Rethinking Work, Reconnecting with the Material World

I’m entering my 23rd year of schooling. For almost 23 consecutive years, I have been enrolled in some type of formal education. At some point soon, there won’t be a higher credential I can achieve. I’m proud of these scholastic accomplishments, which are derived from a constellation of luck, privilege, hard work, and a cerebral disposition. However, my long school career has also recently caused a small crisis within me.

In many ways, I’m a poster child of the new economy. I embody “lifelong learning,” literally, and have become skilled in the management of information. If our economy has become structured around the production of knowledge, my career path has positioned me squarely in America’s emerging “industrial” heartland: research universities. I can speak fluently about data and I am one of those innumerable people in the beltway who can consider consulting legitimate work.

But it’s that last word, work, that troubles me. Most of my work deals with the intangible. I spend hours in front of a computer or talking about abstract things. As a result, I have developed a rather detached relationship with the material world. And, despite the fact that I’m not doing manual labor, I’m inexplicably drained at the end of each work day. I haven’t quite decided if my exhaustion is physical or spiritual. Yet the feeling is unmistakable, and I think the implications can be severe.

Most importantly, I have a feeling that I’m not alone here. Perhaps as I write out some the implications, what I have to say will resonate with you.

1. Matthew Crawford is one of the writers who helped me understand my crisis and crystalized my desire to make a few changes. In Shop Class as Soulcraft, he makes the case for re-discovering what was once weaved into the fabric of American society: making and fixing things. Although I’m very well educated, I have virtually no knowledge of how the things I use daily are made, or how to fix them if they break. This means that I face a common conundrum all the time. Either I pay someone to fix my things, with little knowledge of what the work entails or how much it should cost. Or I buy a new thing. Many companies have come to rely upon the latter choice, purposely designing products to be quickly replaced by people who, like me, are detached from the material world (this one goes out to you, Apple lovers).

2. We tend to think that “knowledge work” is somehow more intellectually demanding and rewarding than skilled work with our hands. At minimum, we valorize occupations that require higher learning and largely accept myriad media messages telling us that manual laborers are stupid or unambitious. Now, I’m not saying that college is a bad idea (read all my other posts), or that so-called “white collar” jobs are over-valued. I’m also not guiltily suggesting that labor is glamorous. Rather, we should realize that there has been a systematic effort to de-intellectualize the trades. One result of this, as Mike Rowe eloquently suggested in his Senate testimony, is that there is a vast skilled labor gap in America. This gap provides true evidence that the knowledge economy may be more rhetorical than real. There are swaths of jobs that require people who can build, weld, and repair. Information technology will never make them obsolete. They will be increasingly in demand.

3. Lastly, the environmental consequences of the previous two points are hard to miss. Consumption is easier if you don’t stop to think about how things are made and don’t bother to fix them. And consumption is the lifeline of our economy. I have written in a previous post about the origins of the recent revitalization of interest in all things “craft,” “local,” and “authentic.” I think it has something to do with a spiritual fullness that comes with reconnecting to real things. The satisfaction that comes from restoring a piece of discarded furniture, making your own beer, or growing your own vegetables isn’t just a social or cultural phenomenon. It is hardwired into our physical constitution. For this reason, a life spent immersed in the intangible will always feel incomplete.

So, what does a 28-year-old who can read, write, and analyze but can’t make or fix anything do to reconnect with the material world? This question has captured my attention for the past 5 months, with no easy answers. At my most extreme moments, I’ve considered telling my doctoral dissertation to “f*ck off” because no one will probably read it in any case. After I collect myself, I try to remember that my professional work is not what defines me—and, truth be told, I’ve mostly enjoyed writing my dissertation, even though its ridiculously abstract. Beyond this reminder, I’ve toyed around with a few ideas that I’m hoping to further explore...

First, I think there are a number of people out there who want to make and fix things. A two-hour conversation with friends convinced me of this. Not exactly a representative sample, but my position stands. There’s actually an entire Maker Movement, although many of its adherents are interested in electronics. The problem is that there are few places to learn how to fix things. Some people would probably argue that you just have to jump in and, with the right amount curiosity, you will learn over time. I can’t dispute this. But I think for many people my age, with a background like mine, it would be far easier if there was a welcoming place dedicated to informal, fun instruction in how to make and fix things. This is especially true of people living in cities, which are rich in bars and jobs, but—let’s face it—more oriented to consuming things than preserving them. I have in my mind a workshop space for re-educating the over-schooled.

Second, on a more personal level, I’ve decided to take a few concrete steps in the hopes that the alleviate some of my crisis. The first is to talk with and learn from makers. They are out there. My dad, for reasons that years ago escaped me, is an expert canner, makes his own sausage and bacon, and has always built from scratch his computers. My father-in-law knows how to lay carpet, tile floors, put a new roof on his house, and do other mundane things that now seem remarkable to me.

The second is to try and fix my things when they break. Seems simple, right? Think about the last time you sat down and actually tried to fix something you own. Chances are, it’s been awhile. Most things are probably beyond my ability to fix—but, at least initially, it’s the effort that counts. I’m trying to salvage and learn, rather than discard and kick the can down the road for future generations.

The third is to not seek out a job that carries undue prestige in this economy—if it’s is not truly, directly helping someone or producing something real, its value, in my mind should be interrogated.

The final thing is to talk about these issues with others. I’ve been trying to raise this topic with other people to gauge if it’s a manifestation of some momentary madness. Regardless, I think the issue merits reflection. Correct me if I’m wrong.

The Craft Craze

All waiting rooms in car repair shops are the same. Outdated sports magazines. Coffee maker with Styrofoam cups. Strange rubber odor. And a television tuned-in to some news channel. My recent trip to a local car repair shop did not disappoint, featuring all requisite elements of the full oil change and tire rotation experience. As I sat, disinterestedly flipping through the pages of a Sports Illustrated circa 2009, I overheard a television segment on the performance of Restoration Hardware in its initial public offering.

The segment included an interview with the CEO of Restoration Hardware, Carlos Alberini, who attributed the success of the company to shifting “up-market”. Whereas competitors responded to the economic recession by slashing prices, Restoration went the other direction, focusing its marketing on expensive furniture consistent with its stylistic mission of providing “authentic” American home goods.

Having walked through Restoration on several occasions and glanced at the price tags hanging from lamps, distressed dressers, and ancient maps, it is hard to imagine there being a huge market for such luxury items. Yet I was reminded on a recent weekend trip that there is demand for products that reflect material authenticity and local craftsmanship—even if they are simply replicas or are made to look “crafted”. The base for this market has widened beyond antiquers, collectors, and snobs. And I believe it will continue to grow as our generation increasingly distances itself from the knowledge needed to actually construct what retailers like Restoration produce en masse.

The Craft Getaway

My wife and I packed our bags a few weeks back for a weekend retreat to Charlottesville, Virginia. We mainly wanted a change of scenery and a chance to soak in the fall colors before they fell to the ground, but we also planned to stop at a few breweries and wineries. Our first stop was for lunch with friends at Blue Mountain Brewery, which was packed from wall to wall with diners and drinkers. Founded in 2007, Blue Mountain has followed in the footsteps of several successful microbrewing operations in the region, structuring their business model around sustainability, local community engagement, and treating beer making like an art form. My friend explained that the original restaurant connected to the brewery was originally quite modest in dimensions. The popularity of the place precipitated a large expansion, which looked to be paying for itself without any issue. On the day we visited, business was booming.

Crowds did not diminish as we ventured out the vineyards. We were greeted at each wine tasting room with large groups of smartly dressed people, all of whom seemed to be visitors to the area. My experience in Charlottesville is but a real-life example of what Restoration and other businesses like it know to be true. There is a consumer craze for all things “craft”, from home furnishings to alcoholic beverages. Since I found myself square in the middle of this craze, I looked inward for possible explanations.

For me, connecting with authentically crafted things is an expression of appreciation. I buy what I cannot create myself but desperately wish that I could. It is true that these things tend to be high quality, well constructed, and tasteful. This makes it easy to justify spending more on them than your run-of-the-mill bookcases and merlots. But the consumer craze for craft fills deeper needs.

We, Knowledge Workers

The reality is that my generation was born into society that does not really manufacture things as it once did. We are outcomes and drivers of the knowledge society, where the primary source of income and economic growth is not what you make, but rather what you know. We are the generation that aspires to be consultants or entrepreneurs in some sense or another. Working comfortably in the realm of ideas, we are highly skilled laborers—on our laptops.

Even as we celebrate our smart phones and relish in our post-secondary education, we inevitably confront the fact that our knowledge is astonishingly specialized and can rarely be applied to creating or fixing real things. We have to find others to fix our cars or remodel our kitchens. Many of these people exist on the margins of the knowledge society, yet remain vital to its functioning. This is not to say that no one in my generation creates anything material, or has zero knowledge applicable to real-world problems. But speaking in generalities, we are beyond a doubt a generation out of touch with tangible things.

The Choice

So we face a choice. We can learn a craft, either as a hobby or as a source of livelihood (if we are willing to assume the risk that accompanies it). Or we can show our appreciation of the authenticity and artistry that goes into making handcrafted goods by whipping out our credit cards. Most of us seem to make the latter choice. The reality is that, unless we can make our craft into a successful business venture like Blue Mountain Brewery, there is a higher value placed on knowing how to edit a website than how to make cabinets. While many of us like to think we are capable of going against the grain and denying economic incentives, we are likely to respond to the version of the good life we inherited.

Our quest for all things crafted will not likely diminish in the coming years. That is, of course, unless we rethink our priorities and recalculate the value assigned to certain skills and ways of knowing. I like to hope that in the future my interaction with craft will not be constrained to items on the shelves of Restoration Hardware. I like to think of a version of myself who can actually make and fix things, instead of a person who merely appreciates these abilities from the sidelines. The out-the-door lines of people in the local wineries and microbreweries of Charlottesville suggest that there may be others out there who feel the same way.