This Is the Most Beautiful Number in Nature
From nautilus shells to the patterns of the Alhambra.
The leaves of a sunflower are distributed so well around the central point that if you doubled or even tripled their number they would not overlap, and so all receive some sunlight. A hurricane unfurls in a logarithmic spiral, whose pattern of bands and winds grow in such a way as to preserve the stability of the storm while conserving its energy. The nautilus shell grows in such a way that it always preserves its shape, so also maintaining its buoyancy and speed of movement through water while spreading stress across itself and optimising the space inside for the nautilus to move.
All of these cases are united by a single number: 1.618. To reach it, we simply pick a number, divide 1 by it, add 1, and repeat the process an infinite number of times. Alternatively, we can write out the Fibonacci series (by adding a number to the one before it and making the result the next number in the series) and then work out the ratio of any number to the one before it. We get 1.618, more commonly called the golden ratio, or phi (φ).
To reach it, we simply pick a number, divide 1 by it, add 1, and repeat the process an infinite number of times
This number, as I have already suggested, often has creative properties, increasing stability, efficiency, and the use of space. But it has aesthetic import as well. Indeed, we human beings perceive that which adheres to the golden ratio as inherently beautiful. Studies suggest human faces thought to be beautiful have proportions close to the golden ratio: between the eyes and mouth, for instance, and between the eyes and edges of the face. Many of the proportions of the figure in Leonardo’s ‘Vitruvian Man’ conform to the golden ratio. The dimensions of the gorgeous façade of the Parthenon, including the ratio of the height to the width, exhibit the golden ratio. And the dimensions of the Great Pyramid at Giza, particularly the ratio of the height to the base, approximate the golden ratio – contributing not just to its lasting aesthetic appeal but its structural stability, too.
Of course, there are those among us who deny the existence of objective beauty or, in Foucauldian fashion, concern themselves more the forces that advance behind whatever claims about beauty are made. Certainly there is a great of subjectivity within the area, and it is true, too, that there are those who do not just affirm but assert their culture’s idea of beauty and dismiss those of others.
There are those who do not just affirm but assert their culture’s idea of beauty and dismiss those of others.
But wholly denying the existence of inherently beautiful things seems to me to be both mistaken and destructive, and that destruction can be seen across so many cities whose buildings lack the depth, adornment, embellishment, and respect for the golden ratio that creates a deep sense of home – something which has been proven. The golden ratio creates an impression of balance and harmony. And that impression soothes us. It is – if it is not too bold to say it – good for the soul.
Balance and harmony have long been emphasised in the Western classical tradition of architecture, which is rooted in the building practices of Ancient Greece and Rome, so that those who erected Notre Dame made something closely aligned with the golden ratio without needing to make reference to it, so central had the principles of phi to the culture of building become. It is also part of the rich Islamic architectural and artistic tradition, with the Alhambra in Granada, Spain, built by the master-builders of the Caliphate under the Nasrid ruler, standing out as a triumph of design: many of its exquisite intricate designs, embellishments and proportions are based on the golden ratio.
The Alhambra in Granada, Spain, built by the master-builders of the Caliphate under the Nasrid rulers, stands out as a triumph of design.
But adhering to the golden ratio does not guarantee beauty, any more than a pretty face guarantees a big heart. The Swiss architect Le Corbusier dreamed of razing the north of Paris and replacing its buildings with 18 appallingly ugly identical skyscrapers. His plans (thank God) never came to fruition, though it did inspire others, including the Brutalist architects. But Le Corbusier was an extreme proponent of what he called the ‘Golden Section’. (Incidentally, Brasîlia was inspired by another of Le Corbusier’s mad plans, La Ville Radieuse, and is widely considered impersonal, ugly and ‘soulless’.)
And perhaps this points to the need to the enduring need to respect both the practical and the theoretical, the traditional and the modern, the old and the new, the past with the future. As Burke wrote, in respect of the Revolution in France, top-down ‘geometric’ thinking, whereby abstraction is preferred to the concrete and the time-tested, seldom ends well.
