On a recent trip to Berlin, I stumbled across the Museum Der Dinge. Tucked away on a courtyard off the hipster strip of Oranienstrasse, the Museum of Things is pretty much what it says on the tin. Whereas other museums and galleries in the city celebrate grand ouvres, breathtaking masterpieces and contemporary, complex art with a capital A, the Museum of Things presents a series of cabinets filled with objects amassed from over a century; a collection of chairs, biscuit tins, telephones, sex toys and everything in between. It is hard to explain why such a collection is worth viewing, let alone curating, but the answer lies somewhere in the German fascination with kitsch.
Kitsch is actually a German word, originally used to describe cheap and popular art – and though it has been appropriated to describe anything vaguely twee or tacky, the classist notions of the term prevail. It is used to separate work which is deemed ‘good’ and tasteful by those who currently hold the power to decide, from that which is ‘tasteless’. The main criteria for something being kitsch, it would appear, is that it is appealing to the masses. A large pre-framed Ikea print of the Eiffel Tower is kitsch, and so is pretty much anything with a Union Jack on it. Hawaiian shirts are kitsch. Picture postcards. Anything that anyone has ever worn on Eurovision. Fridge magnets/wall hangings/cross-stitch masterpieces with quotes about cats/wine/life/lemons.
The art critics who invented and employ the term kitsch did so in order to create some kind of distinction between the everyday, and what they considered to be worthy of the title of ‘art’ or even ‘good design’. This didactic approach to taste has endured for generations, and the kitsch-shaming principles of Adolf Loos’ ‘Ornament is Crime’ and Walter Benjamin’s ‘Art in the age of mechanical reproduction’ are still used as guidelines for design students across the western world. Yet the ideas of ‘truth to materials’ and ‘aura’ are relevant only when one can afford the finest materials, original works and has the cultural capital to understand what these are. The aesthetic philosopher Robert Scruton said that “Kitsch is fake art, expressing fake emotions, whose purpose is to deceive the consumer into thinking he feels something deep and serious.” Yet I would argue the opposite. Sure, those fortunate enough to have witnessed the work of Picasso, or Hockney, or Raphael in the flesh will attest to their breathtaking beauty, and in the right circumstances good art has the power to be incredibly moving. But what we surround ourselves with on a day to day basis can be a lot more significant. I don’t remember the first time I went to a gallery, but I do remember the collection of postcards my grandparents kept, reproductions of crude oil paintings mostly featuring curvy women drinking wine. I thought they were brilliant. I remember the lava lamp my parents kept in the living room when I was younger. I remember the Great Barrier Reef poster my godfather brought back from Australia which now hangs in our bathroom, and it reminds me of him every time I look at it.
To return to the Museum of Things, I think what made it so special was exactly what it has been criticised for. It is largely a celebration of the ordinary. Of the everyday objects which people chose to decorate their homes, and which came to represent them as a result. It is a celebration of life, which is too short to spend in a cold, sleek, soulless environment.
Not many of us can afford fine art in our homes, but everyone can indulge in a bit of kitsch – and as the embroidered work on my Nana’s kitchen wall states, when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.
