The Trout That Got Away: Why Non-Reproducibility Makes Our Memories (and Our Furniture) More Beautiful

Some mono-color photos in an old photo album
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The fading trout and the father’s denial

When I was a kid, my father often took me fishing in rivers and lakes. One of my most unforgettable memories involves a small, pristine river, where several tiny waterfalls were aligned in a row. As far as my memory is concerned, I fished a massive number of trout in that river!

Oddly enough, my father always denies the existence of such a place. To make matters worse, he insists I never caught such a large amount of fish. Since then, I’ve been fascinated by this psychological phenomenon where our memories are consistently glorified.

I know brain science has already explained the mechanism: we make minor changes every time we recall a memory, and we recall positive memories more frequently, leading to constant “upgrading.” But that explanation is just dry and—frankly—boring (and difficult to connect to our sales story). So, allow me to share my own, more poetic theory.

The philosophy of the irreplaceable moment

My theory is this: We unconsciously recognize that every event happening in our lives is non-reproducible. This inherent understanding—that a moment can never be perfectly replicated—is the true reason for memory glorification.

For instance, suppose you genuinely enjoy a meal at a certain restaurant. Your good impression is rarely based solely on the quality of the food. It’s a miraculous synergy of accidental factors: your physical condition that day, the conversation with your companion, the sunlight streaming through the clean window, the stylish interior of the restaurant, and yes, the perfect preparation of the dish.

Good events are, essentially, miracles resulting from a set of non-reproducible, accidental factors. Because we unconsciously know that such a perfect conjunction of circumstances can never occur again in exactly the same way, we adorably polish up the memory of that good event. The impossibility of its return makes the memory precious.

The image of our headquarters entrance lobby. A huge dining table with six chairs.

The enduring beauty of the one-and-only

In this profound philosophical sense, our products, too, are non-reproducible. Why? Because no two wood materials are ever the same.

A good example is our tables. The surface of the top board is one-and-only, expressive, and special to you. Due to this character unique to natural material, we simply cannot provide exactly the same one as what you saw in the showroom. The table you receive is utterly unique.

This means you are acquiring an object that already possesses the defining feature of a cherished memory: non-reproducibility. I would be truly glad if you could cherish what you receive, knowing that it is not merely a piece of furniture, but a unique partner that is destined to be glorified, just like your best memories.


I confess that in my mind, the fish I caught as a boy have grown to the size of sharks, and the river has become a legendary oasis my father swears never existed. My brain is a master of ‘upgrading’ the past, but I’ve realized that this is only because the best moments in life are non-reproducible. Our Hatsune Miku Art Chair is built on this very philosophy. Because no two pieces of Hokkaido timber are alike, the chair you receive is a one-and-only miracle—a physical partner that is destined to be glorified in your memory. Now, here is a moment you can never replicate: the image below is your unique portal to our special site. If you prefer the boring, ‘reproducible’ world of mass-produced goods, do NOT click it. But if you want to claim a piece of non-reproducible magic before it becomes just another ‘glorified memory’ of what could have been, go ahead. Click and catch the big one. —— The Hatsune Miku Art Chair.


A corporate logo, the letters of C and H are combined to look like a tree in a circle

Shungo Ijima

Global Connector | Reformed Bureaucrat | Professional Over-Thinker

After years of navigating the rigid hallways of Japan’s Ministry of Finance and surviving an MBA, he made a life-changing realization: spreadsheets are soulless, and wood has much better stories to tell.

Currently an Executive at CondeHouse, he travels the world decoding the “hidden DNA” of Japanese culture—though, in his travels, he’s becoming increasingly more skilled at decoding how to find the cheapest hotels than actual cultural mysteries.

He has a peculiar talent for finding deep philosophical meaning in things most people ignore as meaningless (and to be fair, they are often actually meaningless). He doesn’t just sell furniture; he’s on a mission to explain Japan to the world, one intellectually over-analyzed observation at a time. He writes for the curious, the skeptical, and anyone who suspects that a chair might actually be a manifesto in disguise.

Follow his journey as he bridges the gap between high-finance logic and the chaotic art of living!


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