Fashion is by definition focused on new and forward-looking trends. But despite of its forward-looking and new-is-good doctrine, fashion constantly borrows from the stylistic expressions of earlier times. It is often described as moving like a pendulum between two dialectical poles — for example, the minimalistic, “purified” expression and the decorative, decadent, and “maximalistic.” A movement that, rather than being either decidedly forward-looking or exactly retrospective, should be considered stagnant.

Every season is defined by new colors, styles, and themes, whether in relation to clothes, interior design, or food. These are often (especially regarding clothes fashion) “dictated” by trend agencies, which report on the focus points of the coming season, based on an analysis of societal trends.

For example, a theme could be “Urban Boheme” complete with flowing robes, flowery patterns in warm nuances, dark velvet suits, and broad-brimmed felt hats, on the basis of the idea that we are living in a time when the individual is striving for a free, relaxed urban existence, reminiscent of artistic 19th-century Paris. This is grist to the mill of our throwaway culture, but it is not in keeping with aesthetic sustainability. If themes change every season, who would want to parade around looking like a mix between a 70’s hippie and a 19th-century dandy, when the current look is minimalistic, “tight,” and influenced by black-and-white geometrical patterns?

So, what is the best way to circumvent this mechanism? Currently, there are many interesting anti-trend movements that “dictate” slow design, slow fashion, or slow clothing — all of which challenge the whirling forward momentum of fashion and the constant impetus to consume. In fact, it has become trendy to preface everything with “slow”: slow food, slow travel, slow living, slow parenting, slow shopping, etc. In a way, this is a somewhat self-contradictory move, as the intention is rather to think beyond the trend-machine.

Nevertheless, the slow movement, in relation to aesthetic sustainability, contains a number of important points. In point of fact, aesthetic sustainability can be considered part of the slow movement — the part, which could also be called slow aesthetics, that aims to put a brake on aesthetic pleasure (to keep it from dissipating, which would lead to casting aside the object that caused it in the first place and moving on to the next in line), or, rather, to make the aesthetically pleasurable experience last longer.

The slow movement, in brief, is about celebrating slowness and challenging consumerism. The focus is on “little, but good” — the idea that slowness results in an increased focus on one’s surroundings and the objects found here, and that this focus is a source of intimacy. Physical, sensuous intimacy, that is. A kind of intimacy that might disappear when living life in the fast lane, to use an obvious cliche.

I consider the slow movement and the intentions behind it as an expression of a paradigm shift, rather than as a passing trend like many others.

Aesthetic pleasure is not just about renewal, but also about repetition. A worthwhile piece, or a good design object, can nourish the owner aesthetically time and again. This is exactly what makes it slow — and lovely.

Establishing a “relationship” with an object — bonding with an object in the sense that merely a glance or a touch is enough to elicit an all-encompassing feeling of comfort or an inspiring feeling of seeing everything in a new light — means that one will want to keep it around. Getting rid of it, finally, would signal that one is “done” with it, that one has perhaps moved on to a different stage of life, wanting to make room for new moods and new impulses — which is, of course, only natural.

The slow aesthetic experience is a continual source of aesthetic nourishment and enrichment; an experience that is characterized by being both constant (something one will want to relive) and regenerative, as it is a continual source of new nourishment — whether it is the kind of nourishment that leads to immediate enjoyment or to trembling pleasure.

To create sustainable objects, which are aesthetically durable, and which thereby possess an aesthetic slowness, one must thus juggle permanence as well as variation, fixity as well as vitality, repetition as well as renewal. Only in combination is it truly possible to nourish the experiencing subject aesthetically and to open up an aesthetic, potentially insightful, realization and for the individual to feel “at home” in the world.

The durable aesthetic object consists not solely of pure permanence, which might otherwise be an obvious conclusion, as permanence and sustainability are closely related. The durable aesthetic expression consists of a combination of permanence (and thereby the enduring or what is temporally extended) and renewal, variation or energy (meaning that which is surprising and uneven, that which triggers the mind into movement and challenges the senses).

Permanence is expressed, for instance, by shapes and color combinations that speak directly to the viewer, and that are easy to decode, or understand, and to use; permanent objects can be quickly absorbed and put to use. This element is essential in relation to aesthetic sustainability as it is of universal appeal, which partly concerns the joy of recognition and partly the pleasure of satisfying one’s human need for synthesis and structure.

However, renewal and dynamic energy are just as crucial. To keep the viewer engaged, the object must leave an impression so great as to separate itself from the enormous amount of human-made things that clutter our world. Achieving this, means that the object must contain a certain degree of renewal and dynamic energy. The dynamic part of the aesthetic sustainable object is the part that makes the viewer take note, and that makes her come back to the object, again and again, as she seeks the immediate pleasure experienced in first encountering it.

the aim is to create a design object valued for its ability to prompt comfortable feelings in an immediate way, it is not enough to simply copy an already-existing object. On the contrary, it is necessary to temper the familiar with the regenerative, with variation. The regenerative element can be rather low-key, consisting, for example, of a material that adapts to the form without issue and without inertia, and that thereby matches the form and the use of the object, but which is nevertheless somewhat different from the material usually employed to construct the particular object. It might even work better.

Working on creating such objects can be described as an investigation of how much the core of an easily recognizable or easily decodable jacket, chair, lamp, or cup can “contain:” how far can the expression or the form or the sensuous qualities of an object be stretched, while still evoking the a familiar kind of pleasure?

The aesthetically sustainable object— and hence the object that manages to appeal to a human being who will watch it, use it, consider it, or touch it, time and again — has a core consisting of an easily recognizable or easily decodable element and of either some or a lot of dynamic movement, regeneration, and variation. This is to ensure that interest in the object will endure for an extended period of time, maybe even for decades, and that the experiencing subject will return to the object in search of new aesthetic satisfaction, creating a bond to it in the process.