The Weight of Unquantifiable Choice

Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I realize I have been staring at row 44 of a spreadsheet for nearly two hours. My eyes are vibrating. The blue light from the monitor has turned the air in my office a sickly shade of neon, a hue that would never be allowed in any of the galleries I design. I am a museum lighting designer. I spend my days calculating the exact angle at which a 14th-century icon should be illuminated to prevent pigment degradation while still allowing the viewer to feel the weight of the saint’s sorrow. I deal in precision. I deal in lux, foot-candles, and color rendering indices that must end in a specific decimal. Yet here I am, in my own home, paralyzed by the difference between a Janka hardness rating of 1294 and 1364.

Earlier today, I counted my steps to the mailbox. 24 steps. Exactly 24. I do this often lately, counting things that don’t matter because the things that do matter-like whether I should install engineered white oak or a high-end laminate in the hallway-have become unquantifiable. We are told that more information leads to better lives. We are told that the ‘informed consumer’ is the one who wins. But as I look at the 14 tabs open on my browser, each one a different manufacturer’s promise of ‘lifetime durability,’ I feel like I’m losing. I have entered the Data Dump, that specific circle of hell where technical specifications replace actual sensory experience.

The Arrogance of Out-Researching Intuition

There is a specific kind of arrogance in thinking we can out-research a professional’s intuition. I know light. I can walk into a room and tell you within 4 percent what the color temperature is. I don’t need a meter; I have my gut, trained by 14 years of mistakes. But when it comes to flooring, I don’t trust my gut. I trust the spreadsheet. I trust the data points that tell me that ‘Option A’ has a slightly better resistance to moisture than ‘Option B,’ even though ‘Option B’ is the one that actually makes me want to take my shoes off and stay a while. We’ve been conditioned to believe that ‘better’ is a number, when ‘better’ is actually a feeling.

The AC3/AC4/AC5 Delusion

I spent 44 minutes this morning reading about the abrasion class of laminate. AC3, AC4, AC5. I don’t even have pets. Why am I worried about the scratch resistance of a floor designed for a commercial shopping mall? It’s because the data gives me a false sense of control. If I can just find the perfect number, I tell myself, I can’t make a mistake. But the mistake is already made. The mistake is the 44 samples currently cluttering my living room floor, none of which I have actually looked at in natural light for three days because I’ve been too busy reading their spec sheets.

This is where the inherent value of an expert comes in-they aren’t there to give you more data; they are there to take the data away until only the right choice remains. Working with Laminate Installer is essentially an act of surrendering that data-heavy burden to someone who actually understands the context of the space, rather than just the numbers on a PDF.

Solving Emotional Problems with Mathematics

I recall a specific project 4 years ago. We were lighting a collection of mid-century glass. The curator was obsessed with the UV output of the LEDs. She had charts. She had graphs. She was convinced we needed a specific filtered lens that cost $444 per fixture. I let her talk. Then, I turned on a simple, well-placed warm-dim fixture. The glass sang. The shadows were deep and purposeful. She stopped looking at her charts. She realized that she was trying to solve an emotional problem with a mathematical formula.

We do this with our renovations because the financial stakes feel so high. A floor is a 14-year commitment, at least. We think that if we spend 444 hours researching, we can somehow guarantee a 100 percent satisfaction rate. But life doesn’t work in round numbers. Your floor will get scratched. A glass of red wine will spill. The sun will fade a rectangular patch near the window.

I’m going to throw away the spreadsheet. All 14 columns of it. I’m going to call the consultant and I’m going to say, ‘I want the one that looks like a rainy afternoon in the woods.’ I’ll let them worry about the Janka scale. They have the 4-step process and the professional equipment to ensure the technicals are sound. My job is to live in the space, not to audit it.

The True Value of Expertise

We often think of expertise as the acquisition of knowledge, but true expertise is the ability to ignore 94 percent of available information to focus on the 6 percent that actually changes the outcome. I’ve spent my career doing that for art. It’s time I started doing it for myself. The walk to the mailbox today was 24 steps, and the sky was a gray that no LED could ever truly replicate. It was imperfect, unquantifiable, and exactly what I needed to see.