Sometimes a place is defined by its museums and art.

I go to San Angelo about four times a year. Certainly in terms of size and population and, well, just general urban experience, comparing San Angelo to the Dallas Metroplex isn’t fair. Things, both geographically and economically, are just different in West Texas.

Consider the opening of the new performing arts center in Dallas. Yes, it’s urban and yes, it certainly does put Dallas on a world class level—all of that can’t be denied. And then I look at the struggle of the Collin County Arts Center that can’t get the funding. (But that economic issue is a whole ‘nother discussion.) Into this mix we also have to add the established venue giants of The Meyerson and The Bass (although that certainly isn’t all). Each city, regardless of whether it’s Dallas, Fort Worth, or some swallowed-up suburb where a community group performs in a reclaimed church, wants their venue to make a “statement about the artistic strength, vibrancy, and well-being of the community.” You’ll hear discussion after discussion about the architect, the acoustics, the elegance, the versatility, etc. More specifically, the goal is that elusive sentence: “The (fill in the name of your favorite building) is what the city of (fill in name of city) is known for.”

And then there’s the San Angelo Museum of Fine Arts. One of the first things you notice is its shape: it has the appearance of a saddle. Suddenly you are struck by an absolute sense of place. Once you go inside and learn more about the museum, then you realize that San Angelo has achieved what many cities spend lots of years and dollars pursuing: a museum that is truly part of the community. The building is wide-open—and constantly accessible to a variety of community events, large and small, everything from PTA meetings to fancy receptions. They make an effort to erase that line between the stuffiness of a museum and the Average Joe on the street.

The point here is that there is a huge difference between a building that identifies a community—and one that is part of the community. Sometimes it’s a socio-economic difference. That can’t be helped. Some acts, some performances, require a certain standard in their venue regardless of whether it’s size, acoustics, or versatility. But the point here is that a city chooses their buildings to make a statement. If the cost of attending events in those buildings is out of reach of a majority of the population, or if the architecture is lost on the Average Joe who just wants to find a job, then it has to be asked what the real driving motivation of that building was. Of course, a lot of the time it’s that money drives money. A sad but practical truth. Which isn’t to say these giant venues are bad. But sometimes I wish there was a local venue that was easily recognized as, say, a saddle, some place I didn’t have to dress up for to attend, some place easy to get to, inexpensive—some place that fit right in.