There’s an informative piece on the history of IKEA in last week’s New Yorker.  I love their noisy, labyrinthine stores.  I appreciate their mission to bring good design to the masses.  I’ve specified their cabinets for interior remodels.  And I’m dazzled by their skill at knocking-off iconic pieces.  (Is It IKEA or Is It Mid-Century Modern?)  But there’s something in the piece that makes me pause.  IKEA has changed the definition of furniture.

“Furniture” used to be big, important things we bought once in a lifetime and passed on to others.  Now “furniture” is flat-packed, somewhat important things we switch out every few years.  Though IKEA has taken steps to green itself, like discontinuing incandescent bulbs, they’re essentially manufacturing million of temporary beds, sofas, and tables, shipping them to all ends of the earth, and distributing them in immense, new shops built in places one needs to drive to.  The new IKEA-inspired attituded about home decor is perfectly in step with shifting notions of home and family.  But it leaves no room for craft.  What if each of us had a dining table that was a singular, substantial piece, something we saved for, selected carefully, and cared for?  It might make a more beautiful home.