Rarely, rarely comest thou.
Spirit of Delight
Percy Bysshe Shelley
I made my first visit to Port Orchard, Washington the other day. I rather wish I hadn't. Port Orchard, on the mainland not far from the island where I live, is, in a sense, the quintessential American small town: its approaches are lined with shopping strips, fast food joints, and big box superstores, but its core is dying. You know a community is struggling when second hand shops pretending to be antiques stores outnumber the kind of retailers that residents actually need: a pharmacy, a grocery store, a dry cleaners, a variety shop.
I don't think I'm alone when I say that I find such places depressing. But why do I feel that way? What makes some places dispiriting and others simply delightful?
This is the fifth in a series of columns I'm calling, "The Anatomy of Home." In earlier columns we've looked at Place, Shape, Beauty, and Comfort as components of "home." Today we explore Delight.
It is an unfortunate fact of life in America today that the places where we live often do not delight us at all; they're simply where we go at the end of the workday. It's just as well we'll soon be closing our eyes. But let's say you and your family decide to spend a pleasant weekend somewhere else; where do you decide to go? My guess it's someplace that is delightful to you, a place that you find pleasurable and comforting in some way, a place that seems reassuring and validating of some sense you have of "rightness."
Ever wonder what it is about such places that makes them feel delightful? You'd think that it was something ephemeral, almost magical, wouldn't you? It's not. It's predictable. Because delightful places have two things in common other places don't share. They have roughly equal portions of order and complexity.
Here's what I mean: let's say you climb to the top of a church steeple in an old community in northern New England, or a hill town in Italy, or a fishing port in England, to name but a few. What do you see? If you look carefully, you see a certain orderliness in the way buildings are constructed and the community is composed. They're made of similar and largely local materials. There are things that tie them together--their roofs, for example: cedar shingles in New England, red tiles in Italy, gray slate in England. But there is also complexity in the variations among each of the buildings in the community, and the way they are distributed within the townscape. They are both distinct and also a part of a whole; they knit together easily, almost seamlessly, but don't lose their character.
Places that have one of these characteristics, but not both, are not delightful. When there is order, but no complexity, for example, the result is boredom. After WWII, Arthur Leavitt built Levittowns for returning soldiers and their families, vast subdivisions composed of inexpensive and identical houses on identical lots. The economics of such developments were such that building them was like printing money for the developers and they spread like wildfire, and still do. Malvina Reynolds's song, "Little Boxes," captured the aesthetic, such as it was: "Little boxes made of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same."
What was missing was complexity. But the reverse--complexity without order--is just as deadening. That's what strip development yields. As you approach Port Orchard (and the majority of communities in America) you have complexity run amok. There are so many shopping strips and so many signs telling you what's there and demanding your attention that you actually can't take all the information in. There is no order by which to make sense of it.
Not so those places in New England, or Europe, or the island where I live. You get off the ferry and drive south and the structures you see, nestled amongst the trees, while they differ, also are orderly in that they tend to be of similar scale and are built with similar materials. (Oh sure, we have our McMansions, but they're well hidden.) You arrive in the village at the island's center and what you find is a cluster of businesses mostly modest in scale, varied in construction, yet nonetheless companionable. And the necessities of living are provided in a concise, walkable arrangement--in short, a community. There are grocers, bakers, banks, cafes, restaurants, bookstores, hardware stores, gift shops, a pharmacy, gas station, bike shop, insurance and real estate agents, florists, an eye clinic, a veterinary clinic, a holistic health center, the library, post office, consignment shops, the farmers' market, and on and on. Not to mention people you look forward to seeing and speaking with every day.
There it is: order and complexity, side by side. And one more thing: enticement--the sense that just around the next corner there will be some pleasant surprise: something new in a shop window, a neighbor you haven't seen for a while, a patiently waiting dog, all the tiny little elements which, when combined in just the right proportion, yield that ineffable quality of home called...Delight.
As Shelley said, it comes rarely.
Will-
I just finished reading *Water, Stone, Heart*, which I enjoyed a great deal, and have now reserved *The Long Walk Home* at our library here on Lummi Island.
For the last half-hour I've been dipping into your blog, noticing in the process that we snarl about some of the same things, notably the insane amount of motorized lawn-grooming that goes on on our respective islands. I can top that by complaining that we live underneath the main air corridor between the San Juan Islands and Bellingham Airport. The noise never stops, except at night.
I also grew up on the East Coast, in various places, since I was a military brat. I never thought about it, but maybe it's that coast which is responsible for my gnarly temperament. By the way, I took the advice in Wendell Berry's essay on the subject and bought a scythe, so at least I wouldn't be responsible for any more racket than is already generated by my neighbors. It's the dream tool- I haven't touched my gasoline weed-whacker for two years.
But, what I really wanted to mention. . . and this came up initially due to comments in Water, Stone, Heart about the effect architecture has on our lives and emotions. . . the work of Christopher Alexander.
Alexander is a British Architect who was resident in California for many years (and still may be). He's written a number of works, the most notable and fascinating being four volumes long: *The Nature of Order- An Essay on the Art of Building and the Nature of the Universe.* I've made it through all four volumes, which is an indication of the degree of resonance his theories hold for me.
Much of what you've said about architecture, both in your novel and in your blog reminds me of Alexander's ideas. You may well have encountered him. If not, I think you'd find his work just as fascinating as I do. His main emphasis is the ability of architecture to take on the qualities of life when it's properly designed. There's strong intimations here as to why some places are magical and others (too many) are simply depressing. Your way of touching upon these themes in your novel drew me on as much as anything else in the story.
Regards,
Kevin