One time, I was in an old office building in downtown Des Moines, accompanied by the architect who had helped turn it into apartments. As I looked out the windows of one unit and saw a brick wall just a few feet away, I remarked that I sure wouldn’t want that view.

The architect had a one-word response: “Texture.”

That’s either the downfall or the charm, depending on your perspective, of most downtowns; they’re a compression of details that, in a perfect world, wouldn’t be clanging together quite so loudly. What one person calls texture, another might call “the thing that ruined it for me.”

You drive past dingy buildings in downtown St. Louis to get to the wonderful Gateway Arch. Panhandlers beg and moan as you stroll through semi-elegant Country Club Plaza in Kansas City.

In comparison, an out-of-place Subway restaurant doesn’t seem like much of an urban tragedy.

I can understand that the folks who are most in love with the John and Mary Pappajohn Sculpture Park would prefer it to be surrounded by relative class. But, in general, the only way you get to control your view is by buying it. When you walk from an art gallery into the outside world, you notice that nothing out there gets a frame.

Years ago, the city decided that the Des Moines Register & Tribune had to take down its big time and temperature sign, which jutted out from the southwest corner of the building at Eighth and Locust streets. Strictly speaking, it may have been an eyesore, but it was just as easy to define it as a lovable historic feature.

As a bit of a cultural lowbrow – someone who thinks the most intriguing form of kinetic sculpture is a bonfire – I liked it. Way more than, say, the red beams welded together in a random shape at the sculpture garden.

If only someone had bought the R&T sign for a million dollars and then offered to bolt it back onto the building as a civic gesture. Then it would have been art, and unemployed journalists could be pitching pennies beneath it today, taking time out to shoot the occasional bitter YouTube video.

Compared with that, the Subway signs are ordinary stuff. It would be a nice compromise if the chain agreed to tone them down. Trouble is, bold and standardized signage is one of the ways a Subway franchisee attracts attention and makes a profit. If you can’t pull people in, there’s no point in baking all of that honey oat bread.

Begging for attention is not a foreign concept to the arts community. The delightful Nomade sculpture wouldn’t be much of a tourist attraction if it could fit on a card table. The rabbit on a rock would lack impact, three-dimensional art-wise, if you could use it as a paperweight.

Location is also important. Haul the sculptures off to a warehouse and crowd them into a corner. Then stand back and watch throngs of enthusiasts not show up.

They might not be selling tickets to the garden, but they are selling the idea that this is important stuff.

If nothing changes, art aficionados really don’t have that much to fret about. Visitors will remember that downtown Des Moines features a very impressive display. They won’t lament to their friends back in Ogallala or La Crosse: “We would have enjoyed it so much more, but we couldn’t stop thinking about the footlong meatball marinara.”

It’s not as if the art community’s opinion is the only valid one. The Zen master teaches us: He who knows the difference between Manet and Monet gets just one vote on Election Day.

Actually, it’s possible that at least a few sandwich eaters will glance across Grand Avenue and say, “Hey, what’s with the sculpture of a big, naked woman? Don’t we have any zoning ordinances?”

Jim Pollock is the managing editor of the Des Moines Business Record. He can be reached by email at jimpollock@bpcdm.com