Making compromise
Or moving forward, despite Plato's forms
A bit of meandering thought for today’s Friday story. Nowhere near the ideal form for an essay, but that’s okay. ~JRC
Plato's theory of forms. Or, more simply put - Plato's forms. The Greek philosopher postulated that for everything we perceive in this universe, there is an ideal beyond realization - but not beyond imagination.
A chair, for example, is but a compromise - a facsimile of the perfect form of a chair.
No matter how skilled the craftsman, the chair can approach the ideal but never truly be ideal. And so it goes with everything we can imagine; from chairs and cars to cities and ourselves, nothing is perfect.
I remember first grasping Plato's forms as a Freshman in college. I took Western Civilization my spring quarter, and the teacher, Professor Gary Westhausen (I loved listening to that guy), was obsessed with the Greek philosophers. He lectured for days on Plato's forms alone. And I hung on every word. Mostly because this concept intrigued me so. Plato's forms hinted at the imperfect nature of reality. Or, more precisely, our flawed perception of reality, if reality even exists.
We are impaired, after all. And our creations are imperfect. Yet we forever try and know the universe; we create with an eye towards an unobtainable perfection.
I have a lovely little Starrett tap wrench. It's beautiful polished steel and has a nice heft to it. But the threads feel a bit rough when turned, and it's noticeably impaired, despite being one of the best examples of that tool.
This is not a paradox or a contradiction; just a fact of whatever reality is, telling us that all of it is flawed.
Last week I bought a couple of clothes hampers. They fit nicely in my house, and the colors work in my bathroom where they now stand. But placed side by side, their imperfection stands out.
They are noticeably tapered, and the wasted space is apparent.
Ideally, the hampers would be squared boxes and sit flush beside one another; they'd hold more this way and look better together. But the makers couldn't design them as such - they wouldn't be stackable.
It would take far more space to package and ship them as boxes. But as tapered trapezoids, they nest inside each other, allowing for compressed stacking and economical shipping. They are closer to ideal for mass transport, making them further from ideal for use.
The "ideal" clothes hamper - the perfect form of a hamper - would be perfectly designed for shipping AND use.
But the manufacturer had to compromise to make it work and be profitable. Sure, there are other designs - such as flat packed constructions that one completes at home (think IKEA furniture). But these too are compromises, albeit in different ways.
Perfection never; compromise always.
When I make things, it's always a compromise. I use the materials available to me. And I work them with the tools I have or can get.
Often, I end up making a certain way because I know how to do it that way. There is undoubtedly a better path, but the one I'm on will get me there, even if there isn't the ultimate.
It never is, of course. It's never perfection. But I don't let this stop me even though I am forever cognizant of it.
Unable to reach perfection, compromise becomes a tool. It allows us to create when the ideal tests us. Plato's forms loom ominously in our thoughts, unobtainable, and larger than reality itself. But with compromise, we say “so what” to perfection. We make, knowing full well that our creations will not be ideal.
Compromise, then, allows us to move forward. To find a path to keep going, even when the ideal - when Plato's forms - tell us we can't. And moving keeps us alive.
Moving forward, despite Plato's forms.
Until next time.
JRC