No wonder the film industry started in the desert in California

“No wonder the film industry started in the desert in California where, like all desert dwellers, they dream their buildings, rather than design them.” Thus spoke Arthur Erickson, the visionary architect who understood not only the language of stone and light, but also the deeper poetry of creation. His words, though cast in reflection upon the birth of cinema, are in truth a meditation on the eternal struggle between imagination and form, between dreaming and designing. For in the dry stillness of the desert—where the horizon stretches endlessly and the earth offers no boundaries—the human spirit learns not merely to build, but to dream its creations into being.

The desert, as Erickson knew, is not an absence but a crucible. It strips away the noise of the world, leaving only the silence in which vision can be born. Those who dwell there live close to the edge of existence, surrounded by vast emptiness. In such a place, to survive is to imagine. To create is to conjure something out of nothing. And so it was in that California desert—barren, sun-bleached, and open to infinity—that a new kind of dream took shape: the film industry, that mighty empire of illusion. Its founders, exiles of the East, looked upon the endless sands and saw not desolation, but potential—a canvas for imagined worlds.

Erickson’s insight reaches deeper still. He saw in these dreamers a reflection of humanity’s oldest builders—the desert nomads, the mystics, the prophets—those who fashioned visions before structures, stories before walls. For the desert has always been the birthplace of revelation. It was across its lonely expanses that prophets received divine inspiration, and wanderers glimpsed the cities of the spirit. Likewise, Hollywood’s creators, surrounded by emptiness, built worlds of light and shadow that would captivate all mankind. They did not “design” their buildings, as Erickson says, in the strict sense of geometry or order. They dreamed them, letting imagination rise like a mirage into form.

In this, there lies a powerful truth for all who create: imagination precedes structure. The greatest cathedrals of art and architecture, the most stirring films, the most enduring ideas—all begin as dreams before they become design. Consider the story of Walt Disney, who, in the same sun-soaked California soil, dreamed of worlds no architect could have drawn first on paper. He imagined castles, kingdoms, and fantasies that would later become tangible, but only because he first saw them in his mind’s eye. Like a desert visionary, he built from belief, not from blueprints. His creations remind us that dreaming is the seed of all design.

Erickson, being an architect, knew both the discipline of structure and the necessity of wonder. His quote does not mock design; it exalts the spirit that gives birth to it. The desert, with its golden silence, teaches us that before we can shape the world, we must see it inwardly. The film industry was born not from abundance, but from scarcity—from the human need to fill emptiness with meaning. The desert gave no comfort, no ready-made beauty. It demanded vision. And in answering that demand, humanity discovered one of its greatest forms of creation: the moving picture, the modern myth.

Yet there is a warning here as well. In a world that prizes calculation, efficiency, and control, we are in danger of forgetting how to dream. We design too quickly, plan too narrowly, and build without listening to the wind. Erickson reminds us that creation must begin not with the ruler and compass, but with silence—with the dream that comes before the design. For only that which is first dreamt can truly live, and only that which carries the breath of imagination can withstand the desert’s test.

So take this lesson, child of the future: when you create—be it a film, a home, or a life—do not begin with the walls; begin with the vision. Let your imagination be vast as the desert, fearless of its emptiness. Dream your design before you design your dream. For the desert still whispers to those who listen: that all enduring beauty begins as a mirage of the spirit—a fragile dream shimmering against the horizon—until faith and labor make it real.

And thus, as Erickson knew, the dreamer is the truest builder. The desert gave birth to Hollywood, not because it had space for construction, but because it had space for imagination. May we all learn to dwell in that same vastness, where the soul dares to dream its buildings—and the world, in time, rises to meet them.