Once, during a heatwave, I went to Versailles. I do not remember much about it now, and, to be honest, I did not explore much of it back then. The heat was the kind that made you acutely aware of the sweaty shirt sticking against your back, the kind that dissuaded most palace visitors from straying too far beyond the air-conditioned lobby.

One image of the palace, however, does often bob up through my memories. Dappled by shade and cooled by an oscillating fan, there was a dining room with an oak table dressed up in vermeil candleholders, dinnerware, and cutlery. Of all the rooms in Versailles, it was the most comfortable and the one I spent the most time in.

Aside from myself, this room was also popular amongst the tour guides. I saw the same scene play out several times: a guide stopping just in front of the table, the wave of “oohs” and “aahs” rising from their entourage when they saw the ornate items on the table, and the guide’s self-satisfied smile as they began their lecture on the history of tableware. This story always started in the same way, with the speculation that sticks combined with shells to create spoons and, after skimming through centuries of ingenuity, ended with hands becoming vulgar and the fork becoming the norm. But once it came to presenting the tableware in front of them, I always noticed a dramatic tone shift. The guides saw little ingenuity in Versailles. Instead, its items were spoken alongside with words like “grand” and “flashy” through which the guides implied overtones of opulence and indulgence.

Tableware, they seemed to imply, used to be simple and honest, but, as with all things, wealth has ultimately undermined its true purpose. From the fiddles, threads, and shells that ran along the utensils, they interpreted a story not of how daintily wealth is spent, but how ruthlessly it is procured, and how violently it separates those with and without it. Standing in that room, i would hear bits and pieces about the widespread famines in 1788 just outside Versailles, the nationwide seizure of private silver goods to replenish the royal treasury, and the infamous words Marie Antoinette spoke upon the hungry and the desperate. Rather than a display of power and elegance, Versailles was portrayed as a cautionary tale of how excess and indulgence create abominations.

Tragically, this opinion on luxury remains much the same outside Versailles. The american writer henry james, whose influence is still palpable in modern journalism and writing, said luxury was a “reminder to those concerned of the prohibited degrees of witlessness, and of the peculiarly awkward vengeances of affronted proportion and discretion”. Not too long ago, i saw a woman post about a set of hermes dinnerware, cutlery, and tea cups. Reading the comment section, i found thickets of verbiage that included descriptors like “obscene,” “gross,” “excessive,” “tacky,” and “offensive”. Even those with expensive hobbies, like fashion, golf, or cars, see the cost of a gucci herbarium teapot and start to parrot platitudes such as “people now value status more than art” or “consumerism has gone too far.”

I believe, however, that we can no longer pin this anachronistic reputation on luxury tableware. Hundreds of years have passed since porcelain tureens and silver centerpieces were exclusive to places like versailles. During this time, the palace itself has changed from an autocracy’s symbol of power to a reliable revenue source for a democratic government, and, likewise, designer tableware no longer stands for haughty high society and rococo tastes.

Instead, I believe modern designer flatware hearkens to the idea that everything in life deserves beauty. This fact is evident in many contemporary designer flatware sets, including the iconic one by Arne Jacobsen. Jacobsen’s designs do not lean on opulent materials and embellishments for the sake of being opulent. He chose to work with affordable stainless steel so that his utensils would be accessible–the release of this set in the fifties even popularized flatware’s transition away from expensive materials like silver. His tableware also departs from the excessiveness that the genre is often accused of. Each utensil’s design is simple­—Jacobsen’s goal was to “strip away all superfluous elements” and highlight the beauty inherent to the simple and universal act of eating.

This modern philosophy of designer tableware makes it unmistakably reminiscent of fashion. Fashion hinges on the belief that wearing clothes can breathe rhythm and color into the everyday details of life. Covered in something beautiful, the habitual motions one goes through can suddenly spring alive with drama, symbolism, and significance. The more often one chooses to dress deliberately, the more one begins to see things worth dressing up for.

Likewise, designer utensils aim to elevate the habit of eating into something less mechanical and more meaningful. The regularity with which we eat has frayed our respect for the act of dining. The routine embedded in the act makes it easily characterized as a chore. Designer tableware stands at odds with this belief. What drives designers like arne jacobsen is the desire to direct attention to the beauty overlooked in everyday acts like dining. Their work carries the belief that even small and ephemeral moments hold immense weight.

Perhaps this is a naïve belief. Perhaps it will eventually be overwhelmed by more tangible motivations like money or status. Nonetheless, the kindness in its intention is beautiful. Every detail of our world was passed down to us with care and thought. We would be remiss not to treat it the same. However impractical, however inaccessible, i will always appreciate luxury tableware. Its innocent and idealistic hope—to assure that we respect and value the most seemingly insignificant details of life—is irresistibly endearing to me.

Reach column writer Alan Zeng at musemediauw@gmail.com
Instagram @alanz.eng