De gustibus non est...

The idea that personal taste is somehow predictable, somehow reasonable, is an appealing one. Appealing, for example, to modern Wall Street: hence the rise of a fleet of programs designed to interpret your musical tastes, and to recommend further music that you'll presumably enjoy, and want to buy. Hence, too, the wide popularity of dating sites that use algorithms to promise a fully compatible partner within six months. But the idea doesn't only appeal as a business model; thinking of taste as predictable also feels, well, friendly. If we know someone, even only slightly, shouldn't we be able to forecast their tastes with some accuracy?

That's what one of my generous first-year students, no doubt, was thinking when she suggested that I listen to a band called Of Montreal. I often play some soft music before class, and, based on what she'd heard from my laptop, she offered what she felt was a likely match. And so, later that evening, I checked them out - who could be a better musical matchmaker, after all, than an open-minded and well-traveled 18-year-old?

But no dice. No offense to Of Montreal, who seem to be flourishing without my interest, but their tunes just don't do it for me. A little too offhanded, or informal, or weightless, for me, in the end. It sounds like music that one might actually make, rather than music that one might walk miles to find. So: thanks, Zara, for the hint, and keep them coming - but in this case what we've got is just another proof that it's never easy to know exactly what someone might enjoy.

Of course, I hardly needed any proof in that regard. Although a weirdly high percentage of my conversations with L. now involve the evolving tastes of Cleo - like 17th-century courtesans, we try to parse the queen's mood - we're also consistently taken by surprise. Baths, once a source of delighted splashing, now yield tears. That rough William & Mary pillow, uninteresting for five months, is now a magnet for her small hands. And the elegantly vanilla-scented yellow squeaky toy that Cleo's grandparents generously brought her this weekend? Only time will tell, folks: if there's a formula, we sure don't know it. And, if we did, do you think we'd blog about it? Nah - we'd be too busy trying to call Wall Street.