Scents of Pratt

Words and Imagery By Simone Rosenthal

Smell has always been the most comforting of the senses to me. As a child, I would go to New Hampshire with my sisters and mom, who taught a Pratt summer creative arts therapy program for Graduate students. We stayed at The Nordic Inn every summer, located across the street from a forest that led to a river. My mom would teach all day in the group room, and when she’d get off, we’d go swimming in the pool or across the street at the river. The air was far more delicious than the New York air I grew up on. The joy I experienced there was unlike any other.

The smell of the Inn’s entrance floated through the rooms; it brought me intense comfort, intoxicating me as I grew older.

 But when I rack my brain for vocabulary to pinpoint exactly what the smell is and why it means so much to me, I draw a blank. Smells can feel so visceral in the mind and body, but difficult to describe. The Inn has this fresh, wooden, clean-air smell, cold and with a hint of pool water. All the floors were coated in rugs, so the clean smell rose from the floors too. You’d notice throughout the Inn when the smell would grow stronger and when it subsided or was overpowered by notes of chlorine. However, these are just adjectives. The only way to paint an accurate image is through experience. You’d have to take a roadtrip and see for yourself, but it would never strike the same chord as it does for me. This concept is far less straightforward than naming the ocean blue or the water cold. 

Why is it more difficult to describe smell? I could name similes to the smell of the Nordic Inn, but I’m unable to name the scent itself. There’s various contributors to the limitations of language in describing this sensory experience. It’s not as difficult to find sensory primitives for vision, taste and hearing. For vision, some descriptive terms are identified with color or orientation. Taste can be recognized as sweet, sour, and savory among others. Hearing is pitch or volume. But for scents, these general categories are more limited considering the element of chemical complexity, and for myself, its therapeutic nature.

My mom taught on Pratt's Brooklyn campus before I was born. I remember climbing up the South Hall stairwell on my way to Saturday morning drawing classes when I was eight-years-old. What formally felt mundane- climbing up the narrow stairs- now raises similar feelings of nostalgia as those I experienced at The Nordic Inn. I could say its particles are made up of clay and art supplies, but that’s not what causes the warmth in me to stir, it's something deeper, beyond my vocabulary. Smells have a more direct link to memory for me, knotting to emotions.

Whenever I’m in the visual art buildings, I’m reminded of being young; at that time, I had few desires and responsibilities, and simply pursued interests at my leisure, which at the time included drawing. Maybe we experience the most pure joy during childhood, and that’s why scents from that time are so meaningful yet indistinguishable in their essence. There is one hallway at Pratt that smells just like the Inn. It’s in North Hall, past the Pi shop and sometimes after class I’ll just stand there, breathe, and close my eyes. Now, the smell is the calm in the storm that is papers, readings, and deadlines—the whirlpool of responsibility.

Although there are many nostalgic scents that originated from childhood, this isn’t a requirement. People’s natural aromas are almost impossible to name. I find it fascinating that I have no clue how to characterize the smell of my friends or family, but I could identify them with a whiff of their space or their worn clothes. Individual peoples' scents are so unique-I like to ask people close to me what I smell like and the most often response is, You smell like Simone. For some there’s a fear of washing an ex lovers t-shirt, crying as time passes and the scent fades. Or wearing your best friend's sweater to school, like she’s hugging you-their smells invoke feelings of love.

We can only communicate to each other the things we know, and our knowledge is so narrow to the vastness of sensation. I think the best feelings and sensations are indescribable. Humans use language as a mode of categorization, and since we lack the words for smell, it connects more to the unconscious mind, the more abstract and less tangible. Smell is beyond our realm of understanding; the world is far more complex than our brains' ability to process and communicate. The beauty of our brains truly takes place in the unconscious mind. Humans think we are the smartest beings, yet there's so much out there we couldn’t begin to comprehend. I find that oddly comforting.