Fewer, Better Things: The Hidden Wisdom of Objects

I don’t know that I agree with other reviewers when they come to the conclusion that this book’s title is misleading. Not with an overline that reads “The Hidden Wisdom of Objects”, nor with a perfectly adequate description of the book’s contents available right inside the cover. You know what you’re in for: various informed musings on how objects come to be, from someone who used to be director of the Museum of Arts and Design in New York, among other things.<br /><br />Come on, people. Were you expecting the ubiquitous Marie Kondō – again?<br /><br />With <i>Fewer, Better Things</i>, Glenn Adamson takes you on a grand tour of people’s rapport to material realities, but he also takes care not to wear you out. By the time you’re done with this essay, you’ll have thought about all kinds of materials, long-established traditions in craft versus current industrial techniques, the place of objects in your life, the implications of an ever-growing digitalization of resources, the roles and strategies of museums, and much more. The chapters are short but eloquent and each one either brings new water to the mill or shifts your perspective by a few degrees. I believe Adamson trusts you to independently reflect further on each concept he introduces, and I love that his approach is not moralistic. The broad culture displayed from one chapter to the next makes this a rich and interesting read; I found the author’s use of real-life situations and third-party expertise judicious, through and through.<br /><br />All of this book’s efforts have to do with putting humans back into the heart of, well, things. The end result is a generalist view presented smartly, in an amiable tone. Very glad I picked this up.

This is an excellent study of objects. I highly recommend reading this book but maybe reading one chapter a day like a book of daily inspiration. The chapters are short and are almost like meditations on craft and the object. <br /><br />Such a pleasure to read something so thoughtful and beautifully written.

Glenn Adamson is one of the most perspicacious writers on craft today, easily in my top three. I have found all of his books worth reading, and this one will be one of the few that I plan to reread in its entirety at some point.<br /><br />Just two cautions. First, this is not a terribly structured book, which may lead to its being misunderstood by those with a more restricted notion of the types of different arguments that authors can employ. This book is primarily a "meditation" in the sense of being about how we collectively think about craft and what it means. From my standpoint, as someone who recently successfully defended my Ph.D. dissertation on an aspect of craft, I am not fazed by Adamson's orientation. In large part this is because I agree with Paul Greenhalgh's (in Dormer, ed. 1997) argument that craft is a term with a vast array of meanings, many of which are used "politically" by people trying to make particular points. Adamson's efforts in several books has been to try and recover something more objective in the term craft without destroying the extraordinary diversity of actual practice - which as I can personally attest from my own research and writing is no mean feat.<br /><br />In fact, this structure makes it difficult for me to offer a simple summary of the book's argument, except to say that it explores in a very open and loose way key aspects of what craft is as a practice and to a scholar like myself who has read and will continue to read extensively in this field, it is a useful counterbalance to and extension of many arguments.<br /><br />As the second caution, Adamson has a more "romantic" notion of objects than some readers prefer. Specifically, he seems to echo E.F. Schumacher's old maxim of "small is beautiful" in a fairly unreconstructed way, and as the cultural and practical history of the last forty years has demonstrated, this is a message that appeals to some, but repels others and consequently may close off useful dialogue rather than promoting it (at least as it is currently constituted). Further, there is a tendency in this view to associate value with permanence, but on the other hand, a great many older objects were highly transient (like small rowboats) but which often would simply decay without polluting anything. In contrast to the "lasting" school, there is the "cradle to cradle" argument of Braungart and McDonough that contends that some types of production that produces less lasting goods but in which the waste products are naturally recycled can actually be more beneficial to the environment and to artisans than expensive and durable items. Again different circumstances can suggest different approaches. In any case, I find it slightly odd that Adamson's expert balance when it comes to craft itself does not extend to shibboleths of the cultural argument behind aspects of craft.<br /><br />Nevertheless, I feel this book deserves five stars and is well worth reading for any person who is seriously interested in craft. Further, the prose is accessible and enjoyable.

Seduced by the cover design (a detail of a beautiful and deeply contemplative still life by William Bailey), the title (holding the allure of a more sustainable way of life), and the bona fides of the author (the former director of the Museum of Art and Design), I purchased this book as soon as I heard about it. Maybe there’s a lesson there; I certainly should have checked my local library. LOL.<br /><br />I had hoped for a philosophic and aesthetic framework for “Fewer, Better Things.” Although I’m not anti-capitalist, I am certainly ready to endorse an approach to life that encourages us to be more thoughtful about what we acquire. I anticipated a more nuanced Marie Kondo argument for only holding onto things that “bring you joy.”<br /><br />Instead, with great disappointment, this book did not bring me joy. Right away (and let’s be clear, I’m old . . . past 60), I was concerned with the opening chapters, which were inspired by the “the old days” (of the author’s grandfather, who clearly had a closer relationship with material), and the author’s appreciation for his beloved childhood teddy bear. Literally, his teddy bear. This view of the golden past was, of course, contrasted with the superficiality of today’s digital world. Still, I persevered. But it was only the “fewer pages” that I ended up appreciating: I was grateful there were only 227 of them.<br /><br />Another plus: the 34 chapters were also better, perhaps, for being shorter. On the other hand, these chapters seemed like the barest of threads, each briefly raising thoughts the author had at some time in his life. In many, there were kernels of important concepts: the value of hand labor (why do we admire the academic more than the plumber?); the distinctive character of materials (even from one type of wood or stone to another); and the “revelation” that there are things to learned in that vast space between NY and LA. <br /><br />I can endorse all these observations. But these anecdotes didn’t coalesce into any larger whole. At one point it seemed that the author—with his impressive museum experience—might advocate for a more thoughtful “curatorial” perspective (he devoted several pages to the important role museums play in presenting objects). But he stopped short of any such recommendation. Was he shy of seeming too elitist? Of encouraging cultural judgment? Of not being inclusive? <br /><br />Whatever the reason, these thoughts were just that: thoughts. And while I appreciated the author’s tone (always respectful, never didactic), it left me yearning for a writer who might step up to not only advocate for acquiring/keeping things the “bring you joy,” but also providing a philosophical framework for a sustainable theory of acquisition. While a Wunderkammer may be compelling, it is not sustainable for us or our world. Let’s step back, and be thoughtful “curators” of our lives. <br />

The myth of the dumb object.<br /><br />You cannot go visit someone through our screens. Individuals are reduced to a screen scroll of texts. We have tactile contact with the screen and make it our master. If an event is not digitally captured to the cloud, then it did not happen. "The only permanent anchor in our lives will be the cloud". <br /><br />"The problem is that, as we come to depend on these mysterious machines more and more, we are less and less aware of our physical environment." On a famous mountain trail in my city, I came within a foot's length of a woman who was walking down the trail as I was going up. She exclaimed, "I did not see you!" Her gaze was fixed on her screen. She had no eyes for the physical world, much less the spiritual, nor for the humans she was with and among. She was entirely operating in a virtual reality. Notice that I did not say living.<br /><br />Her reality is made in and through a screen. She was caught off guard by my presence because she was ignoring the physical world. "We aren't even aware of how unaware we are," states Adamson. I have come toe to toe with such unawareness and come away as a woman present,<br /> yet unseen.

You ever want to hold words close to your chest because they're so precious? That's how I felt about a lot of the supporting text cited in this book. There were some thoughts in this that were so fascinating, that I wanted to write them out and pin them on my wall, so that I may look at them and commit them to memory.<br /><br />Like most of the craft based books I've been reading lately, this is a call to treasure material intelligence and the objects in our lives. To respect those with working knowledge and to break away from overconsumption of materials that threaten our environment. It's a very accessible read, and I enjoyed reading it.

In this world of digital connection and consumer overload, Glenn Adamson encourages us to exchange materialism for materiality. A delightful collection from this curator and scholar, Adamson explores the hidden wisdom contained within objects, and the felt experience of them in our hands and our lives. Short chapters to read before bed, or in between checking your Instagram before clicking on Netflix.



I picked up this attractive first edition at the Philadelphia Museum of Art on a recent trip with my wife. This is a book about material intelligence. How much do you know about the objects you use? Or the materials they are made of, or who made them and how? There is much here about beauty and meaning and craftsmanship, but also probably too much science if you ask me. At times I was a little uninterested and wanted to skip ahead. Still a well-done tribute to beautiful things. Read it if you would rather hold a fountain pen than a smart phone. Thankfully there are a few of us left.

Enjoyed the sentiment but not the delivery.

Adamson makes the case for staying in touch literally with the real world of hand wrought artifacts and objects. Everybody wants her/his kid to go to college, even if the kid (by the thousands) would be happier and better off becoming a skilled craftsperson--plumber, electrician, carpenter, potter, metal worker, an auto repair expert. It's possible a few parents would see the light if they read this book and set their kid free from meeting their deluded expectations. This book is too quiet and too small to restore the respect these kind of jobs deserve, but it lights a candle in the darkness of our foolish ignorance when we look down on the people who build and fix everything the rest of us know nothing about and find indispensable. It's also a heartfelt plea for doing without badly objects that need to be replaced often in favor of a few well-made things that last a lifetime and longer. Those who rated it "boring" should open their minds and read it again.