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A few weeks ago, I got takeout for dinner with a friend, and we decided to brave the cold and eat outside in the Yard. We wound up at the temporary outdoor art installation in Tercentenary Theater, “Autumn (…Nothing Personal),” that was taken down at the beginning of October. The installation was a pocket of warm light in the Yard’s late-night darkness, illuminating our faces softly as we sat down on the wooden benches. We ate and talked quietly, catching glimpses of other people coming and going through layers of glowing yellow plastic tubes.

“I don’t normally like art,” my friend said suddenly, “but, for once, this is actually kind of nice.”

I’ve been thinking about that statement a lot. So many people don’t like, or understand, or feel connected to art. But something felt different about the immersive, peaceful atmosphere of “Autumn (…Nothing Personal).” It wasn’t particularly pretentious, intimidating, or even conscious of its role as art. It simply created a welcoming space for us to enjoy each other’s company.

Welcoming spaces like this allow us to live fully in the moment, but the way we approach art often impedes our ability to do so. At museums, the sheer quantity of stuff can be overwhelming, making it difficult to fully contemplate any one work of art. And, when I’ve been lucky enough to see pieces as famous as the “Mona Lisa” or “Starry Night,” they’ve been surrounded by mobs of people taking photographs, viewing the art through their phone screens instead of truly seeing it.

I’m reminded of the absurdity of photographing fireworks, something I’m often guilty of. Every time I do, I wind up with disappointing photos that never look quite right. There’s a reason we watch fireworks in the real world instead of scrolling through images on the Internet: The full sensory experience can’t be communicated digitally. A tiny pixelated screen won’t convey the immense brightness of glowing explosions against a dark sky, the whistling quiet before a thundering crackling of light. Nobody ever looks back on these pictures to reminisce about a firework show, so taking them only detracts from the actual experience.

Much like fireworks, art demands our attention in person. Photos won’t convey a painting’s textures, the richness of its colors, the shared artistic experience with strangers, the physicality of approaching from a distance, and the way its features disintegrate or resolve up close. If a photograph were all we needed, we would stay at home and Google the “Mona Lisa,” or “Starry Night,” to find professional renditions of our shaky iPhone images.

Instead, we go to museums because art is much more than a static visual experience. But it’s so easy to forget this in the presence of masterpieces, which seem inaccessible and daunting on a museum wall. We’re intimidated and distracted from our immediate experience by a sense of awe and an urge to photograph, to capture digitally something that might only be capturable as memory (or not at all).

And art isn’t the only sphere in which intimidating surroundings distract us. Self-consciousness and self-doubt affect the rest of our lives, too. At Harvard, it can be hard to shake off the pressure to prove ourselves, driving our attention away from what we actually care about. For example, I’ve sometimes found myself hesitant to reach out to professors, afraid that I’ll have nothing “smart” to say — but this mindset robs us of thought-provoking conversations, potential mentors, and sparks to fuel our passions. Similarly, our friends’ or classmates’ achievements often trigger twinges of self-doubt, which bitterly detract from our genuine inspiration or delight. And we worry about what we will or won’t or should accomplish by graduation — but this distracts us from what we are accomplishing right now, and what we detest, question, or want to change about our lives.

At the heart of a campus that can be so high-pressure and intimidating, "Autumn (...Nothing Personal)" provided a deeply approachable, social, and introspective space. It asked us to sit on its benches and become part of it, instead of observing from the outside in awe. It asked us to bring our thoughts and conversations with us, immersing us in the present. And it became home to a series of Baldwin readings, performances, and other events envisioned by its creator Teresita Fernandez, thus fully realizing its role as a way to foster human emotion and connection.

I think this is why my friend appreciated the installation so much. Art generally does not welcome the viewer’s participation so clearly and wholeheartedly, does not try to convey how simultaneously social and personal art can be. It’s refreshing to see an installation that rejects the daunting formality of masterpieces on museum walls. And we can also learn to approach other works of art through this lens — not as remote and mystifying masterpieces, but as vehicles for thinking about our own lives.

Harvard needs more spaces that challenge the judgment and pressures we face daily, just as "Autumn (...Nothing Personal)" challenges inaccessibility and intimidation in art. The installation is gone from the Yard now, but it serves as an example of a social landscape that brought together individuals to reflect and to connect. It’s up to us to find or build new spaces, on Harvard’s campus and in our lives, where we can live in the moment without triggering self-doubt. It’s hard to let go of fear and pressure, but it’s something we all face, built into the landscape around us, and open conversation about this reality is the first step to changing it.

Isabella C. Aslarus ’21, a Crimson Design editor, lives in Leverett House. Her column appears on alternate Tuesdays.