ON ENCOUNTER
The following reflection responds to a photograph I took earlier this month. It is not a formal analysis, but a personal observation—an attempt to articulate how the world appears to me.
In looking at the image of a withering stump, I began to wonder what it might mean to live as a creature of the forest—a smaller being, one without the capacity to build shelter, fell trees, or haul timber. For such a being, this rotting cavity might appear not as ruin, but as refuge. It’s easy to imagine where such creatures might burrow, nest, or spin webs. Yet in imagining their lives, I neglect to question my own role. I stop at the site of decay not out of necessity, but from curiosity.
Value often appears in overlooked places. Not all treasures are material or measurable. I didn’t pause because the stump shimmered with value, or because it could be extracted, sold, or displayed. I paused because I could witness a moment in its ongoing transformation.
I do not know how tall the tree once stood, how green its leaves were, or even what species it was. I do not know when it sprouted, nor how or when it fell.
Did its body collapse from disease? Was it damaged by human hands, by fire, by drought? Did it fall alone, or strike another as it came down? Was anyone there to hear it? What did its final moment sound like?
These are unknowable details—and that is precisely what makes the encounter meaningful. There is something compelling in this lack of certainty. Discovery is not always about acquiring knowledge, but about the experience of paying attention. One does not need to name or own something in order to value it.
This leads me to think that the most powerful architectures are not necessarily those that dominate the skyline. Not the glass towers, the stadiums, or the grand palaces—but perhaps instead, the overlooked forms: the stump in the woods, the forgotten shed, the spaces that do not declare themselves as architecture.
Still, questions of beauty remain. Who else might see beauty in rot? How do we determine what is beautiful, and to whom? If beauty is relational, then it cannot be universal. In designing what I find beautiful, I may inadvertently design something others find unappealing. No architecture can be universally admired.
What if aesthetics are not bound to trends, but to experience? Can a dirt-covered, lopsided structure be beautiful? Does it need to appeal to many, or is it enough that it matters to one? Can beauty be something that is only ever partially understood—only available through encounter?
Imagine...
It is your favourite season. The temperature is comfortable. You decide to take a long walk, alone. You bring music or a book, though neither feels especially necessary. You walk without urgency. After a while, you arrive at a fork—one path familiar, the other long known but never taken. Today, you choose the unfamiliar. You notice a weathered wooden sign, but its lettering has worn away. The trail is unnamed.
You continue walking. There are houses here—quiet, orderly, with trimmed lawns and shaded porches. You pass many, all alike. Then, emerging from the tree canopy, you reach a wide field. You’ve seen this field from a different perspective, but never from here. It feels both familiar and new.
You consider turning back. But then you notice a small structure behind the last house—something you missed before. You walk toward it. It is a white-plastered shed with cracked wood revealing red brick beneath. The door is missing. You lean into its shifted frame and step inside.
There is a workbench. A single hammer lies on its surface. The room is unlit, save for a dim glow from a window without glass. There are no tools, no visible purpose. The shed is unkempt and unused. And yet, it feels significant. You imagine someone once working here, their body occupying the space in a way you can now only guess.
Eventually, you check the time. Light has changed. You walk home.
Later, you find yourself thinking about this shed. You imagine its past—its function, its maker. You don’t know its story, but the experience stays with you. The architecture offered nothing definitive. It invited questions and gave no answers. And for that, you are grateful.
The most meaningful spaces may be those we stumble upon—spaces with which we feel a connection, despite knowing nothing about them. Like the moss-covered stump: quiet, decaying, unremarkable in form—yet profound in its presence.