Are Any Details Unimportant?

A new bell for a village church tower has raised questions that outsiders might consider impossibly specific. The tower dates from the 16th century and already holds two bells, one dating from around 1500 and a replica of another small bell from the same period. There is room for a third bell, this one made today.

Should it copy the existing bell in every detail, or should it show something contemporary? Its shape, border decoration, lettering and the saint to whom it is dedicated all offer possibilities. In the discussion, some choices were called beautiful, others unsuitable, and some simply “no sight.” Few people will ever see the bell once it hangs high in the tower. Yet to specialists, every detail matters.

The writer recalls hearing similar debates among breeders of Lakenvelder cattle, red or black animals with a broad white band across their bodies. They discussed the width of the band and the height of the white “socks” on the legs. Calves with a misplaced white marking faced a poor future and could only be eaten.

It is easy to laugh at the importance assigned to details that were unfamiliar until moments earlier. But attention quickly draws people in. Suddenly, they have opinions about inscriptions and saints, or about white tips on tails. A world opens in which indifference becomes impossible.

For non-specialists, every field, from bells and apple varieties to chair design and music, can seem full of insignificant distinctions. What difference does it make whether an apple is greener or redder, as long as it tastes good? The design enthusiast, by contrast, cannot understand how anyone fails to see that a curved chair leg ruins the design. A pianist may be equally baffled when a listener does not find softly played measures more expressive than loud ones.

Details make everything more interesting. The bell expert who cared deeply about the appearance of a bell almost no one will see also made its significance greater for everyone else, and made the world richer. Indifference, the writer suggests, is a meager thing, at least until details become so important that people stop looking at one another over a comma.