The word “rhapsody” originates from the Greek “rhaptein,” meaning “to stitch or sew,” and “ōidē,” meaning “song” or “poetry.” Translated literally, it signifies a stitched-together song or poem. Today, the word is used to describe “an effusively enthusiastic or ecstatic expression of feeling.”

There’s a good chance you’ve heard George Gershwin’s musical composition sharing the same name as the title. If not in its entirety, then maybe some portion of it. And if you haven’t, take a moment to listen. But this time, close your eyes and imagine animals the length of buses twirling and tumbling together while suspended in water.

This piece, premiering in 1924, was a fusion of classical and jazz elements. It was met with mixed reception; critics frequently labeled the erratic components as “melodic incoherence.” It plays as if you’re jumping between chapters in a book—between chapters of different books. Different genres, even.

Turn the page forward a century and the story moves from Midtown Manhattan to the cobalt blue waters off the small island of Dominica.

The composers here are whale-sized. 

After emerging from the depths following their hunt, sperm whales may take a pause from their linear movement at the surface to socialize. Like oversized ballet dancers in training, the whales rub their massive bodies together as they generate a clamor of clicks to communicate. The motions look cumbersome and clumsy, but the element of touch between the animals is critical for the formation of social bonds, as it is for us.

This display is far from coordinated—a barrage of different movements and sounds clashing in every which way. 

But the beauty here isn’t in the form. 

It’s in the feeling.