As I sat, buckled in a gondola, my fingers burying themselves in the crevasses of soft red seats, I could not help but notice how beautiful it was inside this man-made place. The little details on the bridge we floated peacefully under, the glittering lights of the Mexican café, the raucous cheers and Italian music floating from the square—all made it seem so real, and I almost thought to myself, "This is Venice, city of canals, built upon the water."
But then the waterways were too shallow—the water more like a swimming pool than a canal—and the names of corporate brands—Pandora, Godiva, Rolex—too prominent. And I knew that the soft blue sky was perfect because it was painted; the red-orange lights were homey but empty; the bricks were detailed but mere imitation.
I could not help but think, then, that there is beauty in artificiality. And there is artificiality in beauty.
Is this not, at its core, the story of the world? Is not beauty, even physical, natural beauty, still ephemeral? Even the perfect blue skies of Venetian Hotel will last only as far as the paint can reach; there are limits to beauty, as there are limits to physical reality.
And in many ways, Las Vegas is representative of our world. I wondered at times, wandering through the bustling streets lined with laughing people, glittering buildings and replicas of famous statues, whether Vegas, the city that many call Sin, is beautiful or ugly. I came to the conclusion that it depends on where you look. For if you look at the ground, with its scattered mini-cards of X-rated photos, Vegas is ugly. Even directly in the landscape, homeless individuals line the streets, their cardboard signs sad and ignored. Hints of more or less questionable events exist at every corner: a street performer dances in a cage; sweaty, t-shirt clad distributors attempt to hand out "maps," "magazines," and more of the cards that coat the ground like snow.
Perhaps this first image is what many think of when they hear the name Vegas. I, however, think instead of its beauty, the man-made, ephemeral, but nevertheless beautiful city. Vegas contains, within it, Rome and Paris and Venice and New York.
When I think of Vegas, I think of the soft spray of the Bellagio fountains, the blare of the speakers—"Time to Say Goodbye"—the glitter of the Paris, Paris sign just across the street.
It may be artificiality, it may be cold capitalism, but Vegas is, in its unique way, gorgeous. And when we see the inherent beauty in something, there is a sense of coming together. There is a sense of enormous potential, for if humans could collaborate in building cities within cities, how much more could we accomplish for the good of all?
Vegas is thus a representation of humanity, and its unmistakable artificiality is in some ways a metaphor for earth: we enjoy our lives here knowing that the world is not quite real, knowing that God has a greater kingdom elsewhere. But we know also that, in the meantime, there is so much left for us to do.
And knowing where to look—that itself is a metaphor for looking up, perhaps at God. Because it's okay to enjoy our time here, so long as we're looking in the right place.
Is Vegas, then, a city of sin or a city of God? If anything, we should not be so quick to judge.
