“Mummy,” who made this? Says my four-year-old as he regards the wicker fire-basket that sits by the hearth with the bemused and fascinated awe that comes with children that age.
I was slightly unsure what to reply to this, as I so often am with some of his questions. I am vaguely aware, after watching some recent hipster crafting programme on tv that wicker isn’t able to be made by machine, only by hand. So I had to reply that indeed someone had woven the fire-basket but that I hadn’t the first clue who it was. This feeling of having a hand-made item in our home made by person or persons unknown made me feel a bit uncomfortable. This surely must be the epitome of globalised commerce, that items can be made anywhere in the world then just become anonymous items that wash up without any story or real provenance in our western homes.
My son quickly moved on to his Lego, unaware of my discombobulation. But for a few days afterwards the thought wouldn’t go away. Why do we have items in our home that we don’t know the story of? The fire-basket has a lid that I made last year from some old floorboards we had taken up; I loved their patina and the fact they had supported feet for 60 years. They had a story I valued but I wasn’t applying the same logic to other things in our house.
Now, obviously it wouldn’t be very green or responsible to go through every item in the house and get rid of anything that doesn’t have a back story, but as part of the general declutter that’s been going on for the last few months I have decided to apply a degree of discernment to what’s in our house. There are also, I’ve discovered, ways to add a touch of humanity to manufactured items. I started with the kitchen table and chairs. They’re nearly a decade old and after four years of my son sitting and mostly throwing his meals around and wiping his sticky hands on the seat pads they are looking past their best. So I set to sanding the veneered surface down and painting the woodwork a gorgeous soft grey. I can now see paintmarks; which are reassuring evidence of my handiwork. I repurposed some old fabric, ‘Is this my old Play-Doh mummy?’ as well as getting hold of some new I then recovered the old seatpads. Just a few hours, but it has made all the difference. I’ve prolonged the life of the table and chairs. In a few years if we fancy a change of colour then I can just repaint and recover, again. I’ve prolonged the life of the furniture and also added some ‘humanity’ to it. Two for the price of one. Antidode: Ensure that the things in your home have stories. They’ll mean more to you and you’ll guard against inviting things through the door that don’t.