White Woman Considers a Lampshade

A Literary Monologue of Inconvenient Sensitivity and Beauty-Induced Panic

Written by: Jaime Church 

Edited by: Kelly Church

The other day I was given a hand made stained glass lampshade. Not to sound too much like Holden Caulfield, but it sort of depresses the hell out of me. It’s one of the most beautiful household objects I’ve ever seen, let alone owned. It’s delicate, of course, (my goodness, it’s a stained glass lampshade, for Christ’s sake) but still, I feel like I have to mention it. And now that it’s mine I can’t look at it without feeling absolutely sick. I don’t mean to be like one of those annoying white girls who try to make something out of nothing, (the most sobering thought with which I find myself facing is the fact that I am doomed to become a middle-aged white woman in the next couple of decades, and it will be an uphill battle in denying allegations that I suppose I am special in any capacity.) But I digress. This isn’t about me but the lampshade, of course. 

It’s like walking into a cathedral. Sainte Chapelle, for example. It’s so beautiful that, the instant the intoxication of the initial viewing wears off, you are left with the realization of the astounding potential that human minds are capable of. And it’s beautiful and absolutely damning. Because now you know what is possible, and you don’t know how to get there. It’s the promise of hope that you cannot believe in. You see it, you love it, but you don’t know how to make it yours. You don’t know what it is exactly you want to extract. The beauty, yes, but something more. Is it the patience with which you know it must have taken to build such a thing? Are you jealous of the thing itself? Or are you jealous of the mind that had the vision to create it? Which is more beautiful? Which is more worthy of respect? It’s too much, is what it is. I’m not even a page deep in my manifesto, (the thesis of which I’m sorry to say is still under construction,) and I am already about to make my first Silvia Plath reference. God, I really am a white woman. (Even though I think this idea that Plath is only to be revered by emotional distraught but economically privileged girls is just ridiculous.) Anyway, it's her fig tree analogy that I’m getting at. The one where she’s so anxious about choosing a future that she succumbs to the worst one of all; watching them all wither and die before her as she stands in fear. You see, when you walk into something that is simply gorgeous, you are walking into a life that isn’t yours. You walk into a life of such precision and beauty and intent, a complete canvas of something you know you would never be able to replicate, you start to feel guilty. And feeling guilty is so scary. Because you wouldn’t feel guilty if you entirely knew that such a life of beauty was completely out of the question. It’s just in the question enough that you feel responsible to make the most of it. But cathedrals aren’t built by accident. “Making the most of something” and “creating a masterpiece" feel like they have different undertones of intent. The former as a last resort, and the latter as a god-given mission for which you devote your life to. And yet, what do the architects and artists of cathedrals do if not make the most of their talents, as individuals and as a team? So you see, seeing beautiful things is a terrible curse. You can’t assume they don’t exist because you are forced to see them, to drink them and to be so painfully aware of their existence that you cannot pretend to be indifferent anymore. But you know what you want is to feel pain because it introduces the potential for loss. Losses that you both can and cannot control. Painful either way. 

I live in 2025. An unsavory time for time. Because nothing is slow. Everything is fast and here and here and streamlined! Collaborative! Everything is prompted and guaranteed and one click away and great and wonderful and oh so easy. And God it’s so efficient I have so much more time for ME! Just what I’ve always wanted. I’m constantly getting cashback with my new card. The greatest deals are always in my pocket and I just love that. Because having the world in my pocket means I don’t have to see it. I’m saving so much time. And we haven’t even gotten to Chat GTP! Holy crap is she great or what? I had her write my grandma’s birthday letter the other day and she just did a fantastic job. It was perfect. I mean like, it was sentimental in all the right ways and everything we shouldn’t even be putting the A before the I. And I know people like to ride its ass and express their concern about giving human jobs to the result of a massive data machine thinly masked with a layer of emotional savvy, but to that I simply say who cares? It did a wonderful job of doing the heavy lifting (emotionally) for me. And if there’s one thing humans hate, it’s heavy emotional lifting. We always seem to be doing it. So thank god I live in a time where we’ve finally figured out how to outsource emotions. I LOVE EFFICIENCY! 

I will admit, this efficient world comes at a price. If we outsource emotion, we outsource humanity, and outsourcing humanity has a tendency to carry along the beauty with it. (That is, if you believe humanity is beautiful and worth admiring or working into a creative process.) After all, the only thing silicon tech bros seem to love more than efficiency is authenticity. Three cheers for individuality! We’re looking for a multidisciplined, storytelling designer who thrives in ambiguity. Someone with data-driven, pixel-perfect, scalable contributions that make them not only unique but totally compliant and able to maximize revenue. It’s all about the hustle, baby! Our modern approach to time is brilliant because it doesn’t allow time for loss because it doesn’t allow time for investment. And that’s something I really admire. I feel so bad for the craftsmen of the pre-internet ages. It must have been awful building without KPI-driven, end-to-end encryption, frictionless workflows that allowed to maximize productivity. Without any way to outsource their introspection, they must have been total slaves to emotional toil. Building those cathedrals and painting those masterpieces and writing those symphonies must have been wildly inconvenient. And with no way to post and share or like or connect or collaborate or build online communities, it must have been hell. 

But, even with all our gorgeous advancements in technology and understanding of human-centered design, I’m left a little unsatisfied sometimes. I know it’s terrible. I have so much to be grateful for. Think of all the engineers and scientists and designers who came before me who have enabled me to carry the whole of the world’s history and services in the palm of my hand. But damn it, I can’t help it. Sometimes, (only sometimes, mind you,) I don’t want it. I want depth and quality and satisfaction in my tools and in my habits. I don’t want to maximize anything or break boundaries or revolutionize the independent workplace. I want to understand and appreciate what it is to feel human.

AI isn’t the problem. But it certainly is the crutch we use to avoid the problem. If artificial intelligence is the solution, it implies that human intelligence is a problem somewhere along the way. Because humans are grotesque and confusing and they are constantly changing their minds. It’s so annoying. And yet so funny at the same time. (Goodness, I talk of humans like I’m not one!) I most certainly am. And that’s the problem. You see, operating on a human timetable in a new age of computation and AI is simply not an option. You’re too slow. You’re too sentient. Depth, pain, and beauty take time. Time that computation doesn’t require. The creative process of ChatGTP is done off massive data sets. Not novels or music or stationary or romance or addiction or humor. The computer doesn’t feel anger or lust or inadequacy. It produces work that doesn’t upset, because there was no part of the process of creation that was in any way upsetting. No story to be told means no emotion to be felt. This is precisely why looking at my lamp is the worst thing I can do to myself. It contains a world of meaning in its form. Domestic objects that contain an unbearable degree of human intention and skill are, as some may say, very inspiring. But inspiration is so so dangerous. If it’s inspiring, it’s safe to say that it is, in some way, novel. And if something is novel and beautiful, it is dangerous because it raises the bar. And every time the bar is raised, there is a greater distance to fall if one happens to fall, (but we’re all going to fall, because we’re so stupidly human,) so we’re setting ourselves up for a cruel cycle of pain. 

My lamp is on my nightstand. I can’t get rid of it. But I can’t look at it too much either. I just sleep next to it. It’s like we’re a couple five years deep into a marriage that ended three years ago. I’m sure it doesn’t want to look at me either. It exists, and with it, a completely different approach to time and beauty than what I know is realistic for a life of a broke 22 year old in the year 2025. The pain of unrealized potential, (or rather, the systematic, structural flaws in social design we’ve built for ourselves,) is somewhat avoidable as long as you join ‘em instead of fighting ‘em. Maybe I’ll join them. Convenience wins and the emotional labor is lifted. Oh, but then what am I doing if not signing up to a life full of the illusion of choice and the death of difficulty? Life is difficult or it is nothing at all, so it would seem. You live and then you die. A pretty universal truth as it would seem. Except the creeping suspicion that perhaps the only universal thing about the statement is the second half. It leaves me wide awake at night. It’s probably the damn lamp whispering to me. It’s living up to its potential. It's authentic in its creation and beauty. Why can’t I? Because it’s hard? Of course it’s hard! So don’t just lie there pretending to sleep! I know you can hear me! I know you’re guilty! The work is long and painful and success is not guaranteed and you probably wont get cashback but christ you KNOW you’ve got to do it so don’t lie there and admire me like that will somehow make you feel better! You can admire all day long but admiration will never give you the same satisfaction as creation! But go ahead. Create the easy way. Edit the discomfort out of the process. Monogram your bathrobe and call it a day for individuality. But I’ll be here. And you’ll know it. Because you know what it is to be human and you know that what they’re feeding you is shit and you’ll know you want to change it but of course you won’t know how. And it’ll be awful. But at least you’ll be feeling it. Because as long as you can feel you can create. Is it a noble pursuit to lay down comfort for art and life? Not so much noble pursuit as it is a necessary requirement. Because real creative processes have never been easy or streamlined and as long as they are authentic, they never will be. So I keep the lampshade on my nightstand. It knows my conscience is guilty, but it also knows that means I still have one. I’ll catch up, it'll just take time.