The Power of Imperfection
Alex Hillman
This essay was originally published in the Indy Hall newsletter. If you’re not already subscribed, you can sign up here.
Over the weekend I watched this beautiful ~10 minute story of Anna Garcia reflecting on her relationship with classic arcades & pinball halls, originally shared in our #community-nerds Discord Channel by Hannah L.
The video focuses on navigating the loss of these vibrant spaces, especially when they are paved over by their polar opposite: cold, lifeless spaces and what Garcia beautifully describes as “marketed isolation.”
As she described her own memories of growing up in colorful & chaotic arcades, it made me think about how often people tell that Indy Hall feels different in some way that they can only describe as “more human.”
Sometimes people point to the art and artifacts around the space, and of course the sense of community.
I think the simple truth is this place feels good because good people spend time here, doing good things together.
We could point to the countless small but intentional choices that we make that add up to that feeling.
But there is one intentional choice that has made the biggest difference, and it’s a counterintuitive one:
We operate our space as a work in progress. That means choosing to leave certain things unfinished and sometimes even draw attention to the rough edges or gaps, so that any person who inhabits that space might help make it better.
To Anna’s point, it’s rare to find spaces in this world that invite people to play a role in “completing” them.
We live in an era where most spaces – especially commercial ones but public spaces too! – are built for us.
There’s a time and a place for that, of course, but I think we need more imperfect spaces that we can co-create together, over long periods of time.
Imperfection feels more human
Rather than hold up Indy Hall as the example, I actually want to hold up a different Philadelphia cornerstone that most people won’t expect:
The legendary Tattooed Mom on South Street.
Founded nearly a decade before Indy Hall, TMoms has its own steward of community in Robert Perry.
On the surface, Indy Hall and TMoms don’t seem to have much in common besides the fact that most people call us by our colloquial nicknames rather than our formal “government names” of Independents Hall and Tattooed Mom respectively.
If you look a bit closer, you’ll see that both of our calendars are packed with an eclectic mix of community-powered events. If you visit in person, you’ll find that walls are adorned with art in a way that feels nothing like a museum and more like a collection of memories.
That last part - the collection of memories - is the important part.
Rather than creating spaces for the people who inhabit them, Moms and Indy Hall have prioritized leaving things imperfect so that the people can add to them. The result is that the space feels more like home for the person leaving their mark, and for everyone who comes after them.
We think of those imperfections as invitations
Over the years, Robert has told me stories of many young artists, skaters, punks, and community organizers who spent their twenties at Tmoms, hanging out with likeminded people from different walks of life.
Sharing and debating ideas. Honing craft. Having fun. Encouraging each other. Creating together.
And then the magic happens: some of those creations (or their artifacts) end up being left behind on the walls.
Inevitably, those young people grow up. Some move away.
Where they land varies, including some who go on to have successful careers related to their art or activism.
But they always know they can come home to Mom’s.
The physical art and artifacts matter a lot less than the humans who left them behind
Like Indy Hall, when you walk into TMoms, you can feel the energy of those communal experiences shared by countless people, over the 30 year history of the bar.
It’s not just the art and stickers and other physical artifacts, though that’s the most visible.
It’s the long arc of people, and time, taking one tiny unfinished corner and adding themselves to it.
And at Mom’s, it’s even more visceral to see the literal layers of stickers and art built up on top of each other over years.
That accretion of individuals and groups of people adding new layers on top of layers.
Anyone can copy the aesthetic, and plenty have tried. And even when those spaces look cool, they lack the feeling of Tmoms or Indy Hall.
Because you can’t fake the fingerprints of real people and the character they leave behind.
If you’ve been a part of Indy Hall, even if it’s just visiting us for a day, you’ve been a part of the virtuous cycle that makes these spaces feel special.
For those fingerprints, we thank you. 💛
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