in defence of fading
and awkward beauty.
Things fade. That’s what happens. Nature fades—that’s what it does.
The idea of permanence is a human one—unsustainable, unrealistic, unnatural. Yet somehow, it stuck. It stuck so hard, so deep in our brains, we are hardheaded in our belief that things should stay shiny and new long past their time of shiny newness. We do it with each other, too. Stay young. Stay new. Stay shiny. Don’t ever change!
The fresh and new Japan that people overseas see in their dreams of this place are built on the reality of a fading country. A patina, not of neglect or of desecration, but of worn-outness permeates yesteryear’s things. The fading is everywhere. It follows the shrinking economy and population like a haunting. Sometimes repairs stand unashamed in their imperfection, but mostly, fading is endured, overlooked, understood. Nothing is new forever. Nothing is permanent.
There is no betrayal in fading, no offence to take. Through rot, rust, age, nature, things find transformation—find their own, fit their own frame. I sense a level of serenity in fading things, a humanness absent in the shiny newness. Things fade, they wither, they chip and fray. As they fade, become ghosts, I can almost hear these things sigh.
I want to leave you with some insight from Japanese design titan, Naoto Fukasawa:
“In Japan, we have the word shutaku. A literal translation would be “polished by hand.” It is a metaphor for something that’s been used and become better after having been touched again and again; shutaku is a polished luster; it is also a metaphor for something that has taken on a personality of its own, or improved with age…This same meaning is included in wabi and sabi, but the awkward beauty of something decaying over time indicates and overall beauty, which human hands cannot touch directly; nature has weathered that thing.”
—Super Normal. Sensations of the Ordinary.
I appreciate the quote at the end. There are types of fading, there is unrestrained decay and there is something closer to the patina concept. Consider a pair of leather shoes. If I maintain the shoes, fading takes on a specific type of fading, one that reflects use and love. The other fading is something that has been left to fend for itself. Perhaps we struggle with the second type because we fear that being our future. Thanks for the post and spurring a midday diversion on beauty.
You have put into words what I have been mulling over in my head for the last year. New isn’t better, just not fading yet. In fading is a beauty that nature requires. Thanks for this this morning, it brightened my day.