The theme of the first issue is durability and staying power. This topic is closely related with aesthetics, function, wearability and use and calls for an essential green transition in the way we produce and consume. Despite many good initiatives, we do not hear much about what craft makers and designers can contribute. What does it take to design for staying power in terms of high usage frequency and longevity? How do we design for production on a much smaller scale? How do we make products that can be disassembled and reused? The lack of attention to these questions is a shame, because it makes us miss out on a lot. It is not enough to create beautiful and durable products from quality raw materials if we still produce in vast quantities with no thought for recycling. It is not enough to embrace a circular approach if it does not go hand in hand with a smaller-scale production and more conscious consumption. Last, but not least, we need to stop mindlessly mixing materials in a way that prevents the products from being taken apart, recirculated and recycled.

Of course, we need new products. And we badly need new systems for their use. If something breaks, we buy something new rather than repairing it. We buy new things on a whim or because we ‘need’ them. The old things are thrown out or stored out of sight in closets and drawers where they do no good, which is a waste of materials. Why is it not common knowledge that when the microwave stops working, the problem is often caused by a cheap, replaceable fuse? Why is repairing clothes and riveting cracked porcelain not more widely applauded? Why don’t we make sure to keep our products in circulation until they are fully worn out and then recycled? Usage practices and consumers carry much of the responsibility, but so do design and product development.

As designers and makers, we have an obligation. Our profession rests on craftsmanship, technique, process and method. Our core competence is to rethink aesthetics and function in a relevant context. We should use our expertise in new ways. Let us use Formkraft and the digital archive as inspiration for making and using durable design and craft objects for the future.

Photo: Sif Pristed Nielsen from the project ‘First World Problems’ with patterns made of the blue-striped weave of hospital bedding. The collection also includes hand-painted motifs on used laboratory workwear. The project highlights the many ways of extending the lifespan of textiles.

Formkraft is a journal that engages critically with contemporary themes and aims to take part in shaping the future. The online platform, formkraft.dk, takes advantage of the new possibilities of the digital format and has to be in step with its own time in order to be relevant. However, in choosing a suitable name and creating a format that offers a viable path to the future, it is worthwhile to look at the antecedents and what we can learn from the past. The new journal has a long range of predecessors. Since the 1970s, the name has changed several times, and there have been suspensions of publication – something a new periodical would be loath to repeat. Still, the many predecessors form an impressive tradition. It is reasonable to trace the roots all the way back to Tidsskrift for Kunstindustri (Journal of Art Industry) from 1885. Launched by the Industriforeningen (Industrial Association), the journal was continued by Foreningen Dansk Kunsthaandværk Danish Society of Arts and Crafts), which was founded in 1901.

The new online successor not only has a digital publication format but will also be undertaking a digitization of the extensive back catalogue. As we look into the future, we aim to stand on the shoulders of this long tradition. Hence, we are going to link to older articles in the archive and introduce them as a current resource wherever it seems relevant. Even if our challenges lie ahead of us, we need to understand our strengths, ideals and tools by embracing our past experiences and history. We also need to understand our problems in light of the past, since the past was involved in shaping them. Others have faced similar situations and challenges before us. We can only hope that we are better situated to address them.

What’s in a name …

Looking back over the list of journal names, the short-lived as well as the more enduring, they reflect a field shaped by reform movements and professional positioning and repositioning. Terms such as art industry, arts and crafts, skønvirke, applied art and design represent different perspectives and ambitions but have often sought to cover an equally broad scope. Today, ‘art industry’ sounds dated. Between the 1870s and 1900, the trendsetters were the manufacturers of industrial art: porcelain manufacturers, silversmiths and the big cabinetmaker’s firms. They led the way in industry and the creative professions, establishing both craft training programmes and the Museum of Decorative Art (now Designmuseum Danmark), in addition to the journal! In a sense, they built the platform for Danish design culture. Mirjam Gelfer-Jørgensen portrays the diversity of the industrial art movement in her 2020 book The Joining of the Arts – Danish Art and Design 1880–1910. Initially, there was no contradiction between arts, crafts and design. When artists looked to crafts, they did so in search of inspiration and innovation, which in turn could also be translated into industrial products. As in the German Kunstgewerbe movement, Danish educational programmes placed a high emphasis on hands-on workshop activities to ensure that the students acquired a keen sense of both form and materials, also with a view to industrial manufacturing.

In a sense, Danish industry grew out of art industry around 1900. The name of the publication changed to Tidsskrift for Industri (Journal of Industry), although it continued to feature articles about both arts and crafts. Several new associations for crafts, handicrafts and decorative arts continued the artistic elevation of both popular tastes and ongoing experimentation through exhibitions, large-scale decorative and interior projects and, from 1915, the Skønvirke journal. As Gelfer-Jørgensen explains, the term skønvirke was coined by the head of the School of Arts and Crafts, Caspar Leuning Borch, in 1907. He complained (even then) that terms such as ‘applied art, art industry, decorative art, arts and crafts’ were not adequate. Although skønvirke later came to refer to a particular style, it was originally proposed as a term for the design practice of the time and applied to all types of tasks, from beer labels and artistic prototypes for mass production to interior design, decorative projects and unique pieces. This wide diversity was further broadened by an interest in exotic sources of inspiration, including Japan and other distant cultures, as well as national sources, such as traditional techniques. At the same time, there was also a celebration of the expression of ‘personality’, which highlighted the individual maker and project rather than a common style.

A similar search for an adequate term was seen in Germany and France, where, for example, Le Corbusier wrote about ‘l’art decoratif’ after the Paris exhibition in 1925. He acknowledged the paradox, since his mission was decorative art without thedecoration. After the exhibition Britisk Brugskunst (British Applied Art) in Copenhagen in 1932, ‘brugskunst’ was fielded as a fairly neutral term. It was a translation of ‘decorative’ or ‘applied art’/‘angewandte Kunst’, but we can note that Steen Eiler Rasmussen was not ready to embrace the English word ‘design’, which had otherwise become widely accepted since the establishment of the British Design and Industry Association in 1915. ‘Brukskunst’ was the dominant Norwegian term, featured in the name of both the Norwegian association, founded in 1918, and its journal. The Norwegian names did not change until the 1970s, when the journal became the interior magazine Bonytt (literally Home News), and the professionals split into craft makers and industrial designers. If anyone were to seek to reinstate ‘brugskunst’ as an unsentimental Danish term, the dictionary informs us that it is actually one of the many words introduced by the Danish pioneering scientist H. C. Ørsted in the early 19th century.

In 1947, the term ‘art industry’ was once again mothballed. The Danish Society chose ‘Dansk Kunsthåndværk’ (Danish Arts and Crafts), which also became the long-lived name of the journal. However, in translations, ‘& Industrial Design’ was added, just as the journal clearly covered the full spectrum from industrial manufacturing to unique pieces. Still, there was reluctance to use the English and American term ‘design’ in Danish. The resistance was persistent. Bernadotte & Bjørn, however, did refer to themselves as industrial designers, just as Finn Juhl and Erik Herløw also used the term in Danish as early as around 1950. The majority’s preference for older terms such as ‘kunsthåndværk’ (arts and craft) and ‘møbelkunst’ (furniture art) was rooted in the Klint School’s and the Cabinetmakers’ Guild’s celebration of the collaboration between arts and crafts. Through their involvement, ‘furniture architects’ and craft makers vouched that even mass-produced items possessed value and quality derived from art and craftsmanship. That message proved effective on the international markets, so here, there was no need to relabel the products as design. On the contrary, international buyers wanted an alternative to the stylings of American industrial design.

Perhaps the only term that would garner widespread support from craft makers, designers and architects was ‘formgivning’ (form-giving). Herløw was one of the founders of Selskabet for Industriel Formgivning in 1954. The term highlights the design process more than its outcome, which was also true of skønvirke, the aesthetic treatment of form and material. At the time, the word ‘design’ was not used in that sense. However, even if ‘formgivning’ was chosen as a compromise solution, it never made it into the title of the journal. The Germans and Swedes cut to the bone with the hard-wearing Form as an abstract, common term for the outcome rather than the process.

A return to applied art – and art 

During the 1960s, more of the tasks pertained to industrial products and devices, and the field could no longer be contained under the crafts label. In response, there was a return to functionalism and the name Dansk Brugskunst (Danish Applied Art) from 1968. It was intended as a compromise that included both crafts and industrial design. Interestingly, this coincided with a merger of the School of Arts and Crafts with The School of Drawing and Art Industry in 1967. Initially, the common school was called The School of Arts and Crafts and Art Industry, but with School of Applied Art added in parenthesis, see the yearbook 1966/67. In 1973, it was renamed the School of Applied Art but only after six years’ committee work and independence from the Technical School. However, ‘applied’ disappeared from the journal title that same year. Thus, the positions were not at all clear, and several terms were in play over a period of a few years. When Viggo Sten Møller, the former editor of Nyt Tidsskrift for Kunstindustri (New Journal of Art Industry) and the director of The School of Arts and Crafts until 1967, published the first Danish design history in 1970, he chose the title Dansk Kunstindustri (Danish Art Industry).

Round and round we go 

The conceptual history I have outlined above illustrates how names might come under fire during times of change and professional boundary disputes. However, it also illustrates that the terms have been fluid and under continuous negotiation for the past 150 years. And that names can be resilient and gain new meanings when they are revived. It is reasonable to consider the benefit of continuing to invent new names, since so many have been in play, each with its unique history and set of meanings. Moreover, professional traditions and education programmes contain their own historical ideals and concepts, which affect our current debates and positions.

Formkraft is a new name, since we cannot ignore the changing meaning and the disputes about both old and more recent terms. Both ‘design’ and ‘craft’ are international buzzwords that are used far outside their original professional fields and which have even more fluctuating meanings than before. Perhaps, Formkraft will prove more timeless, as ‘form’ has served as a universal concept, especially for the modernists. In both Sweden and Germany, Form is a durable journal name that dates back to, in Sweden, Slöjdföreningen and, in Germany, Werkbund. However, in order to prove sustainable, Formkraft also needs to have contemporary relevance and cover both artistic and problem-solving practices. And ultimately, that depends on content, contributors and readers, not on the title!

Sources

‘An internal conflict of interest in the short-lived publication BID’, poster by Ditte Nylander Jensen, Maria Cecilie Christiansen, Patricia Fie Nielsen, Rikke Lauritsen & Sofie Staal Rundstrøm, University of Southern Denmark, Design Studies, 2019

Mirjam Gelfer-Jørgensen (2020). The joining of the arts: Danish art and design 1880-1910 (trans. René Lauritsen), Strandberg Publishing.

Poul Henningsen (1970). Personlighedens plads (The role of personality) (1979). In Carl Erik Bay & Olav Harsløf (Eds.),Kulturkritik (Vol. 1), Rhodos. (Original work published 1930).

Le Corbusier (1925). L’art décoratif d’aujourd’hui. G. Crès.

Kunsthåndværkerskolens årsskrift 66/67 (School of Arts and Crafts 66/67 yearbook) (1967). Kunsthåndværkerskolen.

Aiming to design a sustainable design object, or a functional object, by focusing on durability as something that is ‘carved in stone’, permanent or immutable is inherently paradoxical. An object that is perfect and ‘closed’ when it leaves the designer’s hands is not made to be used, as the usage phase then inevitably becomes one long downward spiral of unsightly decay and unbecoming wear. As a result, the user will soon long for a new perfect object to replace the old one – which, obviously, is not particularly sustainable behaviour. The unfinished or open object, on the other hand, encourages a more lasting relationship between user and object: a relationship based on flexibility and changeability. The flexibility is embedded in the texture and expression of the object and, thus, in its aesthetic. The flexible aesthetic functional object is characterized by being tactually stimulating and nourishing; by encouraging the receiver’s hands to touch and explore, by including traces of the design or production process and by embracing wear and tear. An open and changeable object is made to be worn, touched, transformed and shared. It is open to use and attachment. It is resistant to decay and frequent use, because it is designed to incorporate traces of use. Unlike the open object, the finished, perfect functional object, which is at its peak in its brand-new form, is closed off to use. Scratches and stains are not flattering additions to the closed design object. The closed object has stagnated, while the open, changeable functional object is alive. Rather than becoming ugly and being perceived as ‘wrong’ with time and wear, it becomes increasingly ‘right’; it adapts to the user and continues to add beauty to her everyday life.

Or it may be described as changeable in a more symbolic sense, as it allows the user’s personal story to affect and manifest itself in its expression. Because the changeable design object is ‘unfinished’ when it leaves the designer’s hands, its original look is not its intended look or, rather, the original object has not yet come into its own. It is a little like the beautiful copper roofs of Copenhagen, which only develop their charming verdigris over time. The open object is designed to develop its expression with time, use and weathering. In this lies an element of chance; the ‘finished’ expression, so to speak, depends on the character of use and weathering, and thus, the story of usage time becomes embedded in the object.

However, sustainable, resilient beauty is not slick and unblemished. It is mature (or, rather, maturing and thus under constant development). Charging a design object with a resilient aesthetic is a celebration of use: hands that touch, wear that leaves traces, signs of repair and maintenance and an expression that is continuously maturing and coming into its own. Working with this sort of durability as a maker or designer means creating objects that are made to mature into something more beautiful, more stimulating to the senses and more engaging, as they are affected and developed by the hands that touch them, the atmospheric changes they are exposed to and the occasions on which they are used. 

The importance of circularity is often underscored in the sustainability debate. The circular perspective involves disintegration and reconstitution and thus a break with the linear understanding of design and consumption. However, rather than being antithetical to the circular design approach, the raw, changeable object offers an iterative alternative. Designing from a linear perspective implies highlighting novelty, and hence, the given product is generally characterized by a perfectly finished expression. This perspective defines beauty as something flawless, slick and untouched. The linear perspective implies a starting point and a gradual transition towards an end point (reached either as a result of unflattering wear and tear, elements that cannot be upgraded or the changing winds of fashion and thus perceived obsolescence). Linear objects are made to be consumed, rather than used. By contrast, the design of open, raw functional objects is not based on the notion of a crisp, perfect starting point or a worthless end point. However, the raw alternative is not the same as circular disintegration and reconstitution but rather durability in a more ‘old-fashioned’ sense, that is, in the sense of something that continues to last because it continuously nourishes the user in both functional and aesthetic terms. The raw object is characterized by iterative maturation. It embraces wear and tear, is capable of incorporating it, is in fact even based on it, as wear and tear make it come into its own and truly shine. The iteration lies in the repeated use that continuously improves and refines the object. Truly durable design objects are made to be used; hence, the traces left by use must obviously be incorporated into their core concept.

The raw design object is a ‘rewilded’ design object. Rewilding is typically used in connection with the re-establishment of  ecosystems in nature, like an act of rewinding the process in a transition from cultivated nature to wild nature. Creating raw objects has a similar character. Rewilding nature requires us to create a framework for a diverse ecosystem to flourish – and then step back. In other words, the core of rewilding is to relinquish control and allow natural processes to unfold. Similarly, the designer of a raw, changeable functional object has to dare to allow the usage phase to be part of the making of the object and allow diversity to flourish. The object framework has to be established, and the seed for the ‘ultimate’ expression has to be planted and embedded; the rest must then be left up to usage and chance.

While the aesthetic of the closed design object is a celebration of perfection and exquisite form, the changeable aesthetic of a raw, open object celebrates rawness, wildness, beautiful decay and anti-homogeneity. The raw design object is made to embrace and contain life. Like nature, it is characterized by transformation, evolution, changes and decay. Thousands of years ago, a wise man said that the only constant is change (Heraclitus, ca. 540–480 BCE, Greek philosopher from Ephesus). 

This applies not just to nature but also to human life – and that is precisely why the design of stagnated, closed objects seems like the wrong approach if the goal is to enable and encourage a sustainable lifestyle. The same wise man also observed that no one can ever step twice into the same river, since neither the river nor the person remains the same over time. Everything around and inside us is always in motion. Our days are full of change: atmospheric and physical changes in our environment, mental and emotional changes in our mind and physical changes in our body, and that is precisely why a functional object that aims for sustainability and durability must be changeable.

Continue reading here

Dive into the archive

Every year, we scrap billions of tons of waste, but nothing ever goes away. Not really. We use the phrase ‘to throw something away’ in the optimistic assumption that it means ‘gone for good’, but in fact, ‘away’ is simply somewhere else. ‘Away’ is a temporary dwelling place for all the inorganic objects that will take centuries to fully disintegrate, while plants, food scraps and paper return to nature’s cycle a little faster, thanks to bacteria and insects that break the materials down to their smallest components, so they can once again become nourishment and building blocks for new organic constructions – provided we create the right conditions for composting. These items, too, do not go away but are merely reborn as new molecules, cells and structures.

Nothing ever disappears on our planet, the amount of matter remains constant, but in our modern minds we have formed the idea that it is possible to remove something from the equation entirely. That is not surprising. We had to find ways to get rid of things, as everyone acquired more stuff. The cadence began in the early modern era, during the 17th century, when new attractive wares from exotic places made it more exciting to be a consumer; it gained pace with the growing colonization of the world, which resulted in a steady stream of goods destined for the growing middle class; and it reached an as-yet unfinished crescendo with the invention of new fast and cheap ways of manufacturing and brand-new materials, such as plastic and polyester. As more and more people can now afford to own things – many things! – the amount of waste has grown accordingly. And ever since the post-war years, the market has been based on everyone buying new things all the time, which has led to a monstrous amount of discarded stuff.

Economists speak of the tragedy of the commons: when we see others consume more from a common resource – the village green, the local blackberry patch, the planet’s resources – we too consume more, even though we know this will lead to the depletion of the common resource. Organic resources, minerals, metals, fuels or the fossil matter used to make synthetic materials are not inexhaustible. Oil is thousands of years’ worth of solar energy stored as organic life and then, in an infinitely slow process, transformed into concentrated, flammable matter. That too does not go away when we burn it as oil and plastic in vast quantities but stays with us in the form of CO2. All we do is alter its state.

Maybe we can barely manage to have a relationship with things in our modern fast-paced, high-efficiency society? Like antiques, handed-down furniture and other objects are not in vogue; instead, the ideal is the clinically pure and pristine home that reveals nothing and demands nothing of us. In its ultimate form, it is a place that we did not even decorate ourselves but which was instead prepared by a stylist – a place unburdened by history.

Those who try to stem the endless flow of objects and their accumulation as clutter in our homes often do so by turning to minimalism – a sort of modern puritanism. Christine Harold finds some hope in the fact that Marie Kondo’s popular decluttering approach is rooted in Japanese Shintoism, according to which spirits are found not only in all living beings but also in inanimate objects. Many forms of nature religion consider it obvious that things will only bother to work for us if we treat them with care and respect, and indeed, Kondo is known for gently communicating with the spirits of the home. According to her, we should remember to thank our things for their hard work and allow them to rest, just as we should gently wake up our slumbering books before handling them. Nevertheless, Kondo regards them all as nothing more than temporary guests in our life, things that should be passed on as soon as they no longer make our heart skip a beat. But does it have to be quite so puritanical? As an alternative to this strict minimalism, might we also have a playful maximalism, where existing objects mingle to give rise to new styles and thus go on to lead long and happy lives? 

What the world needs is new ways of turning the objects we buy and own into much more permanent aspects of our life. That calls for a longer perspective – designing objects for durability, with a built-in capacity for repair and modification as well as planned degradability and recycling after disposal – and for an aesthetic that rises above the current fascination with fleeting trends. The cradle-to-cradle mindset radically challenges the idea that we can simply manufacture objects and send them into the world; instead, designers and manufacturers need to rethink the entire life cycle of any new object, enable it to function and remain attractive as long as possible and finally guide the object to its final transformation, where as many elements as possible should be suited for being recycled and entering new cycles. Another possibility is to focus on reusing materials in aesthetically pleasing ways: carving new construction elements out of existing walls, sewing clothes from high-quality deadstock fabric and, in all sorts of ways, upcycling existing and superfluous objects. However, all of these approaches face a tough market where low price still trumps most other considerations, and where consumers are not used to approaching every new purchase as a long-term investment. Christine Harold is right that consumers need to develop deeper and more committed relationships with their objects, but surprisingly, her excellent book does not include a critical look at the role that the advertising industry and the media play in perpetuating the dream of tantalizingly non-committal consumption. We urgently need new collective narratives about the sorts of relationships we can have with the objects we own – and new ideals for what is considered attractive, pleasant and prestigious. To some extent, these stories can be crafted by dedicated designers and manufacturers, but commercials and media represent the bigger loudspeaker.

We also need new, clever ways of making superior, and hence more expensive, products accessible to everyone, not just the well-heeled, just as FDB Møbler once came up with its own savings and instalment programme to enable people to buy well-designed, durable furniture in the 1900s. Not to mention government policies that make it impossible to score big profits on rapidly manufactured junk produced at huge costs to the environment and human health and well-being. In other words, it is not only designers and consumers who need to face reality and develop a healthier relationship with things – they need allies across a wide range of industries and public sectors. 

Nevertheless, Christine Harold’s book contains many important ideas for further reflection. Like all other changes, reforming manufacturing to embrace a much stronger focus on quality and durability begins with a new mindset. Embracing a new mindset precedes concrete change, and we can actually train ourselves to shape a new future through reflection. Interestingly, Christine Harold points to an unexpected source of inspiration for anyone who wants a more satisfying relationship with objects. Hoarders – people who are unable to throw stuff out and hence often end up living knee-deep in clutter – have been found to have profound empathy with their objects. Their reluctance to throw things out does not stem from a lack of care about their surroundings but instead an intense love of their objects, which they can often describe in every last, beloved detail. Unlike most people, they have an excess of attachment to their possessions. One level down from the hoarder, we find the collector, who derives so much pleasure from the objects and their stories and aesthetics that the collection can continue to grow, endlessly. The collector is the guardian of the objects, obliged to preserve and appreciate them – a role that may seem eccentric or even comical in today’s world, but which is definitely worth pulling out of storage. Perhaps our homes should be just that – collections. Another way to build attachment is to be involved in their making. While critical theorists often hold IKEA up as the incarnation of evil, rapid consumption, Christine Harold refers to studies showing that the process of assembling the furniture cause many people to like and care for it more. They develop a shared history with the objects and these embedded stories enhance their attachment to them. 

While all the necessary actors find a way to transition away from overproduction, pollution and infinite waste, there is every reason to engage as many people as possible in bringing back the basic knowledge past generations had about caring for things, repairing them or turning them into new things. And, just as importantly: to understand what things are made of and how they are made. The more hands-on we can be in the way we relate to our possessions, the deeper our attachment. And that makes all the difference.

Christine Harold: Things Worth Keeping: The Value of Attachment in a Disposable World. 278 pages, $24.95. University of Minnesota Press. 

They hang from floor to ceiling on the raw concrete walls. Round, oblong and figures of eight – lots of shelves, all in oiled wood. Designer, Anne Brandhøj shows me around the Copenhagen gallery, Tableau, where she’s exhibiting her 100 shelves and pedestals, over the winter months. They’re made out of leftover wood that was supposed to be thrown out or burnt, but instead have been piling up in the designer’s workshop and garden , over the years. Some of the wood has been given to her, while some of it she felled, herself.

”This is from my in-laws’ garden,” she says, lifting up a mushroom-shaped pedestal in beech. It’s as soft as butter.  Even though the objects are presented in a gallery, where normally a ’look and 

do not touch’ policy applies; Anne Brandhøj actually wants people to touch the wood.

”We need to have something between our fingers. Many of my friends are surprised about how they spend the whole day in front of a computer, and don’t even have to go down to the post office to post a letter. Sometimes they come out to my workshop just so they can saw something. The sensuous aspect is lacking in our everyday lives.”

The solution was the concept ‘aesthetic sustainability.’

“It describes objects that last a long, long time, and acquire more value when used, and are in durable materials. If you buy a new telephone, it will already lose value the very next day if it gets a scratch. But, a butter knife in wood becomes even more beautiful when it’s been in butter.”

She turned to woodwork during her graduation project, in 2017. And the fascination for furniture by Hans Wegner, and Arne Jacobsen was born. Their furniture is aesthetically sustainable, she points out. Even after so many decades, the pieces are still going strong. Both in terms of appearance and materials. 

“Wood appealed to me because it is a durable material, it’s warm and vibrant and evolves with use. So I went out to a sawmill in the woods, with a lumberjack, and I wanted a huge tree stump that was dry so I could make furniture out of it. He said: “There’s something that you don’t understand at all.” First, the tree had to be cut down and then dried, and at the sawmill, and that would take a long time. Years. At school, I was used to just going up to the wood workshop and ordering what I needed. So, there were a lot of things that I new nothing about, and I was really the stupid blonde. I realised I didn’t want to be that again.”

Today, Anne Brandhøj can talk at length about a piece of wood, based on its age rings, about where the tree was placed in relation to the sun, wind, the area’s vegetation and so on. After she graduated, she went out to the forest with a forester, who helped her to expand her knowledge and among other things taught her how to fell a tree, herself.

Always feeling torn

Since then, things have really taken off for Anne Brandhøj, she has had an array of solo exhibitions and received a number of awards, among others the Finn Juhl prize, in 2019, which is awarded to “a recipient who has made a significant contribution within the field of furniture design.” Her designs flow between being art objects and furniture. And unlike much other woodwork, Anne Brandhøj lets the wood shape itself, on its own terms. Wood is normally cut into straight planks, where every flaw is excluded. With Anne Brandhøj, cracks, fungal spores, gnarls and resin pockets are welcome attributes to the final expression.

“A gnarl in the wood gives so much character. In the traditional furniture industry, they are cut off, because they only want wood that is uniform. I don’t think that one should throw away or burn wood just because of a little gnarl, or because you don’t plan to use the wood straight away. Maybe you will, later on. I know that I can’t store unimaginable amounts of wood…”  

Because using every last bit is the most sustainable, says the designer. But, even if there’s zero waste, and the wood is local and not varnished; she still has her doubts.

“At the end of the day, it’s not sustainable to produce new products. I always feel torn about that. Because I’m also drawn to the new, I’m interested in new products and technology and all that. It’s a balancing act. But, I think that we are heading in the right direction, where people are more aware of what they throw away and how many pieces of Ikea furniture they buy. I really like that people have developed an allergy to cheaply produced furniture.”

How does she see the future of the industry?

“I hope that materials become more expensive. Right now, they are ridiculously cheap, because we think that our natural resources are endless. But, if this drinking bottle lid breaks, the material itself still has value, even though it can’t perform its original function any longer. I have a dream that materials will become more valuable – whether it’s through regulation, or whether it will be because the resources simply disappear from nature, we’ll have to see about that. I hope that we manage to stop before then.”

A travel through a collectors universe

For decades, Erik Veistrup has collected ceramics. Since 2005, he has donated more than 1150 ceramic pieces to the museum, and it is a selection of these donations that are now on display. Erik Veistrup personally selected and arranged the 100 or so pieces – a very effective presentation.

The exhibits are clustered into groups on open or glazed-in plinths at varying heights. The spectator can walk round most of the objects and get up close to them. The dialogue that emerges among the groups can be observed from several angles and experienced from different perspectives. A few of the groups are placed on shelves on the wall; this establishes a focus that draws in one’s gaze and attention. Around the pieces, spatial experiences arise, matching the broad and spacious nature of Veistrup’s collection overall. A characteristic quality of the exhibition is the high degree of diversity. The visual interactions of the pieces across time, techniques, glazes, colours and forms help sharpen the viewer’s curiosity. Seeing Christian Poulsen’s precise glaze work in an interplay with Gutte Eriksen’s ultra-tactile raku-fired pieces is an impactful experience. The two artists shared a common dedication to materials and a diligent and thorough approach to their medium.

Vasegaard’s studies are richly represented in the exhibition. I am particularly drawn to a small lidded jar standing on delicate glaze feet. The heavy clay is raised up, and the form of the lidded jar is highlighted. Forms, process and techniques are mixed in Pernille Pontoppidan Pedersen’s pieces. There is something magically ruin-like about these Useriøsiteter (Frivolities). The ceramic pieces are equals, what combines them is the craftsmanship and the focused immersion that characterize both the modernist and the contemporary objects. The clustered presentations spark a dialogue among the works and with the observer.

After experiencing this exhibition, I am inspired to delve even deeper into the diversity of Danish ceramics, to learn more about both the artists represented in the exhibition and the ones who are not on display, the historical as well as the contemporary. I leave with a sense of gratitude. Clay has been a key part of Erik Veistrup’s life; he describes himself as a ceramicaholic, and the collection is fascinating, boundless and intuitive. As with nature, there are still new experiences to explore, and thanks to this generosity we are now offered an insight into a collector’s universe and the wide range of Danish ceramics. Till next time, Clay!

Citatet er en nærværende og vigtig udtalelse af Jens Harald Quistgaard (1919-2008), der opfattede sig selv mere som billedhugger end som designer. Det fortæller os, at Quistgaard kendte til succes, og særligt at han havde indsigt i vigtigheden af samarbejde på tværs af fagligheder og ekspertise i produktionen. Quistgaard ønskede at bestemme over sine designs og havde store krav til kvalitet og en produktion i Danmark. Det beretter Emilie Rygaard Rasch i sin nye bog, den første store monografi, Jens Harald Quistgaard – En dansk designer. Bogens ærinde er at skabe et overblik over Quistgaards liv og fortælle historien om, hvordan han blev så stor en designer, og hvorfor han ikke blev mere anerkendt i sin samtid.

Han var kompromisløs og brugte kostbare materialer, der vakte opsigt blandt hans samtidige danske snedker- og arkitektkollegaer, som en torn i øjet på særligt arkitekterne Børge Mogensen og Arne Karlsen. Træsorter som palisander, wengé og teak blev indkøbt i Burma, Thailand, Kina og Japan. Det handlede om en nysgerrighed, men også om en bevidsthed om at bruge sjældne træsorter med egenskaber, der ville bevare deres kvaliteter gennem generationer. Mens danskerne i 1950’erne stadig holdt fast i isskabet og den traditionelle adskillelse af køkken og dagligstue, var amerikanerne foran i en udvikling mod det funktionelle køkkenalrum, og det satte spor i både arkitektur og bordkultur. Den tankegang tappede Quistgaard ind i med køkkenserier, der skulle fungere æstetisk og multifunktionelt.

Hoveddelen af Quistgaards design blev skabt med banebrydende teknikker og nyudviklede metoder. Det var særligt træarbejderne, der var nyskabende. For Quistgaard handlede det om at finde de dygtigste og mest kvalitetsbevidste producenter i Danmark med viden, der kunne give nye formmæssige muligheder. Her blev Richard Nissen fra Nissens Trævarefabrik i Langå en vigtig partner. Nissens innovative brug af lim gjorde træspildet mindre og på den måde blev produktionspriserne fornuftige og gjorde Quistgaards design økonomisk tilgængelige for den amerikanske middelklasse.

Sidste halvdel af bogen har særskilte kapitler omhandlende bestik, trævarer, peberkværne, gryder, lysestager, stentøj, glas og møbler. Hvert kapitel afrundes med en visuel oversigt, der giver en fornemmelse af, at samtlige genstande er formet af den samme mand. På denne måde formår Rasch at lave et godt overblik af Quistgaards designproduktion, der kan fungere som et visuelt katalog over en betydelig del af hans ca. 4.000 designobjekter. 

Bogen henvender sig til den alment interesserede læser, mens den professionelle læser vil savne detaljeret information. Det kunne eksempelvis være et mere fyldestgørende referencesystem, der gør det muligt at forfølge kilderne, få indsigt i museale samlinger, udstillinger og producenter.

Alt i alt leverer Rasch et velkomponeret opslagsværk af Quistgaards omfangsrige produktion og tager sig det forbehold, at den ikke er fuldstændig og komplet, da der fortsat vil dukke nye genstande op med signaturen JHQ. Ikke mindst derfor ligger der en beundringsværdig viljestyrke hos forfatteren, der får samlet og udgivet monografien.