I recently watched an Architectural Digest video touring the workshop and home of the architect George Nakashima. His story was inspiring – filled with grit, persistence, and artistry. He lived through the Great Depression. He and his family were unjustly incarcerated in a Japanese internment camp during WWII. And through it all, he created. He travelled the world to find a job in architecture. He appreciated ornate and complex cathedrals. He built furniture out of found items in the internment camp so his family could enjoy the basic comforts of a home. And even in a 20-minute YouTube video, I understood this was a person who always had style. He appreciated craftsmanship, and he wouldn’t sacrifice it for anything. He refused to live in Los Angeles because the designers there were too focused on mass-production. Efficiency. He learned from so many people and cultures, and he used it all to create something beautiful with his own hands.
What struck me the most from this video was how one man spoke about George’s thoughts on chairs – Nakashima became well-known for a two-legged cantilever chair that many insisted would never work. Of course, Nakashima did it anyways and it is, in my humble opinion, gorgeous. George thought that a chair should help the person sitting in it to make a connection with their sense of self. When I first heard this I thought, “bullshit.” How can a chair do that? It’s just a chair. Some wood put together so I don’t have to sit on the floor. But then I thought about it more. I put myself in this artist’s shoes and I thought that maybe if I spent day in and day out building the same chair over and over again, I might start to think about chairs this way. I would grow to understand their importance, what they do for people, the way we take them for granted. I would think about why I chose a certain chair for my own home. Do I feel a sense of self when I see it? When I sit in it? What drew me to this chair in particular? I imagine what happens when I sit in it, the way my body relaxes and I take a deep breath. I think about how I’ve never wondered who made it. What they think about chairs. And then I thought that maybe if I made anything day in and day out with my own hands, I would come to understand it in a new way. I would appreciate it for more than its functional use. I would even love it.
Nakashima built his own workshop, his family home, designed the furniture, thought about resources, materials, sustainability. And he built it in Bucks County, PA. Where my mom grew up. I called her after watching this video and asked if she had every heard of George or the Nakashima family and she said no. I wonder why? This incredible artist, architect, designer – in her own backyard. How could she not have heard of him? I found myself angry at this fact. I was annoyed because I wanted her to appreciate the beauty I had just found in Nakashima’s art. I wanted her to understand the importance of his work. I wanted to believe that I wasn’t the only one experiencing an emotion about furniture. I wanted her to appreciate the beauty of a chair.
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