Turning

Turning things over—in your head or in your hands—can be contemplative. You might be accused of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, but I don’t think that’s quite right. It is about expecting something, but expecting something more, not different. It’s about allowing time for things to seep in.

Some things respond easily to that kind of examination, like old furniture or hand tools: weathered and witness to use and carelessness and care. Some new physical things do, too, but many are purposefully designed to be abstract and minimal—merely portals for designed information. There aren’t a lot of obvious features to turn over and examine, because they’re not supposed to be there: they’re supposed to be magic, like a sleek, black, glossy hat.

And yet, when my phone is off (“off-off”: when it is powered down into a sleep mode that means it can’t be roused with a touch or a lift) I can better appreciate its understated aesthetic. (After all, I would never eagerly dismiss or disparage the beauty of a smooth stone.) It bears repeating: it’s not supposed to draw a lot of attention to itself—it should simply be what you need, when you need it. It should provide functions in a way that you naturally reach for them when you want them, but don’t otherwise notice them. And I can still examine the details of its elegant design and the places that dust and lint find its tiny seams and pockets. Tiny imperfections and limitations; an almost microscopic wabi-sabi.

My phone and my coffee cup have more in common than I thought. They are both attractive and well-designed and they both show signs of wear; and my attention is ordinarily drawn more toward what they hold than their affordances.