Old Is the New New

Ray of Hope - Cambodia by Maciej DakowiczJoe's tweeting the self-repair manifesto reminded me of a post I had been planning with a similar theme: buying things new, throwing them away when they get old, and buying more new crap is the dominant paradigm of 21st Century consumer life.  How much of this is simple conspicuous consumption, how much of this is pure rational response to price distortions and poor policy, and how much is simple human nature (Young children especially seem to hate hand-me-downs, though this could be learned behavior.) is beyond both the capabilities and scope of this magazine.  But this paradigm must shift sometime.  We cannot simply produce-use-throw-away-produce-use-throw-away forever.  Self-repair is one good place to start.  Not only can we cut down on waste, but we can learn engineering skills necessary for the ever-increasingly-technical economy of the future.

Another way to cut down on waste is by renting instead of owning things.  My friend, Tim Hyer, started the company Rentcycle, which seeks to coordinate renters and leasers of all manner of products on the Internet.  It's this kind of entrepreneurship that must dominate if we are to have both a truly global and a truly sustainable society.  

In addition to the two aforementioned solutions - self-repair and renting, I would propose a third, fundamental shift in consumer preferences: 

Why do we like new things and hate old things?  Take for instance a black hat, a camera case, an alarm clock, a necktie, a pair of headphones, and a desk (all things in my immediate vicinity).  Of these, the hat I bought second hand at a trendy second-hand shop, the camera case I bought new when my previous one broke, the alarm clock I received as a present from a co-worker after its previous incarnation failed, the necktie was part of my grandfather's estate, the headphones were a present from my wife's brother, and the desk I bought used from a former co-worker.  

These things (with the exception of my grandfather's tie) all started as mass-produced, unspecial factory crap, yet they came to be interesting for me and accrued value in that sense throughout the process of ownership, whether ownership by me or another. (I can only speculate on the history of my black hat, and I do, and this is enjoyable.) Most old things indeed have unique histories and personalities behind them.  And these rare, subjective, semantic qualities should make old things more valuable than new things for all of us.

I have always been a person who finds it hard to throw or give things away.  I remember one time when I was five or six years old at Christmas and my mother asked my younger sister and me to think hard and choose one toy to give to needy children.  My sister chose to give away her favorite stuffed animal.  I chose a toy I had received with a Happy Meal earlier that day.  I remember the look of disappointment in my mother's face, and I always thought that that one time when I was tested and failed meant that I was a stingy and cheap miser and would be forever.  

As I grew, I started to realize that the reason I don't like getting rid of things is because I attach subjective value to them, not monetary value, but ever-increasing nostalgic value in the form of meaning.  When I look at my alarm clock, I remember those times I was late for work, and I laugh (both because corporate jobs are for suckers and because babies make it impossible for me to oversleep now); my desk reminds me of my former co-worker's kindness; looking at my camera case makes me think of all the places I've traveled; and the necktie reminds me of my grandfather.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I decided to sell the bulk of our accumulated stuff at a flea market at the local Shinto shrine so we wouldn't have to lug it all to America.  My wife had several boxes full of old clothes and CDs by the end of it, but all the things I decided to sell added up to less than half of one box.  I felt like I was selling my memories; even some of the clothes I barely ever wore had value for me beyond their monetary worth: as I placed my red sweater vest in the box, I remembered the one and only time I ever wore it - to a formal in college; I was so hot I was sweating through my shirt, but I couldn't take off the vest since I was so hot I was sweating through my shirt.  

Luckily, it rained and the flea market was cancelled.