Would you believe me if I said, at one point in my life, I hated the art of Vincent Van Gogh? It wasn’t just a sentiment of not caring for his work, I flat out did not enjoy him. I avoided him when at all possible. I was young, and I couldn’t surmise what the draw was. He was my parent’s favorite artist, which does wonders for ruining someone’s creative reputation, like a birth control of the aesthetic variety. My mother got cheap prints of his work, usually from TJ Maxx, paired with equally gaudy frames. As an adolescent, I simply had to look away when passing his work in our halls.
Then, right after high school, one of my closest friends, Noah, suggested an exceptionally extensive romp through Europe, starting with Amsterdam. There, I once again encountered Van Gogh’s work. This time, it was in a lavish museum dedicated to his work, and his work only.
Even there, I simply did not understand the appeal.
A few years go by. I graduate university, and move out of my parents house. I help Noah move into a lovely spot across the pond in Berkeley, then Oakland. We don’t talk much about art, but when we do, the museum comes up, much to our amusement.
Then, one day, I notice the artwork featured in this piece.
Wait a second, I thought. I like this. I like this a lot. Perhaps it was the depiction of provincial work, or the incredibly naturalistic brushstrokes, but something about it spoke to me. The colors were fresh, and I could feel the European summer sun beating down on me as I looked at them.
Then, after much deliberation, I had realized it. Van Gogh possessed the power to not paint things as they looked, but as they felt. After many years, I figured it out, and began an obsession with his work. Now when people ask me about my favorite artists, he comes up almost immediately.
Change is perhaps the greatest fruit in the bounty of getting older, a reward for overcoming, learning, experiencing, and simply living. But what happens to our sense of aesthetics as we indulge in growing older?
Just over a week ago, for the first time in my life, I purchased a Macbook. After many years of dedicated service, my Windows machine was finally starting to show it’s age. If you moved it’s sleek, matte black screen, to say, adjust the angle while editing or watching something, it would immediately cease to operate, and shut down in seconds. If you grabbed it by the bottom left corner, the same would inevitably happen. The wi-fi had gone completely on the fritz the last few weeks, as my other devices looked on with both horror and comfort that they were completely connected. After a deviously timed shutdown right before a job interview, I decided enough was enough.
I made my way down to the Apple Store on Chestnut Street, where a lovely woman named Aida helped me. She seemed unfazed when I inquired about the student discount, and touched my shoulder when I made a joke about how clean, almost Stalinist the Apple store seemed. Her laugh seemed genuine, as did her reply of “Yea, it’s almost too clean isn’t it!”
When she went to fetch my laptop, I considered her friendly tone, as well as the $150 Apple gift card that was graciously bestowed to me through the discount. As she went into the back, another store associate went up to tell me that she was new, as if to apologize for her seemingly uncordial nature. I looked up at him, and once again had the same thought, the one that made Aida laugh, but I could not spill it to him, this newly introduced character, Anthony, who swooped in during the only intermission this whole ordeal could possibly have.
To apologize, sincerely or not, about the jovial nature of a colleague- what could be more Stalinist than that?
I got home, and immediately unboxed what was probably one of the most expensive things I now owned. I’m sure that my collections, the things I owned many and exotic variations of, had greater value, but the Macbook, designed in California and assembled across the world in China, was a singular object. It was one thing, touched & worked on by many.
To create the feeling that this is indeed something special, Apple took a lot of time to make sure that unboxing it felt like an experience. To buy it secondhand would not only sink it’s profits, Apple insinuates, but it would also deplete the consumer of a rare kind of dopamine, one that only occurs when opening up one of their expensive products for the first time. As I unwrap the plastic, fiddle with the cardboard, and toss the manuals, I carefully dig out the laptop itself. It is shiny, pristine, and most of all, striking. It looks like it is, inarguably, from the future.
That rare unboxing dopamine hit now shifts into a form that is much more utilitarian- actually using the laptop. It is fast, and it is simple. It is how a laptop should be, more or less. Nothing has offended me so far, unlike Windows, which asks “HEY HOW ABOUT AN ANTI-VIRUS SCANNER NOW THAT YOU HAVE A LAPTOP? ALRIGHT NO WORRIES WELL I’M SURE YOU HEARD ABOUT THE ALL NEW WEB BROWSER FROM MICROSOFT CALLED HEY WAIT WHERE ARE YOU GOING DO NOT CLOSE THIS TAB!!!!’”
After getting everything set up, my first train of thought is now towards this pricey slab of silicon’s longevity. This is where my crisis of aesthetic begins.
When I say crisis of aesthetic, I am of course inspiring by the time-honored practice of having a crisis of faith, although neither for me are that dramatic. I am simply exploring how, as I get older, certain things appeal to me in a certain way, and how others invariably lose their charm. As we get older, do we lose our eye on what ‘looks good’ or is in vogue? And the bigger question: does it even matter?
I began looking into solutions for protecting my Macbook. The possibilities are truly endless- it seems like everyone is making sleeves, pouches, and cases for these laptops, from nameless eBay shell companies to some of luxury fashion’s biggest names. I was overwhelmed, but narrowed down my search to two of them. It felt like not only a decision for the future of my Macbook, but also, a decision on where my personal aesthetic was headed.
I surmised that this was probably because I had spent so much money on the item itself already, so whatever I draped it in would say magnitudes about me as a person.
The two I narrowed it down to could not be more different.
On one hand, there was a smart, simple leather envelope portfolio from Kasper Maison, a reputable Swedish brand. The vegetable tanned leather was a highlight for me, as it was miles away the best kind consumers could hope to get without visiting a tannery themselves. It had a beautifully understated stitching, one that complimented it’s luscious honey color.
Then, of course, there was the Keroppi printed sleeve, made of recycled nylon ripstop. It was made by Baggu, an American brand I see most frequently flaunted by young people in Pac Heights, as well as senior shoppers at Rainbow Grocery.
Can an object represent more than just an aesthetic sensibility? This is an exceptionally complex question, and my answer is that yes, it can, and in many cases, it has to.
But digging a bit deeper, can an aesthetic be a guiding light on where you’re going? And if it can, should we embrace that?
The portfolio from Kasper Maison immediately struck me as an object that someone I would consider ‘an adult’ would have. It is sleek, simple, but most of all, refined. The appeal of high-quality leather is that it is, like many things in the life of an adult, an investment. It will crease, get softer with age, and (hopefully) develop an elegant patina that is all it’s own. Continually using the thing would ensure not only it’s utility, but it’s customization, as well. At a business meeting, I’m sure VP’s both young and old would see it, nod, and reply “Well hey, that’s one snazzy looking laptop case, killer.”
The ripstop sleeve from Baggu is on the opposite side of the spectrum. Brightly colored, and featuring the charming frog Keroppi, it is a celebration of both maximalism and 1980’s Japanese mascots. I was first exposed to Keroppi, and Sanrio as whole, in elementary school. It seemed like every girl and boy in our class had a Sanrio lunchbox, or a Hello Kitty Thermos, or Keroppi notebooks.
I chose this product because I strangely identify with Keroppi, who is described as “an adventure-loving frog who lives with his family at his house on the edge of Donut Pond.” I also really liked the description of his girlfriend, Keroleen, from the official Sanrio wiki: “Sweet, but sometimes, she can be a little sassy. A natural peacemaker, she likes to collect clothes and cook.” From this very short description, Keroleen undoubtedly and vigorously reminds me of my own girlfriend. Keroppi, it must be said, has good taste in women. For a cartoon frog created by a Japanese boardroom in the late 80’s, of course.
I don’t think I could take out a Keroppi branded ripstop bag during a business meeting. I think the same VP’s that would compliment me on the leather portfolio would laugh, and perhaps admonish the patterned cartoon sleeve as silly or unserious. And in their defense, would they be wrong? Capitalism may be the root of our current dark age, but is a Keroppi laptop bag the light at the end of the tunnel? If I’m operating within the same system as successful people, shouldn’t I act like it?
As I get older, I ponder that last question more and more often. I’m not sure what the right answer is, but I’m grateful for my current success and that which is yet to come, as well as thankful for trusting myself and those around me to come this far.
In terms of which laptop bag I went with, the answer is…neither. A friend of mine heard about the struggle I was having, and offered me their old Macbook case after they upgraded. Practicality can trounce aesthetic, but only when you’re pondering philosophical struggles about a laptop bag!