Standing on a beach, simply watching a small bed and the way it seemed to linger on a branch, head tilting at the shimmer of sunlight across the water.  

I noted the moment without giving it much scientific weight. But looking back, I can’t help but wonder: was that bird simply scanning for danger, or was it, in some way, enjoying the view? 

The question feels deceptively simple:

Do animals, like us, find beauty? 

Jane Goodall once described watching a chimpanzee at Gombe stop at a waterfall. She wondered if it was experiencing something we’d call awe. Like many of us she wanted to learn about their personalities, minds, emotions or whether those were unique to us. Her work and dedication to learning about primates, still discussed in primatology circles, challenges an old assumption that beauty is a strictly human domain. 

Science has long assumed they don’t. For centuries, beauty was treated as a human-only privilege, a product of higher intellect. The evolutionary biologist Theodosius Dobzhansky once wrote in 1962 that sensitivity to beauty was among the traits “that elevate man above the brutes.” Even as research on animal intelligence has broadened to include self-awareness, complex emotions, and culture, the idea that other creatures could also find something beautiful has been slow to gain ground. 

Part of this hesitation comes from our inheritance of Enlightenment thinking. In that era, beauty was framed as a refined, almost exclusive property, best appreciated by dispassionate, educated observers in the halls of art and philosophy. Today, we recognise beauty in more democratic forms: a piece of music, a sunrise, a plastic bag swirling in the wind. Yet we still tend to put “aesthetic experience” in a separate category from other pleasures, and by that logic, exclude animals from it altogether. 

But not everyone agrees. Martin Skov, a neuroscientist at the Danish Research Centre for Magnetic Resonance, argues that if we look at what the brain actually does, there’s no solid reason to think beauty is unique to humans. Research shows that perceiving beauty triggers the same brain systems that govern other pleasures. People who take drugs that dull their ability to feel pleasure also report less ability to perceive beauty, especially in faces. No dedicated “beauty pathway” exists in the brain; it’s part of the same reward system that responds to food, music, and touch. 

And this system is ancient. The mesocorticolimbic reward network responsible for motivation, learning, decision-making—was already present in early vertebrates about 500 million years ago. Amphibians have it. Fish have similar structures. If beauty is tied to pleasure, and pleasure is tied to survival, the roots go deep. 

Think about ripe berries. A creature that is visually drawn to vibrant reds has an advantage in finding food. That pleasant taste reinforces the behaviour. Over evolutionary time, perception and pleasure become intertwined not just for survival, but for a richer experience of the world. 

When it comes to what’s beautiful, humans show certain patterns. We tend to like symmetry, curves, harmony over dissonance, and moderate complexity paired with order. Studies on animals; mainly primates, rats, and some birds hint at parallels. Chimpanzees seem to prefer the colour red and curved shapes. Newborn junglefowl develop a taste for symmetry. The evolutionary logic isn’t hard to imagine: symmetry often signals health; jagged shapes may warn of danger; complexity can stimulate curiosity. 

Richard Prum, an evolutionary biologist at Yale, describes beauty as requiring “prolonged social and sensory engagement.” In nature, that engagement can have practical benefits like a bird remembering a flowering tree’s location because it lingered there, enjoying the colours and scents. In this sense, beauty itself can be a survival tool. 

Prum also believes animals can only find beauty in things they’ve coevolved with: the wood thrush and its layered courtship songs, the bumblebee and the wild rose. Over generations, certain sights, sounds, or patterns become wired into their sensory systems. Humans may be unique in taking a taste from one realm—like colors evolved to help find fruit—and applying it to another, like sunsets. 

If that’s true, beauty could evolve for any stimulus that matters to survival. A monkey drawn to evening skies might more readily notice a predator gliding overhead. A groundhog that enjoys the balanced motion of swaying grasses might have extra reason to keep watch for foxes. 

Of course, humans add another layer: we can intellectualise beauty, turning it into definitions, theories, and cultural standards that differ widely across societies. We can even find beauty in abstract ideas. But the common ground matters more than the differences. Seeing beauty as something we share with other creatures deepens our view of life on Earth. 

Prum calls it “aesthetic coevolution”—every wild rose shaped not just by natural selection, but by the preferences of pollinators over millions of years. When we protect nature, we also protect the worlds in which these non-human pleasures thrive. 

This idea opens the door to wonder. What might migratory birds find beautiful in the landscapes below as they search for a place to rest? How might a sea turtle perceive the graceful patterns of nearshore currents? Could a blind mole find a kind of beauty in the textures of soil? 

We tend to think of wild lives as relentless cycles of danger and need. But imagining that other species have their own moments of lightness—pleasures unconnected to hunger or fear—changes how we see them. Maybe the rabbit on the bench isn’t only scanning for danger. Maybe, like us, she’s taking a moment to simply enjoy the view.