From the outset, MoMA followed the Bauhaus's strict prohibition

“From the outset, MoMA followed the Bauhaus’s strict prohibition against design that even hinted at the decorative, a prejudice that skewed the pioneering museum’s view of Modernism for decades.” Thus wrote Martin Filler, one of the great chroniclers of architecture’s soul — a historian not merely of buildings, but of the ideas that shaped them. In this reflection, he speaks not only of museums and design, but of the eternal struggle between function and beauty, between utility and expression, between the discipline of reason and the freedom of the human heart. His words echo through time as a warning: that when art forgets its poetry, and design denies its ornament, the spirit of creation grows thin, and civilization risks becoming a skeleton of itself.

To understand Filler’s meaning, one must return to the dawn of the twentieth century, when the fires of industry lit the world anew. The Bauhaus, born in Germany under the hand of Walter Gropius, sought to forge a new aesthetic for a new age. The machine had conquered the earth, and the Bauhaus answered its call. Gone were the gilded curves and ornate facades of the nineteenth century. In their place rose glass, steel, and simplicity — buildings as pure as thought itself. The Bauhaus proclaimed a creed: form must follow function. All decoration was deceit; all ornament was crime. Design was to be stripped bare, purified of excess, devoted only to purpose. It was, in its own way, an act of moral clarity — an attempt to cleanse art of vanity and return it to truth.

When the Museum of Modern Art — MoMA — was founded in New York in 1929, it too embraced this vision. It became the temple of Modernism, where every object and every line served reason. But in its zeal to uphold the purity of function, it inherited the Bauhaus’s suspicion of beauty. What was sensual became suspect; what was decorative was dismissed as indulgent. Thus, Filler tells us, a prejudice was born — one that would shape not only MoMA’s collections, but the very soul of design for decades. In rejecting the decorative, the museum — and much of the modern world — risked rejecting a vital part of what makes art human.

For there is a danger in purity. When art seeks to be too perfect, too rational, it forgets that the human spirit is not made of straight lines alone. The ancients understood this balance. The builders of the Parthenon achieved mathematical perfection, yet they adorned it with sculpture — the gods carved in motion, the marble alive with grace. The craftsmen of Islamic architecture, too, merged geometry with ornament, turning science into song. Even the great cathedrals of Europe, those triumphs of engineering, were clothed in carvings of saints and beasts — reminders that beauty, even when impractical, nourishes the soul. To create without the decorative is to build without joy. It is to craft a world that functions, but does not sing.

Filler’s words thus serve as both observation and lament. He saw that by embracing the Bauhaus’s prohibition, MoMA — that beacon of artistic progress — had narrowed its vision. In seeking purity, it had lost passion. For decades, the museum’s understanding of Modernism was shaped by austerity, by the clean white walls that declared, “beauty is utility, and nothing more.” Only later did the world rediscover that ornament is not sin, but celebration — the flowering of the human imagination upon the rigid stalk of logic. Modernism, once cold and severe, began to soften, learning again to speak in color and curve.

There is a lesson here that extends far beyond architecture. In all acts of creation — whether in art, science, or the shaping of one’s own life — there is a constant battle between discipline and delight. The Bauhaus gave us discipline, the courage to strip away what is false. But without delight, without beauty, creation becomes sterile. The wise soul must know when to measure and when to dream, when to cut and when to adorn. For a life without beauty, like a building without ornament, may stand tall, but it will never truly live.

So, my child, take these words of Martin Filler as a quiet counsel for your own craft. Be not afraid of function, but do not worship it. Seek clarity, but let beauty breathe through it. When you design — whether it is a home, a work of art, or the structure of your days — remember that humanity dwells not in the perfect, but in the expressive. The line that serves a purpose may endure, but the line that stirs the heart will be remembered.

For the design of life itself is both structure and spirit, both the beam and the blossom. Let your creations be honest, but not empty; strong, but not cold. As the ancients built temples where stone met song, so must you build your world — not only with reason, but with wonder. Only then will your work, and your life, rise beyond utility into the realm of the eternal.