Modernist Architecture and the Soul

     The following is an essay of mine, written for pleasure.


     Around the beginning of the twentieth century, roughly accompanying the emergence of abstract art was a new form of architecture, often known as Modernist. Its classification is baffling, for its forms and expressions varied widely, and still do, even among works by the same architect. But it is most frequently characterised by starkness, randomness, and ugliness.
     Distorted and contorted, their chaotic forms pervades modern life. The exteriors and interiors of these buildings convey little sense of order, glass walls leave nothing mysterious and hidden, and there is almost no notion of beauty present, unless twisted, geometric, concrete facades and gleaming steel pipe pillars is one's ideal of architectural beauty.
     But these buildings convey something, something beyond the whims of their makers. Behind this form of architecture is the philosophy of modernity, written in concrete,glass, and steel. Like these buildings, modern man is random, aimless,without a sense of order, purpose, mystery, or beauty. He, like these Modernist edifices, is merely a creature of whim and practical function.
     If architecture is to improve, to convey order, truth, purpose, beauty, and mystery, then modern man must change. Man must regain a sense of, an appreciation for, and a love of the supernatural. Otherwise, what he constructs today will become the monuments of his despair tomorrow.

     (I am not an architect or a student of architecture. This is merely based upon musing and observation.)

The Outdoors

Despite my fondness for sturdy trees, green grass, and breezes smoothing over my cheeks, I am not an outdoors woman. I am not one to go racing ten miles over hilly meadows with ease, nor am I one to spend an entire day outside (except when camping).
What I do enjoy is looking around at the display of nature, admiring the subtle shades of green and brown, browsing my mind to conjure up fitting descriptions for what I see so that I can write it down. Listening to the grasses rustle as I watch their wave-like ripples in the wind. Watching the trees gambol in the wind, storing their delightful, frisking movements in my memory.
I also enjoy watching the miniature drama of our local flying creatures, such as hummingbirds braving territorial carpenter bees for a sip at the hummingbird feeder, only to be forced to grapple with the aggressive carpenter bees in mid-air. Or, the neighbourly mockingbird, forced to move to another bush when he tried to land on his former favorite-only to find a pale brown stump. And, how could I forget the invading blackbirds of the fall, who were seen flying away bearing pecans in their beaks from our neighbours two, aged pecan trees!
Now, searching my mind, I believe that I love the outdoors, not for the challenges it provides, but for its inherent beauty, the stories it whispers to the wind, noisy yet voiceless. In it, I see the beauty and providence of God.