The humble toothpick has its own anonymous history, write Machiko Niimi and Gavin O'Brien.
‘‘For the historian there are no banal things.'' So wrote architectural critic Siegfried Giedion in his highly influential text of 1948: Mechanization Takes Command: A Contribution to Anonymous History.
Giedion's text was remarkable because it ran completely counter to the dominant mode of design history thinking at the time, when selected artefacts (and designers) were routinely venerated in an art-historical manner.
Instead, Giedion argued for a new kind of historiography, one that dealt with ‘‘humble things, things not usually granted earnest consideration, or at least not valued for their historical import''. These, he suggested, are every bit as vital to our appreciation of our designed environment, as are the gallery objects of great status and beauty in all their elevated cultural kudos.
In the decades that followed, more and more scholars took up Giedion's call for accounts of ‘‘anonymous history'', notably Henry Petroski, who published his 450-page tome, The Pencil, in 1989 and followed this up in 2007 with a slightly less weighty study of the cultural and technological significance of the toothpick.
Preceding Petroski by a few years, the late British design historian John Heskett used the example of a traditional Japanese toothpick to explain how such a disposable everyday artefact can be imbued with a surprising degree of cultural significance despite its primary function as a utilitarian artefact. For Heskett, this toothpick is a perfect illustration of a designed artefact exhibiting the dual qualities of utility (usefulness) and significance (meaning).
The toothpick he discusses is a simply formed wooden skewer-like form, sharpened at one end and detailed with two turned incisions at the other.
Once the toothpick has been used (its utility function), the diner snaps off the turned end and places it on the table surface where it provides a support for the used toothpick.
As well as signalling that the toothpick has been used, this ensures that the used end that has been in contact with the mouth does not touch the table surface, as this is considered to be a cultural indiscretion in polite company. It is this kind of meaning embedded in the way that we use things that Heskett considers gives them their cultural significance.
In discussing Heskett's example with some young Japanese in 2008, they looked more than a little bewildered at this revelation and informed me that it may well have been a custom among older Japanese, but that it was certainly unknown to them. Instead, these interviewees regarded the turned end of the toothpick simply as a decorative treatment of no particular significance.
Regardless of this apparent loss of meaning to contemporary young Japanese, this form of toothpick is still widely available in Japan, where Suraya, the country's only dedicated toothpick manufacturer, has been making toothpicks for more than 300 years.
In a subsequent discussion with design students, a Korean student volunteered a particularly interesting example of a toothpick from her homeland, one that revealed another quite different nuance of significance.
At first inspection the translucent green toothpick that she provided (also sharpened at only one end) appeared to be made from some form of plastic. Not so, she explained, instead identifying the material as coloured cornstarch. Was this a less expensive option than a wooden toothpick or possibly a more sustainable product as my students suggested?
Neither of these two speculations, however, was correct. The answer lay in farming. Pig farming to be precise.
In Korea, it is common for scrap food from restaurants to be collected for stock feed for such farms. Used toothpicks frequently end up as part of the food and in their wooden form can penetrate a pig's gut and lead to its death.
By contrast, however, cornstarch toothpicks rapidly absorb moisture as soon as they become part of the scrap food, and the more so if they enter a pig's digestive system. This causes them to become soft and rubbery, thereby eliminating the risk of injury.
Copious examples of similar national variations in the design of toothpicks (and other ‘‘utilitarian'' artefacts) can be easily found, but even today, one still hears the hoary old functionalist design mantra ‘‘form follows function'' trotted out as an essential underpinning of good design. But, as these examples make clear, the function of even the simplest of our everyday products cannot be limited to merely quantitative considerations.
That our products ‘‘work'' is the least they can do.
• Gavin O'Brien and Machiko Niimi will be presenting on this topic at the International Food Design Conference and Studio to be held at Otago Polytechnic in June.
