Embodiment and Art

I remember having one of those unexpectedly deep conversations with architect Sarah Robinson, the kind where you start talking about one thing and end up somewhere entirely different. Her book Architecture Is a Verb had just hit the shelves, and we were discussing embodiment and architecture—how we physically inhabit spaces, but also how those spaces inhabit us. It was one of those chats that sticks with you, the kind that lingers in the back of your mind and makes you see the world a little differently.

So, naturally, I started thinking about embodiment and art. What does it mean to embody something? And how does that translate to the way we experience art? I mean, “embodiment” is one of those slippery words—like “consciousness” or “love”—that everyone sort of gets but no one really wants to define. Keeping it simple: embodiment is how we relate to the world through our bodies. It’s not just about existing in a space, but about understanding that space through the physicality of being human. It’s how your body reacts to the sound of rain on the roof or the way a particularly poignant piece of music can make your skin tingle.

Here’s the thing that really hit me: we are always embodying our experience of art. Every time we stand in front of a painting, or listen to a piece of music, or run our fingers over a sculpture, we’re engaging in an embodied experience. And, of course, this was one of those “duh” moments for me—the kind where you realize something so obvious you’re almost embarrassed you didn’t see it sooner. Our bodies are basically these giant sensors, picking up and processing information all the time. When you look at art, it’s not just your brain doing the work; your entire body is on the clock, sending feedback like “this is beautiful” or “this makes me uncomfortable” or “is that a snake or just an abstract squiggle?”

Art, by definition, is a stimulus. It’s designed to provoke, to evoke, to make us feel something. And feelings, well, they’re not just things that happen in your head. They manifest in your body—your heart rate changes, your skin temperature shifts, you might even feel a flutter in your stomach. A few years ago, some researchers in Finland even mapped out where different emotions are felt in the body, as if to say, “Yes, love really does give you a warm glow, and anxiety really is a knot in your gut.”

But here’s where it gets tricky: emotions are the unsung heroes of art. We might not always realize it, but every time we engage with art, we’re having an emotional response—whether it’s a pang of nostalgia, a burst of joy, or a stab of melancholy. And these emotions? They’re deeply tied to aesthetics. Yes, I’m going to argue that everything, and I mean everything, is about aesthetics. How you dress, how you decorate your home, even how you choose your friends—it’s all about what looks and feels right to you. An aesthetic response is an emotional reaction, as visceral as it is intellectual.

So, what does all this mean? It means that paying attention to how our bodies react to art (and life, for that matter) can tell us a lot about ourselves. It’s a form of self-awareness that goes beyond the surface, digging into the core of who we are and how we interact with the world. And maybe, just maybe, it can help us understand not just the art we’re looking at, but the person who’s doing the looking.