These are very subtle things, of course, and I don't expect

Hear the quiet but profound words of Atom Egoyan, a creator of films that stir the hidden places of the soul: “These are very subtle things, of course, and I don’t expect everyone to pick them up consciously, but I think that there is something there that you must be able to feel, there is an energy at work that I must trust my audience will be able to pick up at some level.” In this confession lies the essence of all true art—that beyond plot, beyond reason, beyond surface understanding, there is an energy woven into the fabric of a work, a force not always seen but deeply felt.

The meaning is clear: the artist cannot explain everything, nor should he. Some truths are too delicate for words, too fragile for reason. They must be felt rather than understood. Egoyan admits that much of what he builds into his creations will not be grasped by every eye or mind. Yet he believes that an attentive heart will sense it, as one feels the warmth of sunlight through closed eyes. This is the mystery of art: it speaks in layers, some conscious, some hidden, and it demands of us more than mere observation—it demands that we feel.

The ancients knew this power well. When the tragedians of Greece filled the amphitheaters, not every citizen understood every mythic reference or subtle poetic turn. Yet all who sat in the crowd felt the weight of catharsis, the purging of pity and fear. They may not have been able to name what moved them, but they carried away the energy that the poet had set loose upon the stage. Egoyan’s wisdom is their wisdom: art works not only through intellect but through invisible threads that bind audience and creator.

Consider also the example of Beethoven. When he wrote his late string quartets, many of his contemporaries declared them incomprehensible. The melodies twisted strangely, the harmonies were subtle, the structure defied expectation. Yet even those who could not analyze the music felt its gravity, its ache, its sublime energy. They could not explain it, but they were moved. This is exactly what Egoyan speaks of: the subtle things, beyond analysis, that stir the heart at a level beneath reason.

This is why trust is central in Egoyan’s words. The artist must trust the audience—not that they will decode every symbol or grasp every intention, but that they will sense the energy at some level. Without this trust, the artist would be enslaved to over-explaining, flattening mystery into instruction. But art thrives on ambiguity; its power is often in what is not said, in what hovers between the lines, in what the audience must meet halfway. To trust the audience is to honor their humanity, to believe that within them lies the same capacity for wonder and for recognition.

The lesson for us is not confined to art, but reaches into life itself. So much of what binds us to one another is not spoken, but felt—a glance, a silence, a gesture that carries more meaning than words could. We must learn to attune ourselves to these subtle energies, both in others and within ourselves. And when we act, whether in art, in friendship, or in leadership, we must learn to trust that what is sincere will be felt, even if it cannot be explained.

Therefore, remember Egoyan’s wisdom: “There is an energy at work that I must trust my audience will be able to pick up at some level.” Live in such a way that you respect the unseen forces—the subtle kindness that may heal another, the unspoken truth that may awaken courage, the quiet gesture that may echo longer than thunderous speeches. Do not demand that everything be explained or understood. Trust instead that sincerity and truth have their own radiance, and that others will feel it, even if they cannot name it. This is the path of the artist, and it is also the path of the wise.