts their adventure into art, my soul itches to uncover their interdimensional travels. Rich retellings of one's universe exploration add palpable layers to the artwork.

In one moment of paralysis, I needed to break away from my universe. Following a breakup, I sought asylum in power chords and orchestral swells. I prompted a conversation about music with a friend, seeking spiritual medicine. I asked if they had any music recommendations for coping with loss.

"I don't really have anything," they said, eyes drifting towards their meal. "You probably wouldn't like my music, anyway."

I asked what music they liked. They responded with mainstream country artists. Although country was not prevalent in my childhood, I was gradually becoming more acquainted with the genre. I recognized a decent amount of the names they listed.

"Oh, I know Cody Johnson," I exclaimed. "He's that Texas Country guy, a bit far removed from the Nashville scene. Yeah, he has that hit song "'Til You Can't", the one about taking risks in life because you may never get another chance to do them. What do you think of it?"

"6," they reflexively uttered.

A couple seconds passed. I drummed my fingertips softly on the table, watching to see if their lips would twitch. They remained sealed.

"Why?"

They shrugged. "I dunno know. Like, it's kinda overplayed. Ain't my vibe. Just a mid 6."

"But wh-" I was cut off by a sharp glance. I wanted to travel to their universe, but they deactivated their portal. I retreated to my misery.

I still grieve. Not for the one that got away, but for the ones and zeros that obliterate discussion. I see it all over my universe.

Movies and albums are reviewed with meager explanation and a fat numerical rating. Videos and blogs are only assessed on their viewership and audience engagement. Mainstream music homogenizes popular sounds to create and commodify a hybridized, milquetoast monogenre appealing to everybody - listeners do not give enough effort to care.

We engage to fill a vacuum, not to feed our souls. As we pay for distractions, the algorithm repeats. The universe loses color. Artistic thought dies.

I understand why math merges with art. I have read restaurant reviews, observed their one-star rating, and scrolled to the next page. I have glanced at the runtimes of sci-fi blockbusters and black metal albums, and chose shorter alternatives. I have glimpsed at the estimated lengths of blog posts and poetry submissions, and immediately hit the back button.

The complexities of art require effort. Given the potential disappointment in unknown art, people would rather place their energy and money towards more productive means. Folks will blindly gravitate towards convenient ratings and mainstream appeals than indulge in the obscure.

I understand why humans combine math and art - but at what cost?

Math confines art. Math equates popularity with quality. Math erases intellectual discourse for convenience. Math distills human beauty into six-foot men and dime-pieces. Math treats art as an asset. Math closes the portal. Terminates discussion. Destroys art.

The pure expression of art is boundless. Our engagement rots in an ash-filled morgue.