ISSUE 10: The Value of the Story
Why things mean more when they come with a tale.
There’s a small, delicate Longines watch that belonged to my great-grandmother. It doesn’t quite keep perfect time, and it’s not flashy or expensive by modern standards. But it’s what I reach for on special occasions—not because of what it says about my style, but because of what it says about where I came from. It connects me to something deeper than trends or luxury. It reminds me that taste isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s about memory, meaning, and the lives wrapped up inside the things we wear, keep, and pass on.
Objects are never just objects. Or rather, the best ones aren’t. A painting, a chair, a dress—they can be technically perfect, exquisitely made, expensive, famous—and still leave you cold. What makes something matter is often not the thing itself, but the story that trails behind it. Who made it. Where you found it. What you were wearing when you first saw it. What it reminds you of. The best things don’t just look good. They mean something.
We talk a lot about provenance in the art world—where something came from, how it was handled, who’s touched it, loved it, passed it on. But provenance doesn’t only belong to the blue-chip or the antique. A T-shirt from your dad’s high school swim team has provenance. A bar of handmade soap you bought at a market in Oaxaca has provenance. The word itself means “origin,” but really it means “story.”
In The Shape of a Pocket, John Berger writes: “Art is a guarantee of sanity.” But he also says this: “What makes a good drawing is that you can tell it was made by a human hand. It contains traces of the moment it was made.” A human hand. A trace of a moment. That’s the difference between something that was made and something that was manufactured. One carries a soul; the other, just a barcode.
It’s not that mass-produced things are inherently bad (I own a few IKEA pieces I’d gladly throw myself in front of a bus for). But there’s a flatness to things that arrive in perfect packaging with no origin story, no evidence of touch. A one-of-a-kind ceramic bowl with a fingerprint frozen in the glaze? That’s presence. That’s a time capsule. That’s someone else’s breath embedded in the material.
There’s a reason we’re drawn to heirlooms. Not because they’re perfect, but because they carry the weight of having mattered to someone else. A good object is a little haunted. And a good maker understands that what they’re really creating isn’t just a thing—it’s a vessel for meaning.
I’ve noticed that the objects I love most tend to come with a backstory. “This was made by a designer in Tbilisi who only works with deadstock denim.” “I found it in a tiny antique shop off the side of a road in the south of France.” “The artist built these using the same tools their grandfather passed down.” None of that information changes the object’s form, but it does change its impact.
And no offense to the algorithm, but that’s not something you can filter for.
These stories don’t have to be profound. They just have to be real. The small details matter. That this ring was hand-hammered. That these candlesticks were poured by someone working out of their apartment in Berlin. That this textile pattern was passed down through three generations of women.
We are narrative creatures. We need context. And when the context is rich, the thing becomes more than the thing. It becomes a portal—into a place, a history, a person, a feeling.
Design and art are often talked about as forms of expression. But they’re also forms of communication. Someone made this. Someone thought it mattered. Someone sent it into the world hoping it would resonate with someone else. When it does, it’s a kind of quiet magic.
So much of this project is about paying attention to the details—and one of the most powerful details is why something exists in the first place. What’s the story stitched into its seams? What hands did it pass through? And what does it carry with it now?
It’s not about glorifying the handmade in some twee or moralistic way. It’s about noticing when something carries intention. When it was made with care. When it holds meaning beyond itself. At the end of the day, the story is the thing. And the things we love most are usually the ones that can talk back.
This week’s goodies: Objects with stories baked in—hand-touched, heart-held, and full of quiet meaning. A celebration of pieces that feel like they’ve lived a life before finding you.
Next week: We begin a new series on materiality—uncovering the histories, symbolism, and tactile power of the materials that shape our world.
