We can find beauty in precision—in a tidy bookshelf or a neatly organized calendar for the month ahead. — Death to the Stock Photo
My youngest brother is meticulous. He measures, levels, and straightens. I call upon him when I need help hanging artwork because a) he’s about six feet tall and b) he cares about precision.
I do, too, but our meticulousness varies in degree. He will measure the spacing and perfectly fill in every stenciled letter for one of my murals. He exhibits such a patience and ease with the work that I marvel.
If I were doing the work, I would lose my patience. I would not rest easily in the art of placing and painting letters. Aggravation would ensue, and I would wish to go back to painting my furry woodland animals.
He wouldn’t ever wish that. He finds a “beauty in precision,” which probably explains why he loves physics and engineering. Math is his language, whereas words and brushstrokes are mine.
I doubt he thinks of his work that way—beauty in precision. I see it, though. It becomes evident when he talks about filing reports and learning new processes. I hear it every time he explains why some stunt would never, ever work in real life. (He’s ruined a couple of movies that way.) I hear it, too, during a conversation about some facet of his math-and-science realm.
Every time I listen to his excitement about some principle of thermodynamics, I can’t help but think that artists and scientists aren’t all that different. Oh, one group may use meticulous formulas while the other layers paint onto canvas, but they both love what they do. Their media speaks to them, whether it’s numbers on a page or a pencil in the hand.
When they do, they embrace patience. They become meticulous because the work demands their attention, their excellence, their precision—in short, their all. They don’t deny the work in those moments. No. They welcome it into their heads, hearts, and hands, and they experience the beauty and peace found in precision.
Image: Death to the Stock Photo