On Using Objects

Today, on a Sunday afternoon, I sit at my dining room table (thanks, Craigslist!) and sip mint tea, working on an article. The sun has been steaming in the apartment windows all morning, and the outside air is warm, so the windows are open for most likely one of the last times for the next five months. Winter? It's coming.

While I sit here, trying hard not to work, I can't help but think about the objects I've surrounded myself with. Handmade cups and a tea pot; a plate made by the potter TJ apprenticed with in Germany and inscribed with a lovely poem hangs on the wall next to a painting of the studio in Marble, Colorado, where TJ worked as an apprentice at the age of 17. Each of these objects tells a story, and serves a function or reminds us of beauty in the every day.

Of course, the fact that so many of these objects are handmade relates directly to the fact that my husband is a potter, a craftsman, and an artist. And I realize that this spoils me--my daily interactions are with art objects, not objects that simply serve a purpose, or objects that were designed one place and then manufactured elsewhere to cost as little as possible. There's an investment in these objects, of time, material, and the identity of the maker, and this investment changes the way that I relate back to the object.

Back when I lived on my own, I had the same mug that I favored using every day, a light blue mug with a matte glaze. The handle was larger than most, and the mug sat comfortably in my hand. While the mug was nothing worth writing home about, I loved the smooth feel, the daily ritual of drinking my morning coffee from the mug as I struggled to wake up and start my day. I bought it at Target when I went off to college; it's stamped made in Thailand. I went there, once. But I didn't visit any factories, especially not this one. Chances are good I'll never meet the people who helped make the mug. Now, that mug sits on our top shelf, buried behind all of the handmade mugs I've inherited through marriage. During the first months I used these new mugs, I'd ask TJ where each one was from, who made it, how he got it. The same holds true for our plates, bowls, and the art work on our walls.

Why is this worth thinking about? While I sometimes miss the pristine white of a well-made porcelain plate, there's something to be said for using objects that clearly have their own value. Value because of the process, and, more importantly, value because of who made them and their stories. As a result, I realize that I'm ok with owning less, and making the things I use a part of my story. And I'm more thoughtful about the objects that I use. I love the bend in the tea pot's handle, the intricate treatment on the handleless cup. Even when I do the washing up, I'm reminded about the object in and of itself (the Ding an sich?), not taking for granted its utility, and not limiting myself to considering it as an object for use or an aesthetic object. I get to think about Alex who made the blue mug, or Finkelberg who made the maroon mug that has just enough room for my morning coffee. These relateable objects add depth to my daily life, where the inclination might be to use and cast aside. Here, there is simply use, re-use, and relationship between myself, the object, the maker, and the stories that result.