I spent the first minute of 2026 on my living room floor. Crouched beneath my desk, I held a bowl with twelve green grapes representing the months of the year, preparing to make my wishes with each metaphorical chime of the clock. Between eating a dozen grapes as quickly as possible and setting an intention for each month (I don’t even plan out my weeks, much less my years), I barely had time to think of anything particularly meaningful or groundbreaking. Last year, I wrote about ending my caffeine addiction and fixing my sleep schedule. At precisely 12:00 a.m. on January 1, I made the exact same resolutions. Seven hours after that, I grabbed a cherry-cola-flavored Celsius from the fridge. Unfortunately, my goal would have to wait another year. 

As I reflect on my New Year’s resolutions, I keep thinking of how plain they are. Everyone leads such different lives, but it seems like we all have the same goals: we promise ourselves that we’ll go to the gym and eat healthier, we’ll read more books and find our passions, be more productive and learn to stop procrastinating. In the 60 seconds I spent frantically munching on grapes, I wondered if I’d ever come up with something original, something that could truly only come from me. 

But is it really that bad to fit into that so-called cookie-cutter mold? We all strive to be original and unique, inventing rather than following. We use niche and mainstream to describe songs, but also to characterize interests and people. Being niche is interesting, being mainstream is supposedly boring. However, I’ve realized that these categories aren’t measures of our depth of thought or imagination. Basic doesn’t equate to average. There’s a reason why millions of people gravitate toward the same things; to be honest, there’s comfort in ordinary-ness, knowing that there are others around the world who reach for the same light.

In the world of classical music, we often praise composers who were ahead of their time. We remember the ones who experimented with unconventional techniques, bringing in new eras. Beethoven broke the traditional forms that defined the Classical era in his later music and employed bolder harmonies to expand the scope of what instrumental music could express. Schoenberg was one of the key figures who developed atonal music, giving composers much more freedom in how they used pitch and leading classical music in a much more abstract direction. They defied expectations and challenged their predecessors. 

However, other composers equally great quite literally fit into the boxes of their eras. For example, Brahms was the perfect Romantic-era composer. Like many Romantic pieces, his works contain intense emotional expression and dramatic contrasts, breaking away from the more restrained and elegant style of Classical music. Yet Brahms didn’t experiment with structure in the same way that some of his contemporaries (such as Liszt and Wagner) chose to do, wanting to compose music for the sake of music rather than telling a story or painting a scene. He focused on expressing himself within established forms like sonatas and the four-movement progression of symphonies. 

In his First Symphony, Brahms aimed to channel the spirit of Beethoven. He follows the pattern of starting with a fast first movement in sonata form, moving to a slow second movement, then a lighter and more dance-like third movement, and finally finishing with an energetic and dramatic fourth movement. When I listened to the symphony for the first time, I could hear his perfectionism and commitment to tradition between the notes, from the melodies that are flawlessly passed from one section to the next to the clear themes and variations that build upon each other throughout the piece. Critics called Brahms boring or stuck in the past. Ironically, his mastery and development of what was considered standard and basic at the time made his music so unique and inspiring.

After Brahms, the Modern and Contemporary eras continued (and still continue) to push the boundaries of composition even further, leading listeners to question what can truly be called music. Microtones that lie halfway between established pitches and time signatures that change in every bar have become common. Composers have moved toward using instruments in non-traditional ways, like playing the piano by the steel wires on the top of a piano (something that can only be understood by seeing it for yourself). 

One of the most experimental composers of the Contemporary era was Krzysztof Penderecki. Yet Penderecki almost evolved backward over the course of his long career. He initially sought to morph and liberate sound, using tone clusters to create unexpected dissonances. However, around the 1960s-1970s, Penderecki began to reject the avant-garde, even describing it as destructive. While his first symphony starts off with an unusual blend of percussion and sparks emotion through its chaotic layering of instruments, his seventh symphony moves back to tonal music and the familiar harmonies we often hear in Classical or Romantic music. He follows the line of the biblical verses that he presents, making each movement follow a clear structure. To me, his seventh symphony is just as special as his first. There’s something defiant and beautiful about taking a step back, choosing simplicity after returning from the world of complexity. He manages to weave his artistic vision into a form that composers nowadays consider obsolete, and creates a piece that sounds both old and new. 

Brahms and Penderecki prove that some things don’t need to be revolutionary. Like many other aspects of both music and life, harmony and form simply need to be honest. While the quest to be unique and different has value, the journey toward embracing the seemingly basic aspects of yourself is equally fulfilling. It’s paradoxically extraordinary to make the most out of the ordinary in our individual ways. 

In 2027, maybe I’ll sit under a table or raise my figurative glass to the exact same resolutions. Maybe I’ll have a mid-grape revelation, and something brilliant will occur to me. Either way, I’ll know that the promises I make to myself and others take value from their sincerity and spirit, not their originality. And maybe, a day will come when I finally quit my caffeine addiction. 

 

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To contact the author: Katherine Jung '26

Photos by: Chris Birrittella '28