The Suspended Chord

An Exploration of the Art That Holds Us — Why We Should Explore Our Own Artistic Sensibilities

More than mood music:

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It’s crazy how your subconscious emotional state draws to you the art that mirrors it.

My brothers and I stood in front of the expansive bay windows in the hallway beside the hospital garden. The green and flowery hues that had tried to announce an early spring were being suffocated by frost. That bleak afternoon sun gave way to veiling clouds, and chilling snow began re-blanketing the ground—whatever life had bloomed too early was doomed. I wish this were just a painterly image I was describing, but it was a moment in time.

Minutes earlier, my father had died.

The glass halls, moments before, had been filled with wails from my siblings, myself, my mother; but now, all that remained was an empty silence. There were physically no more tears left. And I stood there—suspended.

And part of me is still there… held in a moment that replays, hyperslow— white flakes tumbling gently, catching the fading silver light of a sun just before it disappears behind the expanding grey gloom. The frost creeps in, rolling quietly across the green, smothering the early bloom. And then… it reverses. And replays. Slower still.

I’ve found that when I return to that moment (even when I don’t realize it), I hear it—a captured melody, the unresolved note, the suspended chord. (Yes, the memory itself is scored…)

Without knowing it for a while, I was chasing it…that feeling articulated. I couldn’t put my finger on it—though it should’ve been obvious. Several of my stories were pulled toward an unseen vortex, bent in the direction of loss and silent grief. One film won awards; a few others had their true themes go unrecognized... but you can see it if you look hard enough.

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"But it had been twelve years since that day, and four since the death of Zahar. He was his own man now." — Seal of Bewitching Slumber

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I wish I could say all of this was conscious, but that would be a lie. Eventually, I started to have realizations, and began writing a feature film that intentionally explored some of those feelings—though it’s wrapped in a veiled cloak of paranormal romance and sci-fi. But as I wrote, I began to feel it—that suspended sensation. That hovering in-between. (And as I edit this, I realize “In-between” is literally the title of a series i’ve been penning— my subconscious is apparently very unhinged lol)

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I tend to write musically. All my prose and dialogue carry some kind of tempo—a silent melody underneath. When I direct, I feel the scene rhythmically—patterns of speech and cadence, footsteps, the tempo of movement, the way the light falls... it's a song. (All very “Viewpoints” to the artists who know what that means.) When I edit, there’s a rhythm too—and I tend to cut in an emotional “key.” I didn’t even realize I was doing it until I worked with a professional composer and post-production supervisor who called it out.

And years after that tableau in front of the window, I started to feel at ease when I heard certain “sounds”. Not necessarily the kind of peaceful ease—but the kind that happens when you feel seen. When something understands you.

It wasn’t until I started digging deep into music and music theory—while prepping for this film—that it all came into focus. The truth about myself, and my musical inclinations. It was a random Monday. A track from Ad Astra randomly cycled on my writing playlist—and something punched me in the gut.

I felt what could have been tears, if I’d let them—the warm kind. But I was right in the middle of a coffeeshop, being watched, curiously, by the gorgeous barista... tears just weren’t going to happen in that moment. (Please spare any diatribes… lol)

There was something in the melody and the chord progression that took me to that place— it wasn’t a bad place (I knew it wasn’t going to ruin my day), but it wasn’t exactly happy either. It was honestly familiar and comforting, like walking back into a dim house after a long day. But it was somber; a somberness that wrapped around me like a blanket.

But this time, I needed to know why.
What was behind the sounds coming through my headphones that made me want to emote so heavily?
What was the code that could so easily hack masculinity and public composure—
that’s some powerful magick.

I’ve been on a journey to learn music—the theory of it, to uncover the magic behind it. It’s for several reasons: to be a better director, I need to truly understand the language of music. I want to try my hand at composing my own pieces. But there’s also a curiosity in learning why I gravitate to certain sounds and melodies. If I can understand why the mystic force works on me, I can use that arcane knowledge to enhance my own mesmerisms. So I abandoned the assignment I had in front of me and dived back into my after-hours obsession with understanding music theory.

So I took the name of the song and brought it to my personal ChatGPT, affectionately named “Ava,” and… well… here’s the conversation—

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Me: Ava, this song is on repeat, and I'm trying to figure out how to replicate the feeling.

Ava: Ah, you're captivated by Max Richter's "Journey Sequence" from the Ad Astra soundtrack. Richter's compositions often blend minimalist structures with rich emotional textures, creating immersive soundscapes. To replicate the feeling this piece evokes, consider the following approaches:

Explore Similar Composers and Pieces:
Jóhann Jóhannsson: His work, like "The Wanderer," offers a comparable blend of orchestral and electronic elements.
Ólafur Arnalds: Pieces such as "Saman" provide gentle piano and string arrangements that evoke deep emotions.
Ludovico Einaudi: Known for minimalist piano compositions like "Nuvole Bianche," which carry a reflective mood.

Me: Nice. All of these composers already have heavy rotation in my playlist.

Ava: You’re tuned into that whole minimalist emotional spectrum—swelling strings, intimate pianos, those textures that don’t scream but ache gently beneath the surface. You don’t just listen—you feel. Every crescendo is a memory. Every silence is intentional.
So if we’re tryna replicate the feeling of "Journey Sequence," then you’re chasing something that’s not just about music theory.

It’s:

• a slow reveal

• a quiet unraveling

• movement without urgency

• and that bittersweet ache like something is beginning and ending at the same time.

And it was here that I was once again reminded of the power of art—how we’re drawn to the work that speaks to us, and/or it finds us where we are.

Me: Ava… explain both minimalist structures and suspended chords?

Ava:

Minimalist Structure – What It Is & Why It Hits
At its core, musical minimalism is about simplicity and repetition with subtle transformation.
It’s not plain—it’s intentional. It’s like watching waves roll in—each one looks similar, but none are exactly the same. Emotion builds gradually over time, not through dramatic changes, but through evolution.

Key traits:

• Repetition with variation: A short motif or phrase is repeated, but tiny changes are introduced (a new note, added harmony, shift in rhythm).

• Layering: Instruments slowly build up in layers—one comes in, another drops out.

• Sustained tones & space: Notes are allowed to linger. Silence is part of the rhythm.

• Hypnotic effect: The listener is drawn into a trance-like state where time feels slowed.

Max Richter, Philip Glass, Steve Reich, and Ólafur Arnalds are all masters at this. Richter especially uses this form emotionally—you don’t always notice the changes, but your body feels them.

Suspended Chords – The Emotional Tension You Love
Suspended chords (sus2 and sus4) are chords where the 3rd is replaced by either the 2nd or 4th scale degree.

Let me break that down without music theory jargon overload:

A normal major or minor chord gives you closure.
Like: C major = C + E + G. That E is the “3rd”—it defines the chord’s mood (major = happy, minor = sad).

A suspended chord takes out that 3rd and puts in:
A 2nd (D) → C–D–G = Csus2
Or a 4th (F) → C–F–G = Csus4

This creates tension—because your ear wants that 3rd to resolve.
But suspended chords don’t resolve right away. They hang in the air… uncertain, unfinished, suspended.

It’s the sound of someone holding their breath. Of something unsaid.
That’s why it feels emotional—even when the chord itself is simple.
Suspended chords are neutral emotionally—but they're loaded with potential. In minimalist music, they often sit there and linger, making you feel like something is about to shift… but not yet.

Put It Together: Minimalism + Suspended Chords
A piece like “Journey Sequence” thrives off this combo:

• Minimalist repetition lulls you in

• Suspended chords keep you emotionally suspended (literally)

• Layering builds emotional complexity without overwhelming the ear

That’s why it feels like time is slowing down and your heart’s being pulled softly forward. You’re inside a moment that doesn’t want to end…

END OF CHAT LOG

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And in all that, there’s so much, and so many lines I could highlight:

“Musical minimalism is about simplicity and repetition with subtle transformation.” That’s not just theory—it’s how memory works. How grief works. The same moment, over and over, changing just enough to shape you.

“A normal major or minor chord gives you closure,” but suspended chords don’t resolve. They hang. They ache. And maybe that’s the most honest reflection of what I’ve felt, what I’ve written. “Because your ear wants that 3rd to resolve.” And mine still does.

I don’t know if this article has much of a thesis and its certainly not meant to be a journal entry or substitute for therapy and ministerial counseling.
Hopefully, it’s more of an exploration—or an example of how allowing art to be a mirror can lead us to epiphanies about ourselves.

What’s my epiphany? Maybe I’m still suspended. Like the chords I’m drawn to—pulled into a space where time slowed down, where I was held, uncertain of what to do next, or what life was supposed to look like. Stuck in that space where something is beginning and ending at the same time.

Of course, all the real implications will need to be explored further… and likely not so publicly.

But to seek, and discover, whatever epiphanies are within and without—that’s the power that art has for the artist. And it makes what we do better. It has the potential to make us better.

The exploration of art is itself the journey—and it’s a divine gift.

Everyone has their chord.
For now, mine is suspended—
It won’t always be.
But while it is, I intend to explore it.
Explore yours.