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One of my nieces (I have six) is married to a professor at Columbia University in New York, Ross Perlin. I mention him because he has just published a book called, "Language City". I have started to read it and am learning about the enormous number of spoken languages that can be found in New York City. It is more than enormous, it is a staggering number--over seven hundred, and I suspect that the next time I see Ross, the number will be even greater. Ross is the co-director of the Endangered Language Alliance (ELA) the focus of which is to document and help sustain languages that are disappearing across the globe. I haven't had the time to ask him why he thinks saving languages is worthwhile, not because I have doubts, but because I know he will have some very thoughtful responses to the question. I am also aware that a multiplicity of languages can be a problem for communication. Disagreement between the culturally diverse is humanity's bane, as at times we seem to misunderstand on purpose, simply because we can't be bothered to learn a few words or to spend the time to try and understand what someone is trying to say.
I might conjecture here that what Ross writes about languages being subsumed by English and Spanish, is equally true about design being subsumed by a middle ground. That is why, if you read my blog on Christmas Present, many public spaces are designed not to stand out. There is a level of corporate design that includes color, works of art, furniture, carpets that, depending on the money spent on them, can range from the tacky to the smooth as silk. All of those designs are based on being non-offensive, to not call attention to the fact that you are in a hotel lobby or an airport waiting room or in some place that you don't really want to be. I understand the reasons for this design--durability, easy to clean, interchangeability--not standing out, as it is a measure of safety. The anonymity offers a refuge that after a long drive, or a delayed flight or some other mishap, allows you not to notice your changed surroundings or, conversely, to feel comforted by them because they are so familiar. Walking into a highly designed space almost demands that you notice and think about it, and if you have had a bad day, it will help to both reinforce and even heighten any associated angst you might have. Design that offers a sameness can be an antidote in a manner of speaking, as it allows the brain to turn itself off. I might say that no matter how good that may be, and it can be very chic, it is not my preference.
Do I see parallels between the loss of languages and being a seller of English antique furniture? In a way, most definitely. I'm hyping the past and Ross is hyping languages that are being lost, except that his past is still present--he calls today the "golden age" for the study of linguistic variety. (The past I am hyping is long gone.) Clearly, his task is intellectually far more rigorous and, I truly hate to say this, more thought provoking and much more urgent as one or two of the languages he has found has only one surviving speaker. But the romance of language, how languages evolve to name those things that were most important to a culture, is really a form of artistry. Arctic languages as we all know, developed numerous ways to describe snow. This is a kind of cultural wisdom that is based on a creativity endemic to a culture. I would venture to say that furniture design of the 17th, 18th and early 19th centuries through most of Europe--but particularly with French and English furniture, is much the same. The information that furniture represents--in form, materials, who made it, construction, etc.--is a type of history that tells us about a society from the past, one that we continue to interpret and re-interpret. I, of course, am fascinated by that history and, like Ross, I'm hoping it doesn't vanish altogether.
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