If Our Stuff Could Talk…
I recently read “Olivetti” by Allie Millington, a brief, but charming novel about a sentient typewriter that observes and supports the life of the woman who uses it. I confess that in the case of this book, I judged it by its cover. It was an entertaining read, but the concept, the title and the artwork alone compelled me to buy it.
You see, I collect antique and vintage typewriters. They take up a whole wall of shelves in my office, in a rainbow of hues and a variety of vintages and styles. There are a bunch of reasons why I have them around me, why I’ve made space for so many of them. Some of them have been passed along from family, which automatically makes them special. Some of them are unusual, with different characters from other languages. Some are intended as toys, and one of them is for use in courtrooms. I really love running my fingers over the keys, and wondering who else used them, what was typed on them, and how many lives they passed through before ending up in my workspace. All of them are a reminder that I’m lucky to be living in a time when being a writer doesn’t have to be such a solitary thing, when I have resources and technology at my disposal. They reinforce that words and ideas have always been and are still important.
Reading “Olivetti” sparked the curious and whimsical notion that I might have an audience behind my desk. I started musing on this, and wondered what they might think of me, of my life, of my line of work. Am I doing right by them, and respecting the trades and traditions they represent? Do they puzzle over the new magic flashy rectangles that I use? Do they notice when I stare out the window while trying to gather my thoughts, and when I fume at the state of the world? If they could speak, would they sound more like a Greek chorus, Gladys Knight’s Pips, a cheer squad, the cartoon cast of Beauty and the Beast, or an angry mob ready to pelt me with rotten tomatoes?
In Shinto tradition, some objects are thought to be inhabited by Kami, or spirits (a big simplification, I know, but bear with me). After a number of years of service and significance, objects can not only have a well-established purpose in a household, but also a spiritual presence. Objects of this calibre are respected and taken care of, just as they have taken care of their humans.
If you work from home like I do, you spend a fair bit of time surrounded by your things, even more so if you’re a collector, an art enthusiast, or a maximalist (I am all three). I know my dogs watch me go about my daily routine with some interest, but what about the objects in my house, the things that surround me as I do the things I do? I’m certain that I gain from their presence, even if I’m not actually using them. I find it easier to handle blank page anxiety when my walls are not blank, when there is always something interesting to look at. In a broader sense, there’s comfort in the feeling I’m not alone in a room, not alone in many senses. There are objects behind me that have sat in the periphery while all kinds of world events have unfolded. They’ve seen the world be torn down and rebuilt, probably several times over.
I can’t help but wonder how many Kami I have in my office, inhabiting these things which are no longer in working order, but that I still hold in high esteem. I look at my wall of typewriters and see years of loyal service. I see the frustrated faces of their former owners, stuck on finding just the right words and marvelling when the words eventually show up. I see spirited letters being written to friends and family, and chubby kid fingers enjoying the cool smoothness of the keys and the sounds they make. I see millions of words and ideas being placed just so, in service of sharing them with others, pinning down important episodes of life.
Is this the appeal of antiques in general? Once we’ve indulged in their weirdness and coolness, is there more to them? In our disposable culture, are we feeling the loss of things that have persistence, purpose and usefulness? Do we need to be in the presence of objects that remind us of loyalty and reliability, function over form? Maybe it’s just important to remind ourselves that our lives have consequences, and that it’s always possible that someone is watching, taking notes, and learning from us. If we can show up for the dusty artifacts that have taken lodging on our shelves, handle them with care and reverence, perhaps we can show up for the people around us too?