Catharsis, And?!
Catharsis should be iterative, not just an explosion of emotion but an equal implosion of realization.
Since the election, I’ve been thinking about catharsis or “a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or release from tension”1
Art has been my primary source of catharsis, an ever-refilling well throughout my life. In my teenage years, my favorite movies were The Bucket List, The Fault in Our Stars, and The Last Song — all of which address death in a direct and (yes) obvious way.
These movies allowed me to access the bittersweetness of being alive. That is, that feeling that one day we’re all going to die and, sadder still, many of the people we love will likely go before we do. Living with that is its own kind of death, but it’s also a call to live more boldly. To love harder.
I guess you could say I was addicted to bittersweet catharsis. It provided a portal for me to feel deep, human feelings at a time when I had the impression my life was passing by insignificantly and the stakes were not high. I was in high school, fretting over homework assignments and mean girls. But when I watched these movies, I got a glimpse into the real emotional stakes of my life and (more importantly to me) what I would one day write about.
As an adult, this catharsis equation (sad movie + cry = emotional release) has stopped computing. The formula worked when I was younger, but now that I’m (almost) ten years divorced from my teenage self, I have a more realistic model for life’s many emotional plot twists. There are more to come, but in the interim, I find myself craving genuine Catharsis (capital “C”). That is, Catharsis that leads to something more than a biological reaction (crying, screaming, arson — you get the picture).
Catharsis, And
Anyone who’s taken an improv class — sadly, I have — knows that you should always say “yes, and.” Meaning when another actor suggests that he’s a self-driving car with a heart of gold, you go with it. You never say, “Self-driving cars don’t have hearts.”
I think Catharsis works the same way. It’s not just “life is hard and I’m sad.” It’s life is hard (art), I’m sad (catharsis), and something else. In other words, Catharsis should be iterative, not just an explosion of emotion but an equal implosion of realization.2
catharsis vs. Catharsis
Recently, I watched two movies that didn’t quite provide this “something else:” My Old Ass and We Live in Time. I watched the credits scroll with damp cheeks, but there was nothing else. Nothing more than melancholia. Nothing beyond the precipice of emotion.
The visual I have in my mind is standing at the fraying edge of the ocean and feeling unable to walk forward into the water.
I’m starting to expect something more from art. I don’t want to cry at the end; I want to be (metaphorically) soaked in newfound understanding. Nothing less than transformed.
I know! It’s a lot to ask.
Now would be a good time to mention Patricia Lockwood’s 2022 novel No One Is Talking About This. I’m not exaggerating when I say I think about this book at least a few times a week.
Without spoiling this literary wonder (YOU SIMPLY MUST GO IN BLIND), Lockwood tells the story of a woman living an extremely online life (in “the portal”) until the offline world insists upon her attention.
The book made me cry so hard I kept having to put it down because I literally couldn't see the text. After finally reading the last page and crying for several more hours, I found something better than catharsis. The book fundamentally shifted how I thought about my internet balancing act. I realized that the scales had tipped too far over to ones and zeros (that’s how the internet works, right?); it was time to give the power back to my offline life.
In the two years since I read this novel, Lockwood’s story has only sunk in deeper and become more and more relevant.
On an ordinary day, I stepped through the Cathartic portal of this book and emerged entirely different. How f*cking cool is that?
I love crying in a dark theater, but when the lights turn back on, I want to know that something fundamental has shifted. Maybe that’s what I really longed for as a seventeen-year-old watching Miley Cyrus finish making the stained glass window for her late father. Not just to cry but to experience the knowledge just beyond the Catharsis.
I’m getting closer, tear by tear.
And?!
So! Back to the election (my sincerest condolences). I hope you find your catharsis however you find it — through art or by signing up for a marathon or by screaming into your pillow. But maybe pause after all that crying. Listen to the call that comes afterward. Ask yourself: And?!
Tell me, what has been your most Cathartic art experience? What came afterward?
Colored Television, Danzy Senna ~ This book follows Jane, who is struggling to write “a mulatto War and Peace” under the long shadow of the dazzling, rotting Hollywood industrial complex. It reads like a house on fire, and if life would stop interrupting (rude), I would have read it in one sitting.
Us Fools, Nora Lange ~ In between re-listening to vampire books I loved as a teenager (because, nostalgia), I’ve been throwing on this audiobook about sisters growing up in rural Illinois. The writing is exquisite, and I can’t say no to a story about sisters.
Sable, Bon Iver ~ Oh! Bon Iver, you beautiful weirdo, you’ve done it again. I can’t for the life of me tell you a single lyric from this album, but I love the music. The textural layering reminds me of a really well-written novel, and I’ve found myself closing my eyes and just listening.
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Kudos to Merriam-Webster.
The etymology geeks will love this: “Catharsis and cathartic both trace to the Greek word kathairein, meaning “to cleanse, purge.” Catharsis entered English as a medical term having to do with purging the body—and especially the bowels—of unwanted material. The adjective cathartic entered English with a meaning descriptive of such a physically cleansing purge. It didn’t take long for people to start using these words figuratively in reference to emotional release and spiritual cleansing.”
You need to watch Dear Zachary.