Joris Korbeeck

In one hand: a clothespin from the 1960s. Solid hardwood, smooth from decades of use. It still works perfectly, some 60 years later. In the other: a clothespin from 2025. Lighter, paler wood, brittle. The spring is thin and unstable. Marketed as “extra durable,” my dad just raised an eyebrow. At first glance, it’s just two clothespins. But they tell a bigger story — the shift from durability to disposability, from craftsmanship to cost-cutting, from stewardship to constant consumption. This is planned obsolescence in action. Products are designed to fail so we must keep buying. Slowly, subtly, they break. Frayed wires, cracked hinges, brittle springs. Not because we want more, but because the old was never built to last. The costs are everywhere. Landfills overflow. Wallets empty. And maybe most quietly, our spirits grow accustomed to impermanence, to the idea that nothing is meant to endure. What if this philosophy extends beyond objects? What if it shapes how we treat relationships, communities, homes, even the Earth — as temporary, replaceable, disposable? It doesn’t have to be this way. That 1960s clothespin reminds us another path is possible. That we once made things to last, and we can again. That quality, care, and intention matter. That we can design for repair, for continuity, for meaning.