I've generally got a good eye for design and proportion.

“I’ve generally got a good eye for design and proportion.” — Bruce Oldfield

Thus spoke Bruce Oldfield, the master couturier whose creations have graced royalty and luminaries alike, a man who sees the world not as chaos but as composition — where beauty is born not from excess, but from balance. In this modest yet profound statement, Oldfield reveals the essence of the designer’s craft and, indeed, the artist’s soul. To have a “good eye for design and proportion” is not merely to see what is before one’s eyes, but to perceive the harmony that dwells beneath form — the invisible rhythm that gives shape to perfection.

Oldfield’s life was not woven in silk from the beginning. Born into hardship, he learned early that beauty must often be built, not found. His ascent from a North Yorkshire orphanage to the ateliers of London was not luck, but the fruit of vision — a vision disciplined by a sense of proportion. He learned to see not only with his eyes but with his spirit. Every hem, every curve, every fold in his designs bears witness to this truth: beauty requires restraint as much as inspiration, structure as much as imagination. His “good eye” was not an accident of birth, but a refinement of soul.

To the ancients, proportion was sacred. The Greeks believed that the universe itself was built upon harmony — the golden ratio of heaven reflected in the marble of their temples and the posture of their statues. To them, beauty was not indulgence but order, the visible expression of divine reason. The sculptor Phidias, when carving the Parthenon, did not seek to impress with grandeur alone; he sought balance, symmetry, and grace. In his hands, stone became serenity — because he, too, had a “good eye for design and proportion.” What Oldfield expresses in the language of couture, the ancients expressed in the architecture of eternity.

Yet the meaning of Oldfield’s words extends far beyond fashion or art. For to live well is itself an act of design, and the soul, too, must learn proportion. One must know when to reach and when to rest, when to speak and when to listen, when to dream and when to labor. The man who lacks proportion fills his life with clutter — too many desires, too much noise — and finds himself lost in disorder. But the one who sees with a clear eye arranges his days as an artist arranges a canvas: every element in harmony, every choice guided by a sense of purpose.

Consider the story of Leonardo da Vinci, who once said, “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication.” He saw that art — whether in painting, invention, or life itself — requires the discipline to remove what is unnecessary. It is not abundance that makes something beautiful, but balance. Da Vinci’s “Vitruvian Man” stands as the symbol of perfect proportion — man measured against the circle and square of the cosmos. Likewise, Bruce Oldfield’s gowns, though rich in texture, flow with an effortless precision; they celebrate form without exaggeration, elegance without ostentation. His art teaches that mastery lies not in adornment, but in knowing when to stop.

This, then, is the heart of Oldfield’s wisdom: to cultivate a “good eye” is to train both sight and judgment. It is to look at the world — at people, at places, at one’s own life — and discern what belongs and what does not. The wise do not chase every color or idea; they choose with care, as an artist chooses her palette. The good eye is the reward of patience, observation, and humility before beauty. It is not the seeing of more, but the seeing of enough.

So, my children, learn from Bruce Oldfield’s gentle confession. Seek to build a life of design and proportion — not hurried, not haphazard, but measured with grace. In your work, balance passion with precision. In your relationships, give as much as you receive. In your ambitions, dream greatly, but let your dreams be shaped by wisdom. For beauty, whether in art or in existence, is never an accident; it is the result of alignment — the harmony between vision and restraint, between imagination and truth.

And remember this: the eye that sees true proportion does not belong only to the artist, but to every soul who walks through the world with reverence. When you learn to behold balance — in nature, in art, in the heart of another — you join the company of the creators. For in every act of harmony, whether in thread or thought, you echo the divine design from which all beauty flows.