19/06/2023
I moved into this little house almost three years ago. It was empty. And other than a pair of antique lamps and two small pine bookshelves, I had no furniture. I went to Home Depot and snagged a few two-by-fours, a couple of sheets of chipboard, and some screws. I spent an afternoon slapping together a simple rough desk with a friend of mine. It was functional but not much to look at. I promised myself that I’d build myself a proper desk when I had adequately furnished the rest of the house.
As you can probably tell, money was tight, and my goal was to save as much as much money as I possibly could. What little money I spent went towards some cookware, a badly needed computer upgrade, and endless repairs on an old Honda van a buddy had given me. I didn’t want to spend much on furniture, so I spent the next six months surfing Facebook groups looking for free or cheap stuff: a couple of chairs, an old mattress from a friend, a weird orange pleather couch, a huge black Ikea dining table, a small white Ikea dining table, and some wobbly cube shelves. My house is now a hodgepodge of styles. I feel like a magpie who’s decorated his nest with a bunch of found objects. And I love all of it–partly because I have a soft spot for misfits and partly because I’m just happy to have my own place.
But there’s another reason. I love living with objects that show their wear. Examples soon, but first, I want to explain an old concept I’ve been coming to terms with for years. Back when I lived as a full-time potter for a few years, I was obsessed with ideas of form, function, and beauty. I ran across an old essay on Japanese aesthetics by Soetsu Yanagi. In one passage, he bemoans the decline in the quality of everyday objects such as pottery, furniture, and clothing:
“... the more an object was used, the more its beauty became apparent. As our constant companions in life, such objects gave birth to a feeling of intimacy and even affection. The relation between people and things then was much deeper than it is today.”
I’ll concede that you can find some pretty sh*tty merchandise at your local Walmart or Dollar Store, but this post isn’t a screed about the declining quality of our stuff. Curmudgeons complaining that they just don’t make things like they used to have been around forever. And in a lot of cases, they’re wrong. For instance, a Honda Accord built today feels and performs much better than the same model built in 1981. (Trust me, I drove one for a couple of years in college. Yikes.) Also, very few people would say that an iPhone is poorly designed and engineered when compared to the stretchy-corded handset on my grandma’s phone table.
Sure, there are clear financial benefits to not having to replace things as often, and very few people prefer a dim, pixelated display to a bright, high-def screen. But those arguments are obvious and dull. So what’s the point of making something that lasts longer and performs better?
First, for some objects, it can take a long time to learn how to use something with subtlety and dexterity. Think of a good quality kitchen knife. If you use it often enough and pay attention to improving your skill, eventually, the knife becomes an extension of your hand. There’s a direct connection between what your brain wants and what the knife does. The same concept can apply to a well-made desk. The longer you use it, the better you understand your body’s relation to the way the desk organizes space. You act on the desk, and the desk acts back on you. Consider a coffee cup whose rim has been shaped to match the curve of a human lip as opposed to the straight-walled designs prioritizing fashionable styles or manufacturing efficiency.
Almost none of my furniture is well-made. I have one really good quality leather chair. So why do I still have so much affection for all this stuff?
I’ve come to understand a corollary to Yanagi’s argument that we develop substantial relationships with objects we use for long periods of time. Consider something like a well-worn baseball glove. As a kid, I loved baseball. I was a catcher, and I had the same glove from 8th grade through the end of high school. Catcher’s mitts are as tough as they come. They’re made with the heaviest leather and thickest padding because they take more abuse than any other glove. Even a good glove will need to be re-laced and regularly oiled. When you’re breaking in a baseball glove, two things are happening. You’re softening and loosening the leather so it catches better, but you’re also forming the glove to the shape of your hand and your particular way of using it. The flip side is that the design and construction of the glove both limits and affords the way you use it. You shape a well-worn glove, and the glove shapes you right back.
(Ugh. Character limit. Read the rest: https://bit.ly/3XuzRvP)
