The summer after I graduated high school, I took a university prerequisite course which took place every day for a month. I walked to the bus every morning while listening to Troye Sivan’s debut single, Happy Little Pill, on repeat. I hadn’t listened to any of Sivan’s other discography since that time, nor had I thought of him and his work, until years later, after hearing a song of his play on the radio, I was immediately brought back. Vivid memories of that warm June inundated me: the scalding sun shining on me during my twenty-minute walk, the frigid AC in the classroom where I spent five hours every morning, trying to hide my smirk as the two class clowns repeatedly interrupted the lecture with inappropriate humor. And while I primarily associate this song with those specific memories, it brings about a larger set of feelings from that time: a newfound sense of independence and an eagerness to see what was next to come.

Given its heavy lyrical content, Happy Little Pill is not the song I would normally associate with a moment in my life that felt so grand, new, and exciting. However, reflecting on the lyrics hints at how perhaps, subconsciously, Sivan’s single made its way into the roster of songs I listened to on repeat that summer because of its lyrical content. Exploring themes of friendship and mental illness, it provided familiarity, as I, too, had overcome a bad bout of mental illness earlier that spring and was only beginning to feel remotely like myself again. So,  despite the intensity of the topics at hand, the song offered a moment of respite and resilience.

Music, memories, and scents all have a way of doing this; bringing you back to a specific moment in the past and forming a connection to feelings of loss, heartbreak, or joy. Though, at the given time, we are unaware of the impact a specific piece will have on our lives in the future. If you had asked me in 2015 if I’d be reflecting on the songs I’d listened to that summer and associating them to my growth, I’d have never guessed that would be the case.

In fact, it really is quite interesting to think of it this way. The content we are currently consuming on a daily basis will, perhaps, unintentionally become a greater part of our lives. For the time being, however, the significance of the music we listen to, the movies we watch, and the books we read is unknown.

While I most commonly associate music with the ability to prompt nostalgia, I recently began to think of the ways in which films could do this too. 

Until recently, I remembered near to nothing about Peter Jackson’s 2005 King Kong. I did, however, remember it exclusively as the last film we watched the night before my grandfather died. The memory is etched in full texture and color in my mind. My brother and I sat in the living room while my grandfather lay on the couch, the sun reflecting off the pristine white snowbanks that partially blocked the windows and into the room, glistening onto the golden hardwood floors. 

It was bizarre, rewatching it over ten years later. The scene of King Kong climbing the Empire State Building was just about the extent of my recollection of what occurred in the three-hour motion picture. Other than this, there is not a single scene that triggered any specific memories. In fact, for the most part, it felt almost as if I were watching it for the first time. Despite not remembering the synopsis of the movie, the mere mention of King Kong caused a slew of memories from that day to arise. The memory of having watched it together proved to be what formed my lasting impression of the film, rather than the film itself. 

I have no doubt that for years to come I will continue to associate King Kong with that night: with my grandfather, with the plush feeling of the white carpet I sat on while we watched a film I—until recently—could not remember, and February’s cold air hitting my cheeks as we walked to the car after saying goodbye for the very last time.  Although what I watch/listen to today might not mean a thing to me in the future, I am still creating memories I will undoubtedly look back on with a tinge of nostalgia, through the unique lens of the art I consumed at the time.

Lorenza Mezzapelle is a freelance writer from Montreal. She is currently completing a double major in Art History and Journalism. Her work has been featured in her campus newspaper, where she is Assistant Arts Editor, as well as Yiara Magazine where she is Editor-in-Chief, Flanelle Magazine, and THE FINE PRINT Magazine, among others. Her interests lie at the intersection of art, fashion, and culture; particularly, the sociology of fashion, material culture, identity politics, and sustainability studies. When she’s not in school or at work, she is teaching herself to speak Danish, analog photography, and trying to watch every movie mentioned in Gilmore Girls. You can find her on Instagram @mo0dyteen.

Article edited by Sarah Diver

Copyedited by Tah Ai Jia