The question we can’t confront too early or return to too often is: how can we make the world a better place? The question is, in fact, more personal: how can I make the world a better place? Our office was founded on that ideal held by all of us collectively and asked of each of us individually.

Early on in our lives, we are concerned, quite rightly, with our own development, family ties, relationships, careers and simply self-discovery. Who am I? That question begins, perhaps inevitably, in our own little world, as big as it might seem. Eventually, I begin to feel another call. I see I don’t really have any meaning in life except in how I am related to something larger than myself. In a way, it doesn’t so much matter what specifically that contribution is, just that it adds to life as all of us live it, not simply as we alone live it.

Not everyone who makes this discovery acts upon it. It’s understandable. It’s not easy to hear the needs of others when our own are so ever-present and often overwhelming.

And it’s not so simple to find a way to bring what you have to offer. But what is clear is this: bringing whatever you have is most important. (Think little drummer boy.) Your particular gift will be honed over a lifetime. Indeed, it is a practice simply to learn how to give. Fortunately for us at this enterprise of trying to bring art and architecture alive, we have a vehicle willing and waiting. At the same time, this effort needs the hearts and souls of individuals to bring it to life. We also know that stating our wish, or even committing to it, doesn’t make it happen. The world isn’t necessarily ready or prepared to receive our wonderful aspirations. We need great patience and perseverance in elevating needs too narrowly defined and aims too limited in scope to include humanity at large.

We know the story of Icarus, son of the master craftsman Daedalus. They attempt to escape the island of Crete by means of wings his father constructed of feathers and wax. We know well that Icarus was warned of hubris, or flying too high. We remember the admonition: Don’t fly too close to the sun! What we don’t know so well is that he was first warned of complacency: not to fly too low as the dampness of the sea would weigh down his wings.

Bringing our gifts to the world and aiming high, it’s useful to remember Icarus and his father’s warnings. In my experience of trying to embody the wild aspirations of art and architecture, we rarely got too close to the sun.

The real danger was flying too low.