Innate Desire to Create Beauty: Neuroaesthetics, Part 1
As the new year prepares to unfold in front of us, it’s a time of reflection and renewal of purpose. This year has been an incredible adventure of new experiences and worthwhile risks. But more than anything, it has been a re-grounding in my purpose, in my calling to bring joy and change lives through creating beauty. It has been a journey getting here, but if we look for the lessons in the struggle, our suffering has meaning.
Here is my story…
Long before I even knew there was a discipline of neuroscience dedicated to the study of the brain’s physiological response to beauty, I instinctively created intentional spaces as a means to bring order and feel in control. It is the origin story of Urbanology and the center of my philosophy.
I grew up in a tumultuous household with a physically and emotionally abusive father and an exhausted mother. As the second oldest of 7, I was responsible for parenting my younger siblings, while suffering my own neglect. At 10, when I finally had my own room, I had a longing to create a sanctuary from the outside chaos, a refuge. I began to see environments as healing, and I would spend time curating mine with the limited resources I had: a well-made bed, a carefully organized shelf.
I found inspiration in the yearly trips we would make to California. My grandparents would send 8 train tickets for my mom, siblings, and me to spend the summer. The briny smell of the beach at Carmel, the crunch of pine needles against the quiet of the giant redwoods in Big Sur, and the range of hues displayed as the Pacific extends from the shallows to her immense depths. It was a contrast not only in beauty and sensory experience to my reality of violence in poor suburb of Fort Worth, but it was a change in my feeling of wellness, of wholeness. It had a profound impact on me, and it was an instinct I couldn’t suppress even when I had nothing else to give.
That Which Sustains You
Fast forward to 2011, and I’m a mom of 4, including 5-month-old Avery. Having noticed one day some pale bruises on Avery, I interrogated each of the older children about the cause. She was otherwise fine, but the bruises became more prevalent and darker. I consulted my sister, a nurse. She advised me to take her to see a pediatric dermatologist. The dermatologist recommended a biopsy of a bruise which had formed over a lump on top of her head. It didn’t occur to me that what I thought might have been the products of over-affectionate siblings were the indicators that something was seriously wrong. I knew before the doctor even got the words out when he called the next day. In an instant we were starting leukemia treatments and then were selected to receive an experimental treatment for aggressive leukemia at St. Jude’s in Memphis. I found myself living in a Ronald McDonald House full of people who were not so lucky. Many days children would come back to the house from their Make-A-Wish excursions—brief escapes from the active process of dying. It was depressing and traumatic and was slowly loosening my tenuous grip on hope.
We were, however, invited to participate in some activities at another Ronald McDonald House. When we walked in, I couldn’t believe the difference. Though the circumstances were the same—children fighting for their lives and overwhelmed parents—the space was joyful, nurturing, and inspiring. There was a room with floor to ceiling books, a chandelier made out of guitars, colors, textures, moments that just filled me up, which allowed me in turn to fill Avery up. The shift was dramatic, all-encompassing and instantaneous. We did everything we could to spend as much time there as possible. I had no clue the chemical response I was having, but I felt the change it was making.
That Which Charges You
Months after Avery had finished her treatments (she is now a thriving 13 year old, who looks just like Merida from the Disney movie, Brave) and just as our lives were returning to normal, I found myself overjoyed not to be living in a hospital, to be doing my own dishes. I also found myself with 5-month-old Asher, a toddler, 2 girls in elementary school, and a son in middle school. Everything fell into place as I received a late-night call from my brother announcing his engagement.
I laid back in bed hugging my phone to my chest and felt a golf-ball sized lump in my breast. I knew immediately something was terribly wrong. I felt panic—a sensation out of character for me. I went by myself to the mammogram appointment, which quickly became a sonogram appointment, where the radiologist’s face confirmed what I knew. The chemicals of pregnancy super-charged an already aggressive form of cancer. I went through a double mastectomy and 18 months of chemo. I was bald, pale and had no energy. And yet, my first instinct was to create. In the middle of the battle for my life, my husband and I had the opportunity to move to a fixer-upper. We jumped at the chance. Though many insisted that I should be resting, I felt compelled to create a haven, a sanctuary for healing. I poured myself into designing—carrying my notebooks and tape measure, tearing out cabinets and flooring when I had the energy and hiring contractors when I didn’t. It was how I felt alive, and it still is.
From Brokenness
Looking back, having emerged from these significant struggles, my response to brokenness is to create beauty. It always has been, and it is deeply connected to my faith. I am still the little girl, the mom, the cancer patient seeking a haven from whatever storm is raging, and while I know I am sustained by His plan, I can use my hands and heart to create an earthly refuge. It’s quiet in the noise. Calmness in the chaos. Beauty is truth. Beauty is healing. It is not frivolous. It is not meaningless. It is essential. It is a primal need to strive for perfection, for that unfathomable wholeness that is prepared for us.
Discover more of how my story informs my design philosophy in Beauty by Design.
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