Do you need a specialized language to talk about art? How do you discuss something intelligently, meaning, saying something more than “I know what I like”?

Much as people have developed a common language in order to communicate more effectively, artistic communities have developed their own languages to concisely express complex ideas. Sometimes these languages become so specialized an average person literally cannot understand a sentence written in these argots. Attempting to learn the language so one can study the art could be a lifelong endeavor.

My initial reluctance to study theory of anything stemmed from my nausea induced by the specialized language used in many fields of criticism, especially literary criticism. My English minor at a major university taught me all I needed to know about theory, and nearly killed my love of literature. If I took one thing away from that program, it was that most theory is best categorized as wanking, since it is an exercise fulfilling only to the participant, and usually quite boring for those merely observing.

But, what else was I to do, when it came to subjects about which I knew nothing? I wouldn’t dare to think that I could understand astrophysics merely by looking through a telescope. Could I learn about the arts only by looking at the objects, or listening to the music? Is it possible to really learn about something without delving into theory, and without learning at least some of these specialized languages? I was left with a choice: either wander into the wilderness like Adam and give names to all of the creatures myself, all the while creating my own language into whose Procrustean bed I would need to fit Beethoven, Monet, Donne, and Coppola. Or, I could learn how the creators of these arts have chosen to speak about their own work.

I’ll admit, the first option was a little tempting, for no other reason than to see if I could. Then the alarm clock went off, and I realized I had a job, a significant other, a dog, a body that required sustenance and cleaning, and all of these things would probably interfere with my inventing an artistic language grand enough to encompass all of the arts. So, I chose to learn from the others who have gone before me.

Lately, in an effort to accomplish #28 – Develop an appreciation of music, I have been listening to The Teaching Company courses on classical music with Professor Robert Greenberg. At first, I was hesitant to buy these courses, as I envisioned them being listened to by middle managers in their car on the way to work, giving them something to sound smart about while hanging around the proverbial water cooler. This image was not helped by an episode of “The Office” where Michael Scott is a guest speaker at one of his employee’s business school classes. He marches into the classroom to the accompaniment of the music used to introduce these lectures. When I heard that music, I thought, “I am Michael Scott,” which is not a good thought to have.

But, it also made me think, how else does one acquire knowledge in area about which one knows nothing? One of my rules for this whole thing is that nothing is beneath me, that anything that can offer knowledge about a subject is worthwhile, regardless of its standing in the eyes of any particular community. So, just because Michael Scott listens to these same lectures does not mean they aren’t worthwhile.

Plus, I really enjoy them. Greenberg’s scripted jokes become a little tiresome, but the knowledge he has to offer is encyclopedic. I am currently in the middle of the Classical Era Forms section, and will definitely need to listen to them again in order to fully comprehend what he is saying. And this is what raised the initial question: Do you need specialized language to talk about art?

Some have argued that talking or writing about any form of art is pointless, as the art speaks for itself, and requires no intermediation. This is at best a specious argument, for it allows for seemingly witty phrases like, “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.” But, overall it is entirely unhelpful, and ultimately leads one back to “I know what I like.”

I know almost nothing about music, except what I like. The event that kicked off this project was the realization that I didn’t know why I liked what I like. Sometimes, if I listen again to a piece of music I previously did not cotton to, I notice that I gain a deeper understanding of it, and begin to appreciate it. (This is no big revelation; it’s what most people call “learning.”) I notice its structure, and can anticipate what is unfolding, or be surprised at what does not unfold.

If I take this learning a step further, and start to understand the structure as the composer understood it, meaning, I know what is meant by minuet or rondo, I can understand something about the piece before I even hear it. If a composer labels something “minuet” or “rondo”, I know there is a basic idea to either of these forms. Before I even hear it, I know at a very general level what to expect.

I don’t need to refer to the place where I stand and let water fall on me while I rub a cleaning agent all over my body as “the place where I stand and let water fall on me while I rub a cleaning agent all over my body,” for most English-speaking people will understand what I mean when I say “shower.” So, too, it is with specialized artistic language. A composer need not write “A statement of a principal melody followed by contrasting melodies alternating with periodic restatements of the principal melody” when he could just write “Rondo.”

There is a use for specialized languages, and, more importantly, the people who create the art use them. A composer will never write the definition of the form, only name the form itself. Therefore, if you want to understand anything about the arts, you need to understand the language.