One of the ideas Frances shared when we exchanged blog post titles was to write about a memory from a library. While the prompt “Sparking joy” is the one I ended up writing about, as soon as I started to think about library memories a few ideas came to mind. One memory in particular stands out.

Last year I visited Philadelphia. At the time, I wrote about my experience at the Barnes Foundation, a museum that got me thinking about how a piece of art relates to the objects around the artwork. The Barnes Foundation is on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, a long stretch of road in the centre of the city. At both sides of the road are museums: the Barnes Foundation, Rodin Museum, The Franklin Institute. The road leads to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. [^1] Museums everywhere!

Also on that stretch of road was the Parkway Central Library run by the Free Library of Philadelphia. Between the tall pillars at the front of the building – a building with grand architecture – there were banners that together read “FREE LIBRARY”. Intrigued by the architecture, the message, and my love of libraries, I went in and walked around, enjoying the exhibits in the hallway.

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A building with classical architecture with purple banners that read "Free Library".

I remember one exhibition vividly. On the top floor, where the reading rooms are, there were glass exhibition cases that surrounded the large taking visitors back to the ground floor. One of the pieces of paper in one of the glass cases was mainly black, save for a few words. This, I later learned, was an example of blackout poetry. As far as I can remember, this was my first time seeing blackout poetry. Several months after the trip, I was inspired to make a web page that adds blackout areas to text on the web page.

On that trip, I saw lots of art in museums. I even learned that Winston Churchill liked to paint; one of his artworks was on display in the Philadelphia Museum of Art. But the blackout poetry still stands out to me. It stood in contrast to all the other exhibitions: the amount that was hidden caught my eye by the black on the paper. My attention caught, the poetry invited me to focus on what the author had chosen to make visible, demonstrating how, when seen through the right lens, poetry can be in the most unexpected of places.

[^1]: The steps that lead up to the museum were made famous in the movie Rocky.

Two years ago, I visited Greenwich in London. I had been to London before, but Greenwich was that bit further out so I hadn’t made the trip. What drew me to Greenwich was the Royal Observatory and the Prime Meridian line. The day I visited, I had great joy standing over the Prime Meridian line, thinking I had one foot in one meridian and one foot in another.

The Royal Observatory was fascinating. I remember vividly some of the clocks and timepieces I saw. There, I learned about the connection between time and the sea. Celestial navigation. Ships can use clocks to more accurately calculate where they are in the world.

I remember vividly the physical spaces in that museum: the spacious interior of the observatory dome, the equipment at the Prime Meridian line, the display cases with various time pieces. I remember the joy I felt at seeing different clocks. I remember in what direction I was looking. Even if the details of a specific exhibit allude me, I remember the place where I stood when I saw it.

After visiting the Royal Observatory, I walked down the hill and went to the National Maritime Museum. While a maritime museum is not as interesting to me as an art gallery, I heard from a friend that the award winning pictures from the Astronomy Photographer of the Year competition were on display in one of the galleries.

One of the things I love about museums is that one exhibit can draw you in and, hours later, you can find yourself with a new interest. The Astronomy Photographer of the Year exhibition was my anchor. From there, I wandered around the museum and explored other exhibits. I learned so much: of voyages to the arctic and antarctic, of the extent of the British Navy, and so much more. After that experience, I would definitely visit a maritime museum again.

Within the maritime museum, I have vivid memories of being in different spaces. I remember the wall on which a particular photograph that caught my eye was on display. I could walk you to the picture today (although the exhibition has since rotated, so I could only take you to the wall, not the picture itself). I can’t remember the name of the photograph, but I remember where I was when I saw it. I remember the vivid blue colour of the ocean, illuminated by, if I remember, some kind of plankton. I was in awe at so many of the paintings in that room.

Many of my museum memories are anchored in a specific place: a room, a hallway, a specific wall. The images of some spaces are vivid. I remember where I was when I saw a work of art that particularly caught my attention (Even if, ironically, I couldn’t tell you how I got from the entrance of the museum to that piece. Oh! Museums can be labyrinths).

I started writing this post because I read Elena’s contribution to the IndieWeb Carnival this month that mentioned the term “Wildlife Photographer of the Year”. Reading those words instantly reminded me of the aforementioned Astronomy Photographer of the Year exhibit, and the specific wall on which the picture that really caught my attention was.

I have just found the picture: Like Blue Lava by Petr Horalek. The photograph is wonderful.

I started that day in Greenwich with the desire to see the Royal Observatory and the Prime Meridian. I ended the day with a newfound appreciation for astronomy photography and maritime history, and memories that, when recalled, make me feel as if I am back in Greenwich.

Whenever I visit an art gallery, there is inevitably a painting that sparks joy, or otherwise leaves me with an impression that sticks with me. Peter Paul Rubens’ Landscape by Moonlight was one such painting.

The painting depicts a landscape at night time. The ground and the trees on the left are dark. The river in the bottom left is illuminated by reflection of moonlight which draws attention to an animal in the foreground. A full moon peeks through an otherwise cloudy sky.

The sky, and the top of the trees, are dotted with specs of white paint. Stars.

I didn’t think too much about the stars until I read the commentary for the painting written by Francesca Herrick, the Public Programmes Educator at The Courtauld (plaque visible in the interactive view of the Permanent Collection), which notes:

The little flecks of white paint that form the twinkling stars suggest relaxed and joyful experimentation.

Notably, the stars appear in front of the clouds.

I remember smiling when I saw this painting. I stared at it for a while. I remember being struck by those words “joyful experimentation”, especially when reflecting on how the piece was painted between 1635-40. I was surprised and delighted that an attribute in a painting from centuries ago – the way the stars were painted – was perceived by someone as exhibiting “joyful experimentation”.

I started to think about how Rubens felt working on this piece. Why did he decide to add the stars as he did? Did Rubens smile when adding the stars? We will never know, but this perspective stuck with me.

As I moved onto the next room, I took one last look back at the painting to savour it for one more second. It is a beautiful piece.

The book for this month’s IndieWeb Book Club, hosted by Nick, is Christopher Alexander’s book The Timeless Way of Building.

The book is about architecture, but its principles have broader application to any discipline involved with building something.

The idea of a “pattern language”, discussed throughout the book, is one that has stuck with me. I was thinking about “patterns” before reading the book, but The Timeless Way of Building put the idea of a pattern into perspective:

Your language generates the buildings which you make, and the buildings live or not, according to the life your language has.

The word “live” in this sense is related – but not equal – to the “quality without a name” that is introduced early in the book. This quality roughly captures the extent to which a building reaches its potential.

The idea behind a pattern language is that there are, and you can define, a library of concepts for use in building.

Patterns are like tools: concepts that you can apply in a design. Alexander also talks about how patterns are defined not only in isolation, but by their relationship to other patterns:

Beyond its elements each building is defined by certain patterns of relationships among the elements.

[…]

When we look closer, we realize that these relationships are not extra, but necessary to the elements, indeed a part of them.

Alexander gives the example of how an isle in a cathedral would not be an isle if it did not have connections to other architectural features like a nave. The idea of relationships between patterns is something I am now starting to think about more thanks to Alexander’s book.

The book is immensely quotable. Every time I open the book, no matter at what page, there is an insight that could be explored. But the book comes alive when read in full: indeed, the book in its entirety, propels the reader forward toward new ways of thinking about how to build.

I am writing this review a few months after reading the book, when I had time to read it in full; it is likely there are so many more conclusions that can be drawn. Every point above could be developed further. This post is my way of saying that the idea of a pattern language is increasingly foundational to how I think about designing software and technology.

I keep a running list of software patterns, and in 2024 I did a series dedicated to software patterns. I started writing about patterns because I wanted to put into words what I was seeing in software, and I wonder if, through their broader influence, Alexander’s ideas of “patterns” influenced my thinking even before I knew about them.