The myth of progress: From Woodstock to dirty laundry

Whenever the gears of culture and economy grind into a state of rigor mortis, the “harbingers of revolution” inevitably emerge to decapitate the status quo. We naively interpret these shifts as linear progress, but history is often just a cynical loop where noble manifestos are discarded in favor of new aesthetics.

Take, for instance, the evolution of the musical counterculture. The bandana-clad, bell-bottomed legions of Woodstock eventually mutated into the spandex-and-tank-top glam of the eighties, only to retreat back into the “deliberately unwashed” everyday wear of the nineties—conveniently labeled as “Grunge” to mask its lack of effort. We like to believe we are moving forward, but more often than not, we are simply rearranging our laundry while the original ideals are left to rot.

This brings us to the present-day insurrection: The decapitation of the machine, better known as the EV revolution.

The war for the car’s ego: EV vs. the authorities

The world is currently witnessing a brutal insurrection. In the red corner, we have the “Rebels”—Google, Apple, and Sony. In the blue corner, the “Authorities”—Toyota, Volkswagen, and Renault. This is the war for the EV market share, and as an audience member, I am watching with a mixture of excitement and cynicism.

The shift to Electric Vehicles has effectively performed a “decapitation” of the car’s traditional ego: the internal combustion engine. For a century, designers were enslaved to the heat, noise, and vibration of the engine. Now, that tyrannical beating heart is gone, leaving a silent, hollow void. This liberation should, in theory, lead to revolutionary designs—moving living rooms, sleek pods of the future. But in this race for efficiency, are we losing the “machine-like” soul that once made cars romantic?

The styrofoam victory: A requiem for the salmon crate

While I am fascinated by the disruption of the car industry, I am less enthused by the “efficient” death of local culture.

In my hometown of Hokkaido, we once shipped our famous salmon in wooden crates. These boxes, adorned with the bold, colorful logos of fishing companies, were more than packaging; they were a tactile herald of the year’s end. Today, they have been entirely replaced by Styrofoam—the soulless victor of the modern age.

Does the salmon taste different in plastic? Probably not. But the essence has vanished. We have decided that wood is an “unnecessary element” for a fish container. We have traded the scent of pine and the texture of grain for the cold, sterile convenience of white foam.

The sanctuary of timber: Why chairs refuse to surrender

As the world strips the “essence” away from cars and fish crates, one object remains stubbornly, almost defiantly, rooted in its origins: The Chair.

We have the technology to make every chair out of plastic or recycled carbon fiber. Yet, the wooden chair remains the undisputed sovereign of the interior. Why? Because while a car can survive without an engine and a fish can survive in Styrofoam, a human being cannot truly rest against a synthetic lie.

In the mountains surrounding our factory in Hokkaido, we harvest Oak and Ash. These are not merely “materials.” They are the physical manifestations of the forest’s patience. A wooden chair is perhaps the last frontier where the “essence” of the product is still identical to the “essence” of the material. In an increasingly hollow world, we believe that a chair made from local, beautiful wood doesn’t just deserve a better price—it deserves to be recognized as a sanctuary of the real.

---

If the world is moving toward a future of silent engines and sterile plastic, we choose a different path. We have taken the digital soul of a virtual icon and anchored it to the eternal essence of Hokkaido timber. Experience the ‘Sanctuary of the Real’—The Hatsune Miku Art Chair.

---

---