I collect chairs. I also collect art—and, yes, paperweights—so it may be fair to say I’m a collector of collections. Chairs, though, are the most versatile of the things I live with. They’re portable architecture: structure and space translated to the scale of a single body. You don’t just look at a chair; you rest upon it. It asks how you want to sit, and by extension, how you want to live.
Chairs hold so much: engineering, craft, materials science, ergonomics, and culture. A chair is a time capsule. Bentwood explains steam and curve; tubular steel speaks to industry and speed; molded plywood and fiberglass (hello, Eames!) tell the story of wartime research becoming domestic comfort. Each technique solves a problem—and each solution becomes a style.
Chairs also carry meanings beyond function. A throne declares power; a rocking chair suggests care; a café chair proposes community. The Eames molded chair democratized good design—lightweight, adaptable, scalable. That matters to me. I want objects that widen the circle.
My collection spans a few eras: some historical pieces with stories etched into their joinery, and a set of mid-century Eames molded chairs that still convey what I imagine the optimism and thrill they evoked when Ray and Charles first shared them with the world. There’s also a Shigeru Ban cardboard tube chair/bench—a small reminder that humble materials can carry brave ideas. I don’t collect for rarity alone. I collect for proof: a chair should prove an idea about how bodies and rooms meet. It might be the poise of a back rail, the honesty of a joint, or the way a seat invites conversation rather than performance. I love when design is both intelligent and kind.
I live with my chairs. They aren’t museum pieces behind ropes; they’re places for morning matcha, long calls, meditation, reading, and simply staring into space. Use is critical. Sitting reveals everything you can’t see in a photograph: the give of a seat, the angle of a back, the quiet of a well-resolved detail. A collection really becomes yours when it moves from the eye to the mind to the soul.
When I choose a chair, I ask simple questions:
In the end, I collect chairs because they are generous. They make space for company and for solitude. They keep you grounded and invite you to look. They hold our bodies and, quietly, our values. And every so often, a chair becomes more than a seat; it becomes a reminder that design, at its best, is simply care made visible.
