Harmony

William Morris once described himself as a slave to the rich.
His designs were the most expensive; their worth calculated by the harmony induced.
Morris’ work expressed far more harmony than any of his competitors, and he baulked at cost-cutting measures, so it was only natural that he would be forever their darling.
As the Industrial Age laid bare endeavour, his designs became even more cherche.
If ten thousand copies of a thing of harmony could be produced for the wider market to enjoy, there would always be those in a position to take possession of the original work.

(Only this afternoon, at Bonham’s, I witnessed the auctioning of an invitation to a Beatles concert. It was no bigger than a business card but a hush came over the room as bids were made in ‘the money moment’. When the hammer fell, the filthy bit of card had gone for £3600. I looked perplexed but my sister put me right. Ten years ago, that same card had sold for £10,000.)

Morris’ designs were always furiously fought over. Deaths would occur in the heated disputes that took place. As workers waded through starvation and poor working conditions to produce the harmony at stake, benefactors would toil and cheat to secure its ownership.
As time wore on, Morris embraced Socialism as the movement to provide workers with the rights they deserved, to even the tally for the good of the people and reward the world with dignity for all, but I wonder whether he honestly believed that the wishes of the many would ever be heard.
Groomed and petted by the rich for the harmony that he bestowed upon their sensibilities, Morris knew them well. Could he really have imagined them sharing their wealth for the good of the nation?
The rich went on to comply with Socialism for the sake of harmony, but their intention had only ever been to patiently appease in anticipation of capitalism’s return.
Gentlemen clients of Morris would clamour for his latest works, their feverish pursuit fuelled by a mad desire to acquire the faultless harmony that his careful hand and florid mind induced.
Besides, to please their wives was to ease their lives.
By this time, his original paper designs were being reproduced to adorn the walls of mansions all over the world.
The designs could never be exchanged unless, of course, a pilferering nobleman could afford the freehold.
Using the boiled down bones and skins of rabbits as adhesive, the harmony on display would always be far from the mind of a thief and the owner would never have to endure the droll request of a visitor to borrow it. It could be admired only for the moment that one was in its presence.
And there it would stay, a signature of harmony for its owner’s posterity; a marking of territory immovably destined to remain in his possession.

With design expertly felled into the grinding machines of the Industrial Age, the reproduced copies of harmonious designs continued to churn effortlessly out and away from the noise; bright, beautiful objects of desire.
Flying machines and shipping vessels were built to bomb and destroy in harmony with the wishes of war cabinets, and Tonnet chairs were rounded using steamed wood so that people could sit more comfortably. Stainless steel cooking utensils assured its purchaser untainted cleanliness, while the hard-working men and women of Britain struggled on with the poisonous shards of mixed metals used to feed their family.

On the other side of the world, Japan, unimpressed by the West’s thirst for personal gain and sickened by its blatant lack of regard for harmony in pursuit of reward, decided to withdraw from the outside world completely.
She needed to rediscover harmony in order to renew purpose.
During this spiritual self-exile, Japan went on to produce works so fine that the rest of the world could only gawp at the sheer audacity of a design’s simplicity, utterly bewildered as to how it came to be.
Travelling Western designers, financed by noted monopolists and others who professed a leaning towards philanthropy, were blessed to visit Japan, and the more cunning went on to be shown the process by which the harmony was produced, as an organism and not purely as a form of art. Once they had what they wanted, they would bid farewell and walk away with the spoils of a sacked goldmine in their satchel.
Even today, Japan’s meaning of life still revolves around harmony, and its endurance; that the balance of a society relies upon each person’s perception of and connectivity to harmony.

Even life itself can be reproduced, so we begin the search for new meaning to our own lives.
A sense of pointlessness rests awkwardly with our conscience. Only change will secure our continuance.
Perhaps the ghastly reality of having succeeded to imitate life has renewed our search for harmony.

Harmony is walking down a street, or strolling in a park, waking up in the morning and going to bed without a worry in the world.
Harmony is enjoying a drink in moderation, or relaxing in the shade of the sun, the washing of waves on a beach and the movement of a statue’s shadow.
Harmony is filling our bodies with goodness, or going on mountain walks, knowing when to do nothing at all and striving to do something correctly.
Harmony is choosing friends who don’t harm, or letting go of those who do, trusting those in authority and the bonding of a baby to its father.
Harmony is the making of love, or the diluting of tea with milk, the fragility of a mother’s teat and the understanding of right from wrong.
Harmony is blessing life in all its forms, or respecting the permanence of death, the guidance of a sympathetic ear and the silence of ignorance.
Harmony is giving with grace, or receiving without guilt, the perpetuation of the seasons and the impatience of a March hare.