Is there method to the madness of chindōgu?
When I was younger, I remember poring over a flimsy turquoise book of mad Japanese inventions. I imagine that it was gifted to my parents in a strange office Secret Santa or something my brother had picked up when he was bored at the airport. Either way, I became obsessed. As a ten year old, I spent an abnormal amount of time thinking about umbrella hats, chopstick fans, shoe umbrellas (in fact, a lot of concern around protecting various body parts and fashion items from the rain), and butter Pritt Sticks.
Until recently, I didn’t realise there was a word to describe such inventions: chindōgu, from the Japanese word chin 珍 (unusual) and dōgu 道具 (tool). As a term, it refers to the practice of inventing everyday gadgets that are seemingly ingenious but generally impractical or create more problems than they solve. It was coined by Kenji Kawakami in the early 90s, who co-authored the book I was presumably reading as a kid, full of ‘un-useless’ designs that would never hit the mainstream – apart from the ubiquitous selfie-stick that truly did have its moment.
The other day I read a few book reviews, intrigued by how it was received by the general Western population. Words used to describe these inventions: wacky, silly, laughable, confusing, weird. All in all, somewhat unserious. But the thing is, I reckon there's a method to the madness; something we can take from Kawakami’s un-useless inventions, if not the design itself but the playful process of getting there. The approach of considering a human problem and finding a way to solve it. The left-of-field ideas, the sense of experimentation and the act of simply trying. Besides, I think there’s some merit in temporarily removing the overly-intellectualised, cerebral seriousness of design.
Kawakami developed ten key tenets of chindōgu; a manifesto for the un-useless if you will.
Chindōgu cannot be for real use – it’s purposefully impractical.
Chindōgu must exist – you can’t just write it down on a piece of paper. You have to make it.
There must be a spirit of anarchy – they represent freedom of thought and action, and the freedom to challenge the suffocating historical dominance of conservative utility.
Chindōgu are tools for everyday life – they’re are a form of nonverbal communication understandable to everyone.
Chindōgu are not for sale – they’re not tradable commodities. If you accept money for one, you surrender your purity.
Humour must not be the sole reason for creating chindōgu – humour is simply the by-product of finding an elaborate or unconventional solution to a problem.
Chindōgu are not propaganda – they’re not to be used as a political statement for or against any cause philosophy.
Chindōgu are never taboo – cheap sexual innuendo, humour of a vulgar nature, and sick or cruel jokes that debase the sanctity of living things are not allowed.
Chindōgu cannot be patented – they’re offerings to the rest of the world.
Chindōgu are without prejudice – they view all human beings as equal.
We don’t agree with making objects for the sake of impracticality, but there’s some gold dust in these tenets: the idea of creating without boundaries, approaching problems in an unconventional way, the emphasis on bringing an idea into existence no matter how silly, the tangibility of experimentation.
What if chindōgu, for all its impracticalities, offers up a belief that failure can be good and actually lead to innovation? A playful, creative exercise that encourages unusual solutions. A way of challenging the tools and objects we’ve gotten used to. A reason for putting people and social shifts at the centre of design. A way of lightening up the design world.
Just a thought – excuse us while we look into prototyping a shoe brush for the workshop.
