The Beginning
In 2016, I received the acceptance offer of my dream school - the Design Academy of Eindhoven’s master program. It’s a school where they design design. At the time, I was working for a creative agency in Shanghai, as an Art Director for mostly French and Japanese luxury brands. Feeling something was lacking and that the projects were too commercial, I longed for getting my hands dirty with clay, wood, fibres and other materials. I wanted to deconstruct, experiment and create in space rather than on a computer screen. However, due to many reasons, I deferred the acceptance offer for a year and started traveling.
In one year, with a backpack and a tent, I roamed around the world through more than 15 countries. From utopian communities in south of India - Auroville, to the mothership of eco-villages of the globe in northern Scotland - Findhorn. I saw how differently life could be imagined and lived. I sat by the Ganges under full moon light, listening to classical Indian music for the first time. Lived with hardcore hippies for a month in the mountains of Pyrenees on the border of Spain and France experiencing raw food diet for the first time. Hitch-hiked around Japan and slept in parks like a vagabond and woke up to the deers of Nara for the first time. First times are the best times.
By the second year I had dropped the idea of going to study Dutch Design, as famous, elitist, and prestigious looking as they seemed on the international design scene. It had become irrelevant as my world stretched infinitely wider. I packed all the preciously collected inspirations, porcelain shards, cashmere coat and vintage Chanel shoes in one suitcase, left it at a friend’s place in China, and continued traveling.
The Nomadic Problem
Almost seven years later, I remembered about this suitcase - by this time I have about 3 suitcases at different friend’s place in different places of the world. This is a nomadic problem. I traveled with a backpack and worked sometimes as a bilingual translator and sometimes with design on a laptop. It was the time before the term “Digital Nomad” was coined, and became so popular.
I met many fellow long-term travelers that I learned and shared experiences with, from American/Italian acupuncturist on the road, to Japanese musician and Shakuhachi maker, to Buddhist French yoga instructor in Thailand. We exchanged stories and life learnings. We laughed and cooked together, took walks on the beach, and made fire in the woods.
Nomads lived different lifestyles, but we all had to deal with one problem - physical stuff. The usual solution is to store at friends’ or family’s place, or pay for space at a storage unit. But you know what happens when you store stuff? It just becomes a burden and you barely remember the contents inside the boxes. If you don’t use it, you forget it. A friend recently had to travel back to California from Bali, just to clear her storage unit. She called it a “great purge”.
Transcending Materiality
One of the most memorable stories I had about stuff or materiality was when I hitch-hiked in Japan in Kyushu. A man stopped on the highway, by my badly written cardboard sign and picked me up. He was going to drop me off once we arrived, but being polite, or maybe a bit concerned, he invited me to stay at his house for the night. It was a traditional Japanese house that belonged to his brother-in-law who had passed away. His sister had an accident and is now lying in the hospital. He had become the heir of the house.
To my surprise, the interiors looked like a total mess - things were everywhere, like it had just been raided. Traditional paintings still hung on the walls, and one could easily imagine its former elegance. I saw a huge collection of magazines on Ikabana 華道 (the art of flower arrangement) on the shelves, and asked about it. The man, with his limited English and the combination of Kanji writings, explained that the previous owner was an Ikabana artist. His sister, the wife of the artist, naturally had a huge collection of kimonos. It takes about a year to make a fine kimono, the colors and patterns resonate with the changing season it’s worn. I carefully and slowly opened the washi paper to unveil each kimono, and admired their beauty in a room that looked like a garbage dump. I visualised the elegant life this lady must have had with her husband. Then one day, a slip in the bathtub, she is now in a coma on the hospital bed. “She can’t take any of these beautiful things that she has collected all her life with her when she passes,” I thought.
In the kitchen cabinets too, beautiful pottery pieces for all kinds of dishes, soup bowls, made in Arita or other famous pottery places of Japan. I asked the man what he will do with all these beautiful objects? “Throw away” he said, my heart cringed. He seemed to be more into golfing, as I noticed maybe 40+ golf clubs in this house. The contrast of the beauty and chaos had put me into shock and dismay about the beauty of objects or materiality in general, and the meaninglessness of collecting stuff.
Coming Home
Few days ago, I finally went to pick up the first suitcase I had stored. It was located at a friend’s rock climbing storage base in Yunnan. A premier place for traditional rock climbing sport named Li Ming 黎明 (meaning Dawn in English). It’s not hard to tell where the place got it’s name from. The huge sandstone walls rise straight up facing east. At dawn, first rays of sun hitting the rocks would make the hues of reds and oranges even brighter. It was breathtaking views. Being at an elevation of high 2000s meters, the air was thin, crisp, and cool. Refreshing and clear, are the words that would describe my feelings of being there.
We went to pick up this mysterious suitcase. Driving down a bumpy dirt road, we arrive at the storage room, where some rock climbing supplies are held. From the very back corner of the room where it had been untouched for many years collecting dust, my friend lifted out the suitcase for me. He jokingly commented that I must have gold bars in there, that it’s so heavy. I replied that he should keep it for his retirement, and we both laughed.
So finally, I opened the suitcase after reaching home. The contents felt strange and familiar, seeing one’s past life in a time capsuled suitcase. I unpacked the contents layer by layer, opened note books with old sketches, unfolded clothes, wiped clean a pair of boots. Oh, a SLR Nikon camera with a big aperture lens, who knew!
Unfortunately, there were no gold bars in there, only books and more books. Then at the bottom a silk kimono that I had been gifted by that man in Kyushu. I picked it because it had some patches on the interior of the Kimono - the owner must’ve loved this one, I thought at the time.
Reflecting again on materiality or stuff, I felt appreciative of all the beautiful objects again. Looking back at how far I had come, through my journey and personal development, I realised that enjoyment without attachment may be the right attitude!
Words by: Arupa Song
Most images: Arupa Song
