The master knows: in art, there’s no right or wrong—only different ways to move through it.

A friend once asked: “If it’s all arbitrary, why not use horrendous-sounding chords?”

Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring immediately came to mind—specifically “Augurs of Spring,” where he stacks E major and F major chords in the strings, creating a brutal, haunting march.

Play them on a piano and you might wince—Ew. What a nasty clash.

But in the right hands, that ugliness becomes power. It becomes art.

Art isn’t about sounding pretty. It’s about saying something worth hearing.