I’m wondering about how architects can use, and how golfers can experience, the unexpected. I played The Mines recently, and a number of times in the round I encountered something that I hadn’t expected and that took me by surprise; but in each case, that surprise ‘resolved itself’ a few moments or a few shots later, so that the unexpected suddenly felt like it was what I should’ve expected all along.
Some examples: early in the round and off the tee, there was a large landform that was rough and fairly barren i.e. not with the cover/vegetation that I’d expected. It surprised me, until I came off the green and made my way to the next tee, and suddenly I could see that exact same ‘look’ way off to the right, in even larger scale and seemingly naturally occurring; and now the landform/cover made sense (and was satisfying). Or a routing decision that, from the scorecard before the round, was surprising in that it brought three Par 3s all together in one spot, with two of them playing back to back; but when I got there, after working through a number of tree-lined holes to a wide open expanse of valley in which the Par 3s sat together, the routing suddenly make complete sense (and the change of scenery was very satisfying). There were others examples: green sizes and shapes/contours that I hadn’t seen/expected from the tee, but that made perfect sense to me after I’d putted out (or not).
I hadn’t thought about this experience/question in any conscious way until yesterday, when I posted something that brought it to mind. Please bear with this little sidebar/analogy: in the early 1950s, some professors from a couple of jazz institutes tried to determine what made for a good jazz solo. They studied solos by the old masters, and went to shows by modern players to gauge audience reactions. They concluded that a good jazz solo needed to be 50% predictable (so that the listener could feel comfortable in familiar territory, and believe that paying attention would be worth the effort) and 50% unexpected (so that the listener wouldn't get bored, and instead would start 'participating' more in the listening, expectedly waiting for the unexpected). I’d put their conclusions this way: that a good jazz solo gave the audience what it wanted half the time, and half the time gave the audience what it didn't (until then) know it wanted.
Does that conclusion ring true to you from a golf design or playability perspective? How does this work in gca? How much of the unexpected is too much; or, how long can one wait before having the unexpected ‘resolve itself’? Someone described a good jazz solo as "the sound of surprise". Is there an equivalent to that in golf architecture?
Thanks
Peter