We’d Rather Make Things Pretty — Or Would We?

During our trip to London over the last school holidays, we spent an afternoon walking along the Thames. The weather was overcast — the kind that makes London feel like it’s been lightly washed in grey. From the riverbank, the clock tower and the Houses of Parliament stood in that timeless frame, but what caught my eye wasn’t the skyline — it was the lampposts.

The old Victorian ones, still standing in places, were cast in the form of stylised sea creatures — often called dolphins, though they look more like sturgeons — beautifully detailed, almost whimsical. A few metres away, their modern replacements rose like plain metal poles, efficient but utterly without feeling.

The same contrast appeared elsewhere in the city. The old sewage offices, built in patterned brick and trimmed with arches and ornament, stood with quiet dignity beside the river. Nearby, the modern counterpart sat behind metal fencing, all bare concrete and warning signs — built to keep people out, not to invite anyone in. Functional, yes. But joyless.

Later that evening, I came across a talk comparing these very scenes. The speaker described how nineteenth-century builders even made their sewers beautiful — vaulted tunnels, patterned brick, perfect symmetry — because dignity and pride were built into their work. They believed beauty was a public duty, not a luxury.

Today, we’ve traded that sense of pride for practicality. We build quickly, efficiently, and cheaply, and when something works, we stop asking whether it’s beautiful. We bolt air-conditioning units onto elegant façades, congratulating ourselves for their utility while ignoring the visual noise they add to the street. We’ve solved for comfort, but lost our sense of grace.

Walking through London, I realised how deeply that mindset has shaped our modern world — and how easily we forget the quiet importance of making things well.

At Philosophy Studio, we think about this often. It’s tempting to design for speed or profit, but what endures is what moves people. A bedside table doesn’t have to be beautiful to hold a book — but beauty is what makes you want to linger beside it.

We’d rather make things pretty — not out of indulgence, but conviction. Because beauty isn’t surface-deep; it’s care made visible.

The Victorians built sewers as though they were cathedrals. We, in our own small way, build furniture the same way — quietly, purposefully, and with faith that beauty still matters.