As a rebel and freethinker, I fearlessly mod, hack and repurpose everything that comes within easy reach. So, when I found myself hesitating to simply remove one unneeded part from a donated piece of furniture, I had to ask myself why. It gave me some insight, not very deep but still an insight, into how the minds of normal people work and how that discomfort can control their ability to mod, hack and repurpose disposable commercial items.
One of my clients ordered a shelving unit with slatted and arched doors covering the front (armoire?). Upon its arrival, I carried the heavy package to their housing unit and began to assemble it. But when the client saw the color of the armoire, they freaked out and told me to put it back in the box. It was a light and very bright blue, not the pastel milk-paint the client had anticipated. I took the half-assembled furniture apart, wrapped it back up and put it back into the box then carried it downstairs to their storage area where it sat for two years or more.
When the client heard that a nearby new resident did not have furniture, they donated the shelving unit to that new resident. So, I carried the heavy box to the new resident's location, began to reassemble it and was met with the same reaction - too too blue. I put it back in the box and carried it back to the original client's storage unit.
Repeat this a third time, only this person said they would assemble it themselves. Fast forward a year or two more and I was cleaning out their apartment when I discover three separate piles of very bright blue particle board panels. I recognized it immediately; nothing else was that particular shade of blue. With no instructions and no guarantee that all the parts and hardware were still there, the original owner said to throw it out or use whatever I could for myself. I collected all the parts that looked like they belonged together and took the collection to the shop.
I took some measurements and realized that the bright blue box fit perfectly into a sliver of wasted space that I had never built anything to fill. When I assembled it, I found that all the parts were there. I moved it into place and was very pleased. The shiny blue laminate looked like an off-brand mechanic's tool box (looked fine in a workshop), and the domestically arched and slatted doors formed an attractive endcap that hid the naked industrial shelving from view in the location where most clients would sit if they should ever visit the shop. It seemed perfect.
Then I started to populate the shelves and realized that, with the doors attractively closed, the interior space was about half an inch too shallow for the majority of my storage containers (shoe boxes and dollar-store plastic bins. I tried to compromise by turning the boxes sideways. It worked but was too inefficient for my tastes. I should be able to fit a good 20-30 containers into that volume, not a measly puny six or so. I sat and pondered my predicament.
Like most problems, a good sleep revealed the answer, "Take off the doors you silly twit." And that's when I had the insight. I was emotionally attached to the completed commercial object. I didn't buy, it, I didn't choose it. But it and I had a history together, an emotional connection formed from physical struggles and repeated rejection. I had helped it achieve its designed final form and now I was hesitant to change it. It was as if I was saying, once again, that it wasn't good enough as it was, that it would never be loved. It would only take a few minutes to remove the doors and make it useful to me, yet I hesitated another day until another sleep revealed another truth.
The two short doors could be used as the top and bottom, the two tall doors could be the sides, tack a panel to the back and some struts on the interior and I have a wall-mounted spool holder that filled another awkward space in my shop. Unscrew a handful of screws and I extricated myself from both a storage and emotional quagmire.
I smiled because I knew that the hand-me-down blue box (now the same beautiful color as the wide clear honest eyes of my first true television love) was destined for things so much greater than it or its makers had ever envisioned. I could make it useful; it would have a genuine purpose so much greater, and it would make my life, and by extension, other people's lives better.
I still pity those who cannot see the potential greatness hidden inside everyday commercial items, who cannot fearlessly mod, hack and repurpose everything that comes within easy reach. But I do understand them a little better now.
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| The original cabinet was pretty, but too blue for anyone else. However, it was the perfect size to act as an endcap for other shelves and allowed me to make use of an otherwise unusable sliver of space. However, with the doors attached I couldn't fit much onto the shelves and still close the doors. But when I removed the doors, I could pack the shelves full of items and the shelving unit suddenly became functional. I had to overcome an emotional attachment to a certain appearance, but the results have made my life and workflow much better. |
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