Aesthetica Mechanica

I have a very pretty book sitting on my shelf that highlights the beauty of indoor plants. It is called "Aesthetica Botanica," and if I did not have a toddler in the house, it would live on my coffee table where it rightfully belongs.

But there is a yin to that yang that I have yet to see in bookshops: a celebration of wind-up or spring-loaded or even water-wheel-powered machines—an Aesthetica Mechanica.

19th century social commentators would likely reel at the suggestion that the faceless behemouths crushing fingers in textile mills could be beautiful. And I agree that there can be a frightening coldness to artifice. Once machines are set in motion, they will not stop unless one applies brute force. And given their multiplicative power, this is often not easily done.

But on the other side of that frigidity lies a kind of purity. The machine does what it is designed to do. Errors in design or wear from use may cause it to fault. But these can be identified and corrected with a precision very alien to biology (no matter how much some try to impose these same principles upon it).

Pure mechanism is also tactile and pleasantly acoustic by nature. It clicks. It whirs. These sounds and sensations speak a truth. You are hearing and feeling what is actually happening rather than a simulacrum meant to satisfy you artificially. These are the ticking of levers, the purring of spinning flywheels. When you press a button on a mechanical typewriter, you feel the letter slam down on the page. It is satisfying in a way that a slim, plastic computer keyboard can never replicate.

This does not just apply to the realm of work, but also play. We do not think of it this way, but a piano is a music machine. The weight of the keys and the feel of the hammer tapping a taut string engages one's entire being. Likewise, manipulating the lense, cranking the film forward, and clicking the shutter of a wind-up camera is all so much more real than the electronic beeps of a modern DLSR or mirrorless device.

Is all this purely a preference? Can we say anything metaphysical about these very physical differences between the blue glow of a laptop screen versus the black and white dials of a spring-loaded calculator?

While I certainly would not posit any kind of moral difference, I do think that mechanical machines being more purpose-driven means one is less likely to be distracted away from the task at hand by them. Another benefit is how they encourage a man to engage more of his whole self with them rather than simply his eyes and mind.

Humans are a composite of soul and body. As modern technology grows ever more abstract, it often gets more complicated, redundant, and somehow less intelligent despite exclusively engaging our intellects.

We can and should do better. I think admiring old watches, grandfather clocks, and foot pedal sewing machines is a great place to start. Imagine building a more grounded world that celebrates our full humanity—body and mind.

In my debut novel, I try to do just this. While the world of Aura is very much broken, in its use of artifice, it is more beautiful than our own. It is a place of quiet, precise mechanisms that enrich rather than monitor and distract. It is a civilization in which technology serves ecology rather than competing with it. Though fantastical at a practical level, the look, feel, and spirit of Auran automata represent another path that I believe is worth at least attempting to pursue here on Earth. One day, when I finally publish it, I hope that you will get a chance to read my book and catch a glimpse of this aesthetic.