One of Dickens’s villains boasts that he’s never moved by a
pretty face, for he can see the grinning skull beneath. That’s realism, he
says. But it’s a strange kind of realism that can look through life in all its
vibrancy to focus only on death.
Much of today’s architecture brings that misanthrope to
mind. Beauty? For our advanced culture, it’s as spectral as classical
philosophy’s two other highest values: the good and the true. A building might
be cutting-edge, boundary-breaking, transgressive. But simply beautiful? The
arts have transcended such illusions.
A pity. Part of the pleasure of metropolitan life is the
pre–World War II city’s manifold loveliness. When you see the illuminated
Chrysler Building glowing through the evening fog, or walk by the magnolias
blooming in front of Henry Frick’s museum, ravishing outside and in, or gaze up
at the endlessly varied historicism of lower Broadway’s pioneering skyscrapers,
you know you are Someplace—someplace where human inventiveness and aspiration have
left lasting monuments proclaiming that our life is more than mere biology and
has a meaning beyond the brute fact of mortality. Like all our manners and
ceremonies, from table etiquette to weddings, beauty in architecture humanizes
the facts of life. So we don’t want a machine for living—a high-tech lair to
service our animal needs—but rather a cathedral, a capitol, a home, expressive
of the grandeur, refinement, urbanity, and coziness of which our life is capable.
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