(Post illustration from jodi’s weblog)
How do we come to desire objects? Logically, it makes little sense to have so much feelings for things that will never reciprocate them. The love of objects is the epitome of unrequited love.
The love of objects is a just a false impression. Even though we tend to believe the opposite is true, when you give it some thought, it’s more fleeting than human relationships. Having a thing means holding onto it, coming up with strategies to keep it where it is, away from the greed of others, from possible thefts and mysteries of misplacing. There’s a lot of effort put into keeping, since there is no connection between the owner and the inanimate possession. A thing has no reason to stay with you. And so, in their essential infidelity, objects ‘lose themselves’ all the time. Or they escape?… Sometimes with assistance. Everyday and everywhere people are looking for wayward objects.
And yet there is desire. Whatever the logic behind the love for objects or lack of it, desire cannot be denied. With objects, it seems, desire is most immediate. In a split second seeing turns into wanting.
You can blame it on adverts, consumer society, that everything has become a commodity (has it?), but can you not feel it? I used to envy people who said they cared little for material objects. They appeared to be above all this. The question is do I want to be above all this and where will I be if I step out of this? Yes, maybe in the ideal realm of greater freedom, but what will my connection to all this be then? Disdain? I’m not sure if I want to walk down city streets and look at friends’ apartments feeling disdain for the rest of my life. Another thing is whether I believe that the people I mentioned really were above loving material objects. I’m not so sure I do.
Regardless of whether we like it or not, it’s not just other people and broadly defined nature that is our surrounding. We place ourselves in a world of objects, and if we cut out desire, we will lose an element of our sight.
You are free to disagree with me on this. However, as I slowly come to terms with the turbulence of the love for objects, I see that there is more to it than vanity. A desired object comes to mean for me something that other things do not. This meaning attached to it makes me see it differently and thus changes also the way I see everything around it. And yes, I might be simply writing amateur philosophy to justify my base instincts. Additionally, it could be an apology of crowd madness or Freudian compensation.
There’s a green sweater on the bottom of this.
Last week was the Long Night of Shopping in Heidelberg. (Yes, another lame spin-off the fabulous idea of the Long Night of Museums.) It was astounding how it worked on people. There were no special discounts in any of the shops, no big sales. And yet everyone was on the Hauptstrasse in a buying frenzy. I didn’t have any big purchase plans and probably if it weren’t for the presence of a friend who is a fashion designer, I wouldn’t have bought anything. And indeed I didn’t buy the green sweater.
I have to admit, though, it was a coup de foudre situation. I saw it and loved it. It made me think of tree leaves in Ithaca (locus amoenus, see how the meanings attach themselves?), Pythagoras’ green chalk, my eyes (I am narcissistic), and I imagined how great it would be to have it and wear it. But reality stepped in after a second of daydreaming: I’m a poor student, as the proverb goes, I should save money for other things and, besides, what I need more is a winter coat, because the zipper broke in my old one. My irrational side still wanted to try it on, nevertheless.
When we came back to that shop later in the evening, I couldn’t find my size. So I took a few other things and went to the changing room. And there I saw it, my size, on a hanger, left behind. Or so it seemed, before a woman appeared from nowhere and reached for it. I asked her if she intended to buy it. “Oh yes,” she answered with — it might have been my imagination — a note of condescension in her voice. I felt a sudden surge of violence rising in me. This was a minor irony of life. After all, I wouldn’t buy the sweater anyway. But there were all these cruel things I wanted to say to her in that instant in order to assert my right to the sweater (let’s not forget that I was in love with it): that she is fifty and shouldn’t really be buying clothes like this, while my age gives me an obvious advantage (I don’t even believe in such crap), that she’s here with her husband and I am single for which the sweater would somehow compensate, that I need the sweater for a potential job interview (what job interview?)/ potential date (say what?), etc., etc., etc.
I didn’t say anything and she walked off with my loved one. It was probably the briefest love story in my life. I still find that sweater enchanting but am not even going to check if they have my size again.
For a moment there, it was only me, the object of my desire, and the evil woman who took it away from me. The world stopped. It’s the only kind of unrequited love I find palatable.
