I was sitting in the waiting room of my doctor’s office when I happened to glance upwards. There was a cutout between the first floor, which I was on, and the walkways of the second. This rectangle was lined by plants, and the ceiling tiles of both first and second floors marching away square by square framed the wooden beams supporting the roof above, lit by slivers of sunlight. It was unexpectedly beautiful, and all the more so for the thought that struck me: This is every bit as intention an artistic experience as a painting hanging in a gallery. Someone made this to look this way – several people, probably, actually.
Much as the beauty of the natural world is all around us but infrequently commented upon, so too is the beauty of the created world. Every door, chair, car, awning, chest, fence, every computer, pillow, forklift, box, every can and can opener, every lamp and lampshade, they were all made for us. Each one was made for purpose, each purpose granted shape, each shape bearing beauty.
This is remarkable to me partly because of how counter the way I’ve learned to think of creativity it runs. Beauty doesn’t belong solely in the hands of nature or those of visionary artists sprinkled sparingly across the globe – it resides as well in the decisions of everyday architects, construction workers, designers, builders, craftspeople, and masons – many of whom probably don’t consider their work artistic at all. Beautiful things get made all the time, for boring reasons, to solve simple problems in everyday ways, to serve the needs of practical people.
It’s intriguingly uncomfortable for me to think about and I find myself probing at the idea like a loose tooth. I want to make big impactful pieces, and for some reason I keep striving to do so on my own, making it even more difficult to complete them. Why do I feel the need to hunt this profound ethereal beauty to the exception to the works immediately around me and all of its prosaic beauties, any of which might reward time and effort more, be seen by more eyes, bring more solace and be more helpful? Is it because I want to make a big impact on a few people, to convey a very specific idea, impress a bit of the wonderment that was impressed upon me onto others despite the risk of my work never really being seen? Or, I wonder, is it that part of me wishes to remain hidden, and slinks off into back alleys to work on art in perpetuity, indefinitely delaying the day it must be revealed?
There’s no reason it ought to be a dilemma. We’re all some variety of artist, creating beauty with every little contribution to the architecture of the world. I just need to remember that, alongside my little hobbies, I too am working on the great project we all share.