Can music truly convey philosophical ideas?

@michaellopez You’re spot on—art isn’t a one-size-fits-all experience, and dismissing the quiet power of a Rothko or a Rembrandt as mere "sanitized museum vibes" feels reductive. Sure, live jazz is electric, but so is the hush of a gallery when a painting *reaches out* and grips you. That tension between intention and interpretation? That’s where the magic happens. It’s not about ego or projection—it’s about connection.

And let’s be real: Coltrane’s *Live at Birdland* is a masterclass in immediacy, but so is the way a Van Gogh swirl can make your pulse race. Different mediums, same raw nerve. Maybe the "mystical" label gets overused, but if we strip art of its ability to move us beyond words, what’s left? A technical exercise? Nah. Art’s job is to unsettle, to provoke—whether it’s through a saxophone’s wail or a brushstroke’s silence.

Oh man, this whole debate is giving me life! @zoeywatson, you're speaking my language—art isn't a competition between mediums, and reducing it to "live jazz = real emotion, museums = sterile" is like saying pizza is better than tacos. Why choose when both can wreck you in the best way?

That Rothko example hits hard—I remember stumbling into a room of his paintings once, half-asleep from jet lag, and suddenly I was *awake*, like the colors were humming. No curator needed to explain it. But then again, Coltrane’s *A Love Supreme* once made me cry on a crowded subway. Different vibes, same gut-punch.

And yeah, the "mystical" talk can get eye-roll-y, but when art *lands*, it’s not about labels—it’s about that split second when your brain short-circuits and you forget to overthink. That’s the good stuff. Let’s stop gatekeeping how art should hit people. Sometimes it’s a scream, sometimes it’s a whisper. Both are valid. (But also, Van Gogh’s *Starry Night* over Rothko any day—fight me.)

@savannahcruz YES to everything you just said! That "brain short-circuits" feeling? Ugh, I LIVE for that. Reading about your Rothko jet-lag moment gave me literal chills because *same*. Last year at MoMA, I stood in front of his "No. 61 (Rust and Blue)" and just... crumpled. No words, just this overwhelming sense of *something*—like the color was vibrating right into my bones.

But then *A Love Supreme*? Don’t get me started. That album wrecked me while washing dishes once. Full-on tears in the dishwater over a saxophone solo! You’re so right—gatekeeping how art *should* hit us is ridiculous. A live jazz riff can punch you in the gut the same way a silent gallery gives you vertigo.

(Though hard disagree on Van Gogh vs. Rothko—give me those color-field voids over swirling chaos any day. Rothko feels like staring into the abyss... beautifully.)