How do we create with style?
I saw The Brutalist this week, and I loved the depiction of the artistic process of creating a building. This resonated with me — I've already written on this blog how building my cabin has felt like a kind of art. But in that post, I was talking more about the process than the result; no one would compare my near-shack to the beautiful Brutalist architecture depicted in the movie or in real life.
This got me thinking — what is it that creates this gap, between a structure constructed purely for shelter and one that is a work of art? Or, more generally, how can we think about building things that aren't just functional, but beautiful?
Style means
Style means, to me, having a defined and motivated method of creating. It must be precise and consistent in its application and draw from a root system of values and ideals. Both elements are essential: style without definition is confused, and style without motivation is hollow.
Style is not purely aesthetic, and stretches beyond good design — instead, good design is a manifestation of good style, rather than the other way around. Because of this, style can exist even in areas of creation where normal aesthetic standards don't apply.
Think about coding, for example. We often talk about writing code with good style, but this doesn't mean writing code that's nice to look at. It means writing code that follows a deliberate set of norms (a style guide) which are motivated by a distinct perspective of what "good" code should look like. Now, this code could be aesthetically pleasing, but much like good design, that is a side-effect of strong style, not a cause.
That's not to say, however, that style is devoid of aesthetics. I would argue that building codes, for example, do not constitute a developed style. Yes, these regulations are a clearly defined set of parameters for how buildings should be built, and yes they are motivated by the value of public safety. But this value is broad and societal — it is generally accepted. It may be a good value, but it is too boring for good style.
Style instead should be driven by personal aesthetic values, which recommend an opinionated take on what "good" actually means. Take the Tidyverse style guide, for example — it recommends snake_case rather than camelCase for variable names — not because snake case is inherently better, but because the authors are choosing that as a point of definition. Just like this choice, good style should not be universally correct — it's these deviations that give style its power; its ability to scream, "Hey, this is what matters to me!"
Make it work, then make it right
But how do we actually learn what matters to us?
When we're beginning to create, it can take awhile to make style a point of concern. You have to build a foundation for style first. If you're just learning to play guitar, developing your callouses comes before developing your musical voice. Or, think again about the cabin — it doesn't matter if it's a rustic, eco-Brutalist masterpiece if it won't stand up in a strong breeze.
Building this foundation can feel like an obstacle to the development of style. The more you learn about how things are made, the easier it is to feel constrained by the weight of proper procedure. While building my cabin, for example, I've been so nervous about doing things the "right" way — up to code, with the proper materials, etc. — that it's been hard to find opportunities for choices that feel personal rather than prescribed. In tech, I've heard this same idea as a common rule of thumb: "make it work, make it right, make it fast". The idea here is the same — that is, that there's no point in refining and refactoring your code to be more elegant (let alone efficient) if it errors out in the first place.
But, as I've learned more about cabin building, guitar playing, and app development, this obstacle has transformed into an opportunity. Rather than just blindly mimicking what seems "good", I've begun to develop the vocabulary to describe what makes these exemplars powerful. In the course of building my cabin, for example, I must have googled "rustic Arkansas cabins" hundreds of times. I liked the way they looked, but mostly because they looked like every other cabin I'd ever seen. But now, I can tell you exactly what draws me in — covered porches with connected sloping roofs, second half-stories, stone foundations, and beautiful white chinking between the logs. The depth of my inspection has increased, and I've moved from just knowing what I like to understanding why I like it.
This shift — from surface level appreciation to demarcated taste — is the foundation for defining style. Understanding the available choice set allows you to more precisely identify the options that resonate most — grounding your decisions in the fundamental motivation of your style.
Ultimately, developing style comes down to honing this vision, and seeking out those items in our world that burst with inspiration. And creating with style, then, means applying whatever we discern to the thousands of new, micro-decisions that come up throughout the creative process. The beautiful product is one in which this defined and motivated hand is evident.