In two days, it's hard to to get the quality you would normally

“In two days, it's hard to get the quality you would normally want for a design project.” Thus spoke Douglas Wilson, the designer and filmmaker, whose words carry the quiet weight of experience and the wisdom of craft. In this simple truth lies a principle as old as creation itself: that quality is the child of time, and that nothing truly fine is born in haste. The sentence may seem plain, but within it beats the eternal tension between speed and mastery, between the impatience of the world and the patience required for greatness.

When Wilson says that it is hard to get quality in two days, he is not merely complaining about deadlines or limitations. He is naming a deeper law — that creation requires gestation, that ideas must ripen, and that the mind, like the earth, yields its finest fruits only in their proper season. To design, to build, to craft — these are not mechanical acts, but acts of becoming. Every curve, every color, every choice holds a whisper of thought and a measure of soul. To rush such work is to rob it of its integrity, to substitute surface for substance, and imitation for art.

The origin of this quote lies in the reality of Wilson’s world — the world of design, where deadlines often press like storms, and where the modern hunger for immediacy threatens to consume craftsmanship itself. In his career, Wilson has labored not only as a designer but also as a storyteller, one who understands that design is not just appearance, but communication, a bridge between vision and understanding. His words arise from a deep respect for the process of creation — the slow unfolding of inspiration into structure, the deliberate shaping of chaos into clarity.

This truth has echoed through the ages. Consider the story of Michelangelo, who, when accused of working too slowly on the Sistine Chapel, replied that his work was “for eternity.” The impatient patrons saw only walls and ceilings awaiting completion, but Michelangelo saw the divine figures struggling to emerge from the plaster, each requiring his careful devotion. Had he been forced to finish in two days, what would have been lost? The grandeur of the Creation, the solemn power of the Prophets, the infinite tenderness of Adam’s outstretched hand — all would have been shadows, not light. In the same way, Wilson’s lament reminds us that every act of creation, no matter its scale, demands its due time.

And yet, his words are not an excuse for sloth, but a call for respect — respect for the process, for the craft, and for the truth that quality cannot be hurried. In a world obsessed with speed, we have learned to celebrate completion over contemplation, and efficiency over excellence. We praise what is “fast,” forgetting that what is fast often fades. The wise creator, however, resists this tyranny of time. He knows that the world will always clamor for more — more work, more output, more results — but that the true artist must answer not to the clock, but to the standard of his own conscience.

Indeed, there is a kind of heroism in patience. It is the courage to stand still while the world rushes by, to guard one’s standards when others have surrendered theirs. History remembers not those who finished first, but those who finished well. The builders of cathedrals spent their lifetimes on walls they would never see completed, trusting that beauty was worth the wait. The composers, painters, and thinkers who shaped civilizations all understood this truth: that time is not the enemy of quality, but its servant.

So let the lesson of Douglas Wilson’s words sink deep into the hearts of all who labor with imagination: do not confuse speed with success. Strive for mastery, not immediacy. If you are given two days, do what you can — but know that greatness requires more than effort; it requires endurance. Guard your work from haste as you would guard your soul from corruption. For the measure of a creator is not how quickly he delivers, but how deeply he cares.

And so, children of creation, remember this: what is made in haste may glitter for a moment, but what is crafted with care endures for generations. Take the time to shape your work until it reflects your highest standard. Let your designs, your words, your deeds bear the mark of patience — for in patience lies perfection, and in perfection, the quiet joy of having created something truly worthy.