Seduced by the cover design (a detail of a beautiful and deeply contemplative still life by William Bailey), the title (holding the allure of a more sustainable way of life), and the bona fides of the author (the former director of the Museum of Art and Design), I purchased this book as soon as I heard about it. Maybe there’s a lesson there; I certainly should have checked my local library. LOL.
I had hoped for a philosophic and aesthetic framework for “Fewer, Better Things.” Although I’m not anti-capitalist, I am certainly ready to endorse an approach to life that encourages us to be more thoughtful about what we acquire. I anticipated a more nuanced Marie Kondo argument for only holding onto things that “bring you joy.”
Instead, with great disappointment, this book did not bring me joy. Right away (and let’s be clear, I’m old . . . past 60), I was concerned with the opening chapters, which were inspired by the “the old days” (of the author’s grandfather, who clearly had a closer relationship with material), and the author’s appreciation for his beloved childhood teddy bear. Literally, his teddy bear. This view of the golden past was, of course, contrasted with the superficiality of today’s digital world. Still, I persevered. But it was only the “fewer pages” that I ended up appreciating: I was grateful there were only 227 of them.
Another plus: the 34 chapters were also better, perhaps, for being shorter. On the other hand, these chapters seemed like the barest of threads, each briefly raising thoughts the author had at some time in his life. In many, there were kernels of important concepts: the value of hand labor (why do we admire the academic more than the plumber?); the distinctive character of materials (even from one type of wood or stone to another); and the “revelation” that there are things to learned in that vast space between NY and LA.
I can endorse all these observations. But these anecdotes didn’t coalesce into any larger whole. At one point it seemed that the author—with his impressive museum experience—might advocate for a more thoughtful “curatorial” perspective (he devoted several pages to the important role museums play in presenting objects). But he stopped short of any such recommendation. Was he shy of seeming too elitist? Of encouraging cultural judgment? Of not being inclusive?
Whatever the reason, these thoughts were just that: thoughts. And while I appreciated the author’s tone (always respectful, never didactic), it left me yearning for a writer who might step up to not only advocate for acquiring/keeping things the “bring you joy,” but also providing a philosophical framework for a sustainable theory of acquisition. While a Wunderkammer may be compelling, it is not sustainable for us or our world. Let’s step back, and be thoughtful “curators” of our lives.