The Spaces We Inhabit
Keely Latcham
In thinking about the importance of the spaces we inhabit, I recently read The Architecture of Happiness by Swiss philosopher and author Alain de Botton. An interesting read accompanied by many beautiful photographs, the book encouraged me to think further about the connection between space and identity—and virtue. We are not just spirits; we are more than our online presences. We have bodies and we live in spaces that help shape our experience of life.
One of de Botton’s central ideas is that of an alignment between the visual and ethical realms. That is to say, we find architecture beautiful because it corresponds to our ideas about “the good life.” Beautiful buildings, de Botton suggests, correspond to virtuous and happy people. Of course this is not always the case, nor is it a causal relationship; while architecture may suggest such ideals, it doesn’t necessarily bring them about. De Botton notes, “Not only do beautiful houses falter as guarantors of happiness, they can also [fail] to improve the characters of those who live in them.” While architecture undeniably possesses moral messages, he says, it “simply has no power to enforce them.”
However, de Botton insists that beautiful buildings convey a moral attitude, which recalls the claim of the great nineteenth-century critic John Ruskin that buildings speak to us “both of what we find important and what we need to be reminded of.” De Botton writes that architecture invites us to emulate its spirit, offering values it encourages us to adopt as our own. “It is architecture’s task,” de Botton says, “to render vivid to us who we might ideally be.”
For this reason, de Botton describes architecture as a “physical and psychological sanctuary.” It houses and protects our body while also guarding and affirming our identity.
The importance of place in affirming, or even in part creating, one’s identity is an intriguing idea. How much of a role have the spaces you’ve inhabited played in shaping the person you have become? As a student at the University of Virginia, I adore the classical grounds designed by Thomas Jefferson, from the beautiful red brick buildings of the Lawn to the elegant serpentine walls that surround the gardens. Studying and attending class in such an environment has certainly contributed to the identity I have developed as a student there; my commitment to tradition and love of history clearly emerge in part from the pleasure I take in the tradition of the architecture that surrounds me. My identity as a serious student with a passion for my studies has been cultivated by the buildings themselves.
In reflecting back on my more formative years, I can also see how the childhood home in which I grew up in Denver played a part in shaping the person I am. The jutting bay window in our front room, surrounded on the outside by purple lilacs, was a perch from which I often watched the goings-on of the neighborhood. Such a space certainly helped shape my nature as an observer of others and contributed to my reflective and creative side, developing my desire to record my observations and my identity as a writer. So too did the warm colors of the downstairs walls and the open space of our kitchen, built around a central island, develop my ideas about home and family and what it means to exist in a communal space with others. My identity as a daughter and a sister was shaped by the interaction I had with my family in this flowing space, and by the conversation and community shared around the island as we cooked and ate together.
De Botton’s book is intriguing because he offers suggestions for what it is that makes architecture beautiful and why certain buildings resonate with us. If architecture corresponds to moral attitudes, he claims, then buildings can be said to be beautiful based on certain “virtues” they possess. De Botton characterizes these virtues as order, balance, elegance, coherence, and self-knowledge. In identifying these specific values, The Architecture of Happpiness can make us more aware of why we enjoy certain spaces, and then perhaps how those spaces can contribute to and even advance the persons we are becoming. The virtues of buildings that de Botton identifies can translate to virtues we can cultivate within ourselves, in the process pointing toward the often-sought idea that beauty and goodness somehow feed into each other.
When we encounter a beautiful building, it may be profitable to ask ourselves what it is about the architecture that registers with, as de Botton puts it, our “prized internal song.” Identifying the virtue a building offers helps us consider the ways in which that virtue might be important in our own life and how to incorporate or emulate it.
While I think there are certainly more virtues or characteristics that create a building’s beauty than the five de Botton suggests, we can use his as a starting point. If what strikes us as beautiful is the architecture’s element of order, for instance, we might consider the importance of harmony and symmetry in our lives, and the way in which God provides a divine order or plan for us. Thus, the complex order of a building such as the Doge’s palace in Venice, de Botton suggests, creates a sense of harmony wrested out of chaos, which in turn speaks to us of God’s divine power and ability to shape a coherent and beautiful plan out of the chaos of human existence. The beauty that stems from order and symmetry can also be seen in the natural world, and stopping to acknowledge the way architecture reflects the patterns of nature can only increase our respect for the earth and our appreciation of God’s magnificence, as we meditate on the evidence of his careful plan for his creation.
If what we appreciate in a building is the aesthetic of balance—what de Botton describes as the skillful mediation between oppositions, be it “the old and the new, the natural and the man-made, the luxurious and the modest”—we might consider the importance of balance in our own lives. De Botton cites as an example the Yale Center for British Art in New Haven, in which “a reconciliation of opposites is effected through the interplay of concrete walls and inset panels made of English oak.” Such a building might encourage us to consider that much of the beauty in life stems from its many varying aspects, and the relationships enacted between them. Architecture leads us to recognize that finding a balance between work and rest, enthusiasm and retreat, is of the highest importance. As we more skillfully balance the many different gifts and opportunities God gives us, we can draw more enjoyment and fulfillment from each one. This virtue might also inspire empathy for those of differing opinions or perspectives—architectural balance is more related to harmony than uniformity.
Buildings that resonate with us because of their elegance, which de Botton sees as an achievement that does not draw attention to its difficulty, can translate into our lives as the virtues of grace and humility. Life is difficult, and there are many tasks that we would rather not endure. However, doing them quietly, peacefully, with an air of grace, ought to be our objective if we strive to follow Jesus, who humbled himself more than we can imagine. Seen in this light, the elegance seen in careful trelliswork or beautiful windows can be a continual spur toward such virtues.
If we find a building beautiful because it embodies the virtue of coherence, which de Botton sees as the relationship between various parts created when “disparate elements pull together to make a logical contribution to the whole,” we might consider the virtue of right relationships between us and our fellow men. The diversity of life is part of what makes it beautiful; what solidifies this beauty, however, is when diversity comes together to form a unified and purposeful whole. We should consider how the various members of God’s creation can join together to create a coherent community with common goals. Coherent buildings can reaffirm the fundamental importance of right relationships and community in our lives.
The virtue of self-knowledge, finally, is defined by de Botton as a building’s ability to honor its purpose, function, and location in time and space. In order for a building to be beautiful, de Botton says, architects must understand and “pay homage to the quirks of the human mind.” Rather than being “seduced by a simplistic vision of who we might be,” he claims, architects must attend to “the labyrinthine reality of who we are.” Considering this value architecturally might encourage us to consider our own understanding of ourselves and the idea of our identity as based in the image of God. As we begin to understand ourselves as dearly beloved children of God, we are better able to appreciate our own beauty and merits, as well as the beauty of those around us. The great “labyrinthine reality” of who we are is often confusing, difficult, and overwhelming, but if we can base our understanding of ourselves in this God-given status, the chaotic disorder of life begins to take on a beauty and meaning we often cannot find on our own.
There are many other ways we could describe the beauty of a building, and what makes architecture beautiful to one person might be completely different from what makes it beautiful to another. If we take the time to consider what about a building or space speaks to us, what virtue draws us in, however, we can have a more meaningful experience with the physical spaces we inhabit. In defining what makes a building beautiful to us, we can meditate on that virtue and what it means to exist within a space that embodies such a quality. As we move to reflect the moral messages of the walls around us, we can emulate a way of being that is both beautiful and good, and ultimately, pleasing to God.
Keely Latcham, a senior at the University of Virginia, interned with the Trinity Forum in 2009.
Provocations, Arts and Culture, Being Human, Character and Ethics, Sat 09 Jan 2010
