So often we choose the new. We are almost tyrannized by it. We are constantly assaulted by advertising across all forms of media, in ever more creative ways, with the sole intent to make us drop what we already have in favor of purchasing something new. Implicit is the presumption that the new will satisfy us in ways that the current does not. It is a presumption that we rarely question.

There are certain things where newness does equate with greater quality. With technology for instance -- especially our current computer technology -- the new is often demonstrably better than something even just a few years older. It may be costly to replace these items, but we do so frequently nonetheless as they add significant value. Old technology may be kept around and appreciated, but often only for romantic or nostalgic reasons.

In the terms of accounting, these items depreciate. The default assumption is that in fact most things depreciate. But what if we gave ourselves over to the opposite assumption, that most things appreciate? This is not so impossible to conceive. We already know that many things appreciate over time, such as fine wine. I mean more than this though. I am suggesting a shift of view where things appreciate not just by gaining greater quality, but instead by gaining a dew of character which we might value with equal vigor.

I am thinking now of a simple unfired earthen brick wall I recently saw in Marfa at a Donald Judd complex. To some eyes the wall may never be lovely, and in its eventual decay it might seem to become even less so. But my eyes saw a beautiful wall. Further, this wall I believed would actually gain beauty with its decay. I could imagine maintaining it over the years as the rain and the wind took its toll until I would eventually need to replace it, and I would be dismayed since I knew that any replacement would be inferior. Looked at in this way, the loss is significant because the object cannot be replaced easily. Objects are not the same when they are new, they are not as wonderful. Or perhaps they are wonderful when new, but a different type of wonderful. Then they become something yet again with age, and this is something even more wonderful, because it is no longer just a thing at inception but a thing that encompasses so much unforeseen and unintended "else" in its presence.

Your favorite jeans or broken-in boots, the burnished kettle, a worn-out blanket -- all these things wear and are presumed less valuable over time. But for those who live with them this is not so. They become the items beloved and their eventual replacement dreaded or even mourned. These objects may be beloved because they carry memories, or because they have been shaped by use to be one with the owner. But they are as often beloved simply because they have gained character, a character which can only be gained with time.

A culture that prized this viewpoint might bear similarities to the tea culture of 16th century Japan. An essay I have read, The Book of Tea by Okakura Kakuzō, highlights many aspects of this culture worth considering, including how the simple everyday object was highly valued in the ceremony and that almost all items save certain linens were banished if they did not bear the prized marks of time. Imagine if we felt the same about everything in our possession. Imagine if we cried more for the thing we were about to lose than were excited for the thing we were about to gain. Imagine if we insisted on quality at the outset, and then prized maintenance, longevity, and elegant decadence thereafter. Imagine if the things we valued the most were not the shiniest, purest, or newest, but the most worn, the most flawed, the eldest. Would we be different people?