In July, I wrote an essay about shopping. About how we over-rely on objects to communicate our values, status, and identity to others. How the choice of what we purchase provides us with a false sense of agency.
While I stand by my old thesis, I’ve recently found myself grappling with this topic once again.
My boyfriend and I recently hosted some friends at our apartment. During their visit, I could not stop showing them our newest things. “Here, let me show you this new piece” I said as I bopped around the apartment, presenting my beloved art and other objects to them. Among other things, I displayed a carved wooden cat that my friend brought back from Greece, and a wax candle styled to look like a baguette that another friend gifted for my birthday.
The objects that I owned were giving me such pride and joy, and I struggled with this reversal. Was I becoming materialistic? Was I shopping just to feel something? Had I only written that other essay when I simply couldn’t afford too many new things and wanted to identify some holier-than-thou reasoning for it?
During a video tour of his home, actor and writer (and, in my opinion, Renaissance man) Rajiv Surendra picks up a white quilt lying on his couch. He explains that the entire quilt is constructed from his mother and grandmother’s old silk saris. He unfolds it, revealing the interior: an intricate patchwork of oranges and creams and greys, with cobalt blue squares punctuating the pattern. He continues:
“It’s not just a nap, it’s not just a blanket, it’s not just a quilt. It’s so much more than that. And when you do that with so many aspects of your everyday… when all of these little practices that you’re doing on a daily basis become imbued with meaning and connections to actual people that you know or people that you love… you go to bed at night and - although it was a plain, normal day - that day was filled with joy. It was filled with beautiful things and sentimental feelings that are lasting.”
I’m reminded of museums and how we place old items atop pedestals, or behind glass panes. Everyday items and elaborate artwork from decades and centuries ago become more than mere objects. They represent craftsmanship, artistry, and lives lived. Maybe they come to mean something special, something specific to just you.
One of my favorite art pieces is a urinal and, yes, I do feel quite ridiculous admitting this. It’s a sculpture called Fountain. The urinal is turned on its side and the porcelain is signed “R. Mutt, 1917”.
It’s a piece by the French artist Marcel Duchamp. In 1917, under a pseudonym (“R. Mutt”), Duchamp submitted it to the Society of Independent Artists. The Society was bound by its own rules to accept all submissions but debated Fountain. After a vote, it was decided that the piece was “indecent” and “could not be considered a work of art”. Duchamp, a board member, resigned in protest. He believed it represented censorship. The board was imposing its definition of “art” onto its audience through omission.
This idea, and this sculpture, have stuck with me. I even have a framed photograph of Fountain in my apartment (to the left of the bathroom door, of course). It’s meaningful to me in ways I both can and cannot articulate. My boyfriend doesn’t quite understand my obsession with it, and I feel a bit art-school-elitist describing it to friends. But therein lies the beauty - it’s in the eye of the beholder.
It often feels as though style and taste are being imposed onto us, the market forces bending us to singular interests. I am absolutely exhausted by listicles and videos littered with affiliate links, describing items that are “perfect” and “necessary” and that you must buy now. It seems like every week comes with a new “aesthetic” to master. Our perspectives and personalities are dictated to us, and we purchase items to match.
Objects can be an extension of yourself - your values, identity, history, and relationships. They cannot, however, be a replacement for these things. Or an attempt to change yourself into someone you are not. They are impermanent; they have power, but only to a certain extent.
I’m reminded of a vintage coffee table I once had. I’d bought it while living in Los Angeles and had placed it in our living room. It had a glass top with beveled edges. The base was composed of a vanilla-beige travertine with sinewy marbling. Gold metal arms extended from the base to support the glass.
It was, in hindsight, not the most practical. Our cats often laid on it and I frequently had to wipe down the paw prints and fur that appeared on the glass. I didn’t mind the maintenance though, because it made me happy.
Last fall, my boyfriend and I made a cross-country move. The table came with us.
As I finished unpacking our belongings, I approached the cardboard box that held the travertine base. I began cutting the tape, slowly unwrapping it. Finally, I opened the cardboard box to reveal a very broken base.
I immediately emailed a stone care company about repairing it. I shared photos. Their response: “Unfortunately, we don’t do repairs like that and highly recommend you buy another table instead of repairing it”.
I obsessively researched YouTube tutorials and Reddit threads for potential fixes. I frantically browsed vintage travertine table bases from the same designer. The only one I could find would cost $1,000 with shipping. I seriously considered it.
I took a breath. Well, a few breaths. I had to ask myself why I was so upset over this loss and so willing to risk my financial security over a table.
I realized I had elevated this object so far above myself. I love decor and I wanted to show people my personality and good taste with this object. But I hadn’t gained the confidence or self-certainty to understand I could do that on my own. My personality was not hinged on this one thing I owned. It was something that existed within me and, well, I didn’t need to be glued back together. I could always get a new table, maybe one that was slightly more practical. Maybe one that I loved even more.
I let a few days go by before I brought the broken base down to the trash bins. I was still me, table or not.
Below are a few ~things~ I’ve enjoyed lately:
Is This The Year We Stop Dressing Like Clones Of Each Other? by Liza Belmonte. I read this piece, about personal taste and how we’re all dressing the same, right before finalizing this essay. It touches on so much ground that I didn’t explore, with Liza discussing personal style specifically. It’s great, you should read it, and here’s an excerpt:
“When witnessing other forms of art, like painting or sculpture, we would say we feel moved or don’t. Saying ‘it’s ugly’ or ‘it’s bad’, would come across ignorant or pretentious. With fashion however, we tend to believe that what everyone is wearing is the right thing to wear and as a result, we’re deterred to take risks with our style.”
Glossy: Ambition, Beauty, and the Inside Story of Emily Weiss's Glossier by Marisa Meltzer. I listened to the audiobook and, as a recovering Glossier obsessive, would highly recommend. Is it bad that listening to this book made me want to buy more Glossier products? Probably.
ok fine, let’s talk about barbie’s oscar nominations by Clara at Hmm That’s Interesting. Clara perfectly captures my feelings about, well, a lot of things with this line:
“… We have to be okay admitting to ourselves that not everything that peeves a woman is caused by misogyny. Again, if we want feminism to keep meaning something, we can't afford to let it be defined by How Many Oscar Nominations Barbie Gets.”
The Discourse Age by Eliza McLamb. A deep dive into Twitter discourse, our compulsive attraction to it, and how it rots our brains. A simultaneously infuriating and amazing read.
Anyways, that’s all for this newsletter. See you next month :)
xoxo,
Mia