the same time being a means. That is meditation on life and its meaning.
To stand off from life and to view its follies, its foibles, and its
inconsistencies, its pathos, its humor, to see all sides of it--this is
one of the joys of mere living. Perhaps the best time for this is during
a walk in town, and it is the chance to see life that can change a
constitutional upon city pavements from a means to life to a part of
life itself. He who is too busy with the machinery of life to get a
chance to look upon life itself, as upon a drama, loses half the joy of
living.
To stretch the muscles, to breathe deeply, to feel the blood circulate
rapidly, to feel the wind blowing in one’s face, to love and to express
love, to stand off and see life from afar--these are joys for which it
is worth while to simplify the machinery of life.
MORE BEAUTY FOR ALL
We all seek beauty. We want the beauty of form and of color which
appeals to the eye, but we want also the greater beauties which, because
they belong, not to material, but to immaterial things, make their
appeal to the conscience and to the intellect, rather than to the
senses. We want the beauties of lives in harmony with their physical and
their social environment.
Esthetics is the philosophy of beauty. A narrow conception of its
province makes it concern itself exclusively with the beauties of
material things. A broader and better conception brings into its
province all beauties, including those of life and of character and of
harmonious human relations.
Home Economics, like Esthetics, finds a large part of its interest in
material things. The objects of its concern, the common articles of
every-day use, such as chairs, tables, beds, and bureaus, present the
beauty problem in many, if not all, of its phases. Being material, they
are capable of beauty of outline and color. Being tools for the
expression of the tastes of their owner or user, and for the
satisfaction of his desires, they are capable of giving to his life the
beauty of harmony with its material surroundings. Being made and sold
and oftentimes cared for by others than the user, they are capable of
giving beauty by bringing his life into accord and into sympathetic
relations with other lives. There are, then, places where Home Economics
and Esthetics overlap.
As there is a narrow and also a wide view of Esthetics, so there is a
narrow and also a wide view of Home Economics. The former makes it deal
exclusively with the details of household management; the latter makes
its chief concern the problem of the adjustment, through home life, of
the individual to society.
Where Home Economics and Esthetics, considered in their restricted
senses, meet, we have a field of inquiry legitimate in itself, but
fearfully liable to suffer by losing connection with life and with vital
interests. This common ground we call the art of House Decoration. It
concerns itself with the form, color, and ornamentation of articles of
house furnishing and with the problem of so arranging them as to please
the eye.
But House Decoration is not the only common ground between Home
Economics and Esthetics. Considered broadly, the two subjects present an
overlapping territory coextensive almost with life itself. On this
field, which no one has ever named, there present themselves for
investigation not only the finer articles of household utility--the
furniture, the curtains, and the draperies--but also the meaner and
commoner articles--the pots, even, and the pans. Each one of these
demands to be studied, not only with reference to its power to give
esthetic satisfaction through the sight, but also with reference to its
fitness to serve the purpose for which it was created, with reference to
its usefulness in the particular life with which it is associated, and
with reference to the possibility of there being anything in the
circumstances of its manufacture or sale or in the conditions of its
care--anything of injustice or oppression--which has the power to
destroy the beauty of the life of the user by throwing it out of harmony
with that of the maker, or of the seller, or of the caretaker.
The desire to make home beautiful we have always with us. At times it
gets planted where it can draw nourishment only from that part of the
field of Household Decoration which is not only narrow, but, because it
is cut off from connection with life, is shallow also. Planted there
where there is no deepness of earth it sprouts with fearful rapidity.
Many housekeepers seem to have planted it in such spots about the middle
of the last century. The result was a prodigious growth--three sets of
curtains in every window, sofa pillows upon which no one was ever
allowed, and no one ever wished to lay his head, grill work for
archways, plaques, and sometimes even embroidered banners and painted
tambourines to hang upon the wall. At intervals, fortunately, new
fashions arose and turned their blazing rays full on these marvelous
growths, and because they were not rooted in utility they withered away
and were sent to the junk shop or were given to the poor. The soil was
then ready for another crop.
But better times came. Great thinkers and teachers and artists,
including the founders of the Arts and Crafts movement, began to concern
themselves with the beauty of the common things of life--with the
_lesser_ arts. They taught people to consider in the selection of house
furnishings, not only color and form and design, but also the welfare of
the maker and the possibilities of his development through his work.
They suggested that even the seller, the cleaner, and the caretaker
should be considered. Those who listened to their teachings and followed
their example learned to plant deep the desire for beauty in material
surroundings; and because they knew that they had much to learn and many
lives to consider, they adopted a form of house furnishing whose chief
characteristic was simplicity. It was a tiny growth which was put forth
by those who had caught the spirit of the Arts and Crafts movement, but
it was sturdy, and in time it grew large enough to attract the attention
even of the thoughtless. They, being ever ready for something new,
looked upon the material output of the Arts and Crafts Societies, and,
failing entirely to appreciate the spirit lying back of the work, seized
upon simplicity as an end in itself.
The result was another prodigious growth of house furnishings, this time
very simple ones. Thus simplicity, which in the mind of William Morris
stood for sincerity and for beauty of life, became a mockery, being
manifested only in the outward form and finish of articles that had been
made under conditions that had crushed out life and hope and had damaged
character. There probably never was a greater travesty on a righteous
movement than much of the stuff now sold as “Arts and Crafts” furniture.
And so _simplification_ has become the motto of the unthinking as well
as of the thinking, and is at present the butt of the ridicule of the
funny man, and threatens to become as much of a stumbling-block to the
mind, if not to the feet, as the passion for decoration was a few years
ago. For this reason it seems fitting, in a series of articles which
deal with the home problem in relation to the problem of more life for
all, to inquire whether simplification can be the means of expanding
life by increasing beauty.
The greatest stumbling-block, perhaps, which simplification has laid in
our way is the temptation to think of it as an end in itself. This it
never is and never can be. The flowers, with their bewildering
complexity of structure; the birds, with their brilliant plumage; the
cathedrals of the Old World, with their elaborate ornamentation, laugh
at the very suggestion. I may take down curtains, because by so doing I
can sit in the house and watch the clouds float by, or lie in bed and
look at the stars, or get time to make excursions to see the sun set
over the lake or the moon rise; but that does not necessarily mean that
life would not be richer with both the curtains and the natural
beauties. I may, feeling that I am not educated in form and in the
principles of ornamentation, buy a table with straight and absolutely
plain legs, because I know that such a table fulfills the first law of
beauty for articles of utility, that of fitness to purpose, and because
I prefer not to trust my judgment further; but that does not mean that a
table of some other form and more ornate might not serve its purpose as
well and be more pleasing to the eye. I may select one kind of pottery
in preference to another infinitely more beautiful in form and finish
and decoration, because I know that by buying the first I give some one
a chance to express himself and to gain happiness and development
through work, while by buying the second I am simply putting money into
the pocket of some one who is exploiting for gain the talents of others.
In each one of these cases the simplification was not an end in itself,
but the result of recognizing and accepting a limitation, arising in one
case from lack of time and energy, in another from lack of knowledge, in
another from unjust social conditions.
Since real, true, purposeful simplification involves self-sacrifice, no
person may force it upon another. Each person must decide for himself,
in the light of the conditions of his own life, how much of the beauty
which appeals to the eye he ought to sacrifice for the greater beauties
of harmony and social justice. One may, however, remind another that
simplification may bring with it beauties of form, of color, and of
design, as well as those of lives in harmony with their social
environment.
Simplification in manner of life, in dress, and in house furnishings may
bring the greatest of all material beauties--that of the human form. One
of the most melancholy sights in the world is that of a sallow, wizened
lady, befrizzled and befurbelowed. When that same woman is set down amid
the bric-a-brac which has helped to wear her out, the sight becomes
pathetic as well as melancholy. One cannot help wondering what the
effect would be if such a woman should wear plain gowns and dispose of
the bric-a-brac, and spend the time saved in lying out in the fresh air,
and the saved money on eggnogs and cream and cocoa and other easily
digested, fattening foods. It is probable that if the modern
tuberculosis cure in all of its details respecting rest and fresh air
and sunlight and food should be taken for six months by all the women
who could take it without sacrificing more than the purchase of a spring
suit or a pair of curtains, the world’s supply of beauty in the form of
bright eyes and pink cheeks and rounded figures would be increased ten
and possibly a hundredfold.
The increase of enjoyment of the beauties of nature which comes with
reduction of care has been spoken of so often that in spite of its
importance it need not be again mentioned here. The reduction of care is
not the only way in which simplification brings natural beauty, however.
Plain, uncarved woodwork and furniture reveal the natural beauties of
the wood. Unpolished surfaces make it possible to have plants here,
there, everywhere, on window sills or tables, wherever they can be most
often seen and most easily cared for.
Next, simplification may lead to increase in the beauty of house
furnishings themselves. If we go through the house and challenge every
article to prove that it is worthy of its care--worthy to be taken down
and dusted three hundred and sixty-five times every year or fifty-two
times, as the case may be--and dispose of all those which do not pass
muster, thus getting down to rock bottom in our possessions, there are
likely to be two results. The first will be the revelation of the
uglinesses of the rock bottom; the second will be time to learn how to
beautify it. And beauty in the rock bottom--in floors and walls and in
necessary furniture--is very little trouble to care for, and frequently
destroys the craving for superficial decorations. By the use of all
sorts of ornaments we have blinded ourselves to the possible structural
beauty of a room, a beauty due to proportion, and to the proper placing
of openings, and of the necessary fixtures. Most of us need time to
study good architectural forms, and some of us can get that time only by
relieving ourselves of the care of knickknacks.
Sometimes the removal of one article of questionable beauty will bring
to light others that may be the source of esthetic enjoyment. A table
crowded in among other pieces of furniture and covered with a cloth may
be ugly without any one’s being the wiser. If we uncover it and make it
stand out in bold relief its ugliness will come to light. Under these
circumstances, however, we may discover that its outlines are really
beautiful, but are spoiled by machine-turned trimmings. A little
judicious use of a saw or a plane, a little attention to the finish, and
we may have a thing of real beauty.
Finally, simplification gives us time to study the conditions under
which the articles in use in our home are made, sold, cared for, and
cleaned; and the willingness to have few things may make it possible to
know that those we have were made under conditions that favored the
health and happiness of the maker, and that those who care for them are
neither overworked nor under-paid. In the light of this knowledge the
barest and plainest of houses appears beautiful, because it becomes the
expression of harmony between the life within and the life without.
Simplification, then, though not an end to be sought for itself alone,
may be the means of elaborating life by increasing the beauty of the
human body, by bringing in the beauties of nature, by inspiring us to,
and giving us time for, the study of the principles of true art, and by
bringing our lives into sympathetic relations with other lives.
MORE PLEASURE FOR THE PRODUCER OF HOUSEHOLD STUFF
More pleasure for the producer of household stuff! And who is he or she?
_He_ used to be the village cabinet maker at work in a little shop, with
a few friends, making furniture for his neighbor’s use. _She_ used to be
the housewife working at home, with her daughters, at spindle or at
loom, making tablecloths and napkins, bed furnishings, and carpets for
use in her own family. Now the cabinet maker, having deserted his little
shop, has moved up to town and become an employee in a great
manufacturing establishment; and the housewife, having ceased entirely
from producing, is trying to content herself with buying and with using.
The producer of household stuff today is neither housewife nor village
cabinet maker, but a factory “hand.”
The producer of old had pleasures of which the producer of the present
knows not. He had the quiet and safety and healthfulness of a small
shop. He had common interest with fellow-workers and apprentices in
village politics or in church affairs. Best of all, perhaps, there was a
personal quality in his work, because it was done for friends or for
acquaintances, and an ever present sense of its importance, because it
met needs which he had seen and recognized and which his own manner of
life, similar to that of the consumer and on the same social plane,
prepared him to understand. He had, for example, possibly known for
months that his neighbor was saving money with which to hire him to make
the chest of drawers upon which he was working, and there was a zest and
a delight in his labor because he knew just how much she needed the
piece of furniture, just where it was to stand, and just what purpose it
was to serve. The favorable conditions of the work, the pleasant
surroundings, the personal quality of labor, the feeling of its direct
usefulness, were intensified in case of the housewife who worked in her
own house with and for those she loved.
Now conditions are different. The factory hand spends his working day in
a great, dingy shop, with the maddening din of machinery in his ears.
His associates are strangers, with whom he has little or nothing in
common besides his work. He labors for an indefinite, far-away consumer
whose manner of life is unknown to him. He has with this consumer
neither the fellow-feeling which comes from sharing life in the same
community, nor its only substitute, the ability which comes from broad
education and from travel to project one’s self in imagination across
space and to put one’s self in the place of a stranger and to realize
his needs.
The industrial changes which have taken from the producer a large part
of his pleasure in work have not, of course, been without their
compensating advantages. Of these the chief, perhaps, has come to the
housewife, and consists in the opportunity to buy, ready made and at low
cost, most of the articles which it used to be necessary for her to make
at home. This advantage, with its corollary, increased leisure, comes
to her, however, in her capacity as consumer and not in that of
producer. When we consider the amount of pleasure which it is possible
to derive from one’s own useful, well-directed labor, compared with that
which comes from buying and using the results of other people’s work, we
know that the permanent substitution of the consumer’s advantage for the
producer’s joy in labor cannot be a part of progress. If the world is to
move forward, the consumer’s leisure, which is the chief advantage of
the present system of production, must be made the means of restoring
the maker’s pleasure in his work.
Without attempting to analyze all the changes which resulted in the
worker’s present hapless condition, it may be said that the loss of his
joy in labor was directly due to loss of sympathy between him and the
consumer of his wares. This loss of sympathy was in turn due to a
separation which was partly physical and partly spiritual. The physical
separation took place when the producer went to live in a factory town
or in a city district devoted to manufacturing interests, and when the
consumer sought refuge in a suburb or in a city district boasting of its
freedom from factories. Ignorance on the part of each of the daily life
and needs of the other was the inevitable consequence of this form of
separation. The separation in spirit took place when the world divided
itself sharply into two groups--brain workers, on the one hand, who
joined themselves with the leisure classes to form a consuming public;
and manual laborers, on the other, who assumed all the handwork of
production. With the difference in the character of work and the loss of
common interests and aims which followed this division, there came an
estrangement more profound than that which mere distance has power to
effect.
If the producer is again to have delight in his work, sympathy between
him and the consumer must be restored. This will never take place so
long as the latter contents himself with good-natured, patronizing
expression of interest. The two must again know the fellow-feeling which
can come only from sharing a common life, common associations, and
common aspirations.
At present, when the workers are huddling themselves together around the
factories, and the buyers and users are withdrawing themselves to
country homes, while part of the consuming public is actively hostile to
the welfare of the producer, while another part is indifferent, and
while still another part, though neither hostile nor indifferent, is
handicapped by poverty and the pressure of daily needs, and almost
compelled to buy commodities in the cheapest market, without reference
to the conditions of their production, it seems idle to talk about
restoring sympathy. And yet, in spite of the apparent hopelessness of
the present situation, there is an occasional promising sign which
points to a better state of things in the future.
Encouragement lies not so much in what has already been accomplished as
in certain conditions and circumstances which provide that ever happy
and hopeful combination, the will and the way. The will is shown in the
growing disposition of the home-maker, who of all consumers exercises
greatest control over the producer, to assume responsibility not only
for the one who labors in her kitchen or sewing room, but also for the
one who works for her in the far-off factory. The way has already
appeared in the rough in the form of leisure, and it is interesting to
note that certain changes which are taking place in society are
smoothing out the path and giving the home-maker a fair chance of
accomplishing something when she chooses to devote her leisure to the
effort to restore sympathetic relations between the makers and the users
of household stuff.
The first condition of sympathy is knowledge. The housekeeper used to
get acquainted with the one who made the articles in use in her home
naturally and in the course of her ordinary daily occupations. Now she
can get acquainted only by an effort independent of her regular work.
This effort must usually take the form of reading and study. Here, of
course, is where the advantage of her new-found leisure appears, but
even the desire to learn and the time in which to learn would avail
little if it were not for the fact that the means of securing
information are continually improving. The student of social conditions
has come out of his library and is living among men as well as among
books. He is going down where the industrial war is being waged most
fiercely, and is gaining at first hand knowledge concerning the toiling
masses. The information thus secured he is giving to the public partly
through his college class work. There was a time, even after colleges
were opened to girls, when knowledge so given would have been
unavailable for the housekeeper. Now no one is ever too old to go to
school, and no one feels out of place in school. But the woman who
cannot take systematic courses in economics and sociology still has a
chance to learn. She can get information by residence in settlements,
from books and periodicals, and through summer assemblies and university
extension lectures. Thus the will which is manifested in a quickened
social conscience is finding the way in improved methods of spreading
information.
It is not, however, enough for the consumer to know the producer. The
latter also must have opportunity to get acquainted with the world for
which he labors. If he is to feel the usefulness of his work he must
have a good general education and a broad outlook. These no boy or girl
has at the age of ten or even fourteen, and few are able to obtain if
taken from school at that early age. The years of childhood must, as
Mrs. Kelley says, “be held sacred to the work of education and free from
the burden of wage-earning.” A second hopeful sign of the times lies in
the fact that women are uniting in the effort to extend and to enforce
laws against child labor and in favor of compulsory education, and are
striving to improve the public school system and to adapt it to the
needs of the children of those whom we call “the working classes.”
But if children are to become intelligent and joyful workers they must
have good physical and mental and moral inheritance and good home care.
They must have healthy and wise mothers. Among the means of producing
such mothers we may not include night work in factories for women and
girls, nor long hours of day work, nor even short hours at certain
harmful and dangerous occupations. The investigations which are being
made in the United States at present into the conditions of women’s work
are most significant. To encourage such investigations and the
legislation for the protection of future mothers, which will inevitably
follow, is as much the duty of the home-maker as to provide a
comfortable room for her household helper. Her home profits by the work
of women in factories quite as much as it does by that of domestic
servants.