The Return of the Analog

Lately, everything seems too loud and too hectic for me. Too many messages, too many images, too many people who always have something to say. Neighbors who all seem to fire up their latest motorized hardware store acquisitions at the exact same time. You know you’re longing for something when you feel like something is missing. After a week on the Danish west coast, I know what I’m missing: peace and slow living. And clearly, I’m not alone.

You just have to look closer. On Instagram, vinyl records are being played again. Kendall Jenner is seen wearing wired Apple EarPods, even though she could certainly afford something more modern. Prada sends out a Kodak camera as a PR gift, and Miu Miu sends a sky-blue Walkman. People are writing in "journals," which sounds much cooler than the good old diary, and they are as enthusiastic about knitting and crocheting as they are about handmade pottery. Precisely on the internet, where everything is geared toward speed and the next stimulus, slowness is suddenly being celebrated. Of course, marketing has discovered this longing, too. "Handcrafted," "made with love," and "authentic" no longer promise us just a product, but an attitude and a soul to go with it. Marketing rarely invents longings from scratch; rather, it identifies trends, amplifies them, and then sells them to us for a lot of money. But the return of the analog can hardly be explained by nostalgia alone. Many who celebrate a Walkman, collect vinyl, or shoot on film today never experienced these things as part of their daily lives. They don't want to go back; they are discovering them as something new.

I belong to the generation that grew up analog and lives digital. I still remember what waiting feels like: A postcard that takes longer to arrive than the vacation lasts. The photo that first has to be developed. Driving by a city map and placing collective orders via mail-order catalogs. On the other hand, I also know how quickly you get used to everything being available at any time. And I know what gets lost in the process. Because waiting doesn’t just build anticipation; it also increases the significance of things. You have to take a vinyl record seriously. You don't touch the grooves; you place the needle down carefully. It can crackle, get scratched, or skip. And some of those things just can’t be fixed with an update. An old camera produces images that you cannot delete five seconds later and quickly correct. An old armchair gets scratches, leather creases, and a wood patina. These things have their quirks. And it is precisely because of that that they acquire an identity for us. Above all, however, they demand something from us: attention, time, and care. Anyone currently carefully placing a needle on a record shouldn’t be answering three WhatsApp messages at the same time. Perhaps that is the true luxury: simply having to take the time.

This attitude is not new to me. The first shoes I absolutely had to buy were a pair of Madras sandals. They cost 99.00 DM back then – a fortune for a pair of summer sandals and, for my mother, the ultimate proof that something was wrong with me. I think she hardly spoke to me for almost three weeks afterward. I wanted those sandals anyway. So, I saved up the money two marks at a time by mowing lawns and babysitting. And when I finally had them, I felt special every time I wore them—not to mention the compliments. By the way, I still own them, even though they no longer fit. So, this isn't about asceticism, but about the difference between a specific desire and the mere desire for consumption. It’s about the intrinsic value that things gain for us—a value that a replacement cannot simply take over. "Possessions are a burden," they say. True: you can lose what you love. But if everything is replaceable at any time, I don’t really have to pay attention to much. And perhaps that is a form of sustainability that we talk about too rarely: not just owning things for a long time, but wanting to own them for a long time. Getting shoes repaired instead of just throwing them away.

Anyone who looks at an old Braun audio system, strokes the wood of a piece of furniture, or holds a piece of handmade ceramics sees that a craftsman or designer made decisions here. Things with a signature. Things with a soul? Of course, that’s romantic: a sofa has no soul. Marketing promises it, but we bestow it through use. It picks up traces, accompanies us, and becomes part of our own history. The enthusiasm for the analog is also an answer to the fatigue toward the never-ending stream of the new. I know this from my own work. My conclusion: slow living—and on my Instagram account, slow content. I refuse to post something every day just because an algorithm needs to be fed. Slow living does not necessarily have to mean analog. I see it primarily as an attitude toward time, consumption, attention, and also sustainability.

And that brings us to perfume. There, too, I am increasingly less interested in what is currently loud, successful, or algorithm-friendly. I find brands where a signature remains recognizable more interesting. A Tauer is allowed to smell like a Tauer, a perfume by Francesca Bianchi should be unmistakably Francesca Bianchi, and a concept like Sabé Masson can think about perfume in a completely different way. That doesn't have to please everyone. Perhaps that is exactly the point. Here, too, I am more interested in the original idea than in perfect adaptation to the market. A fragrance is allowed to have edges, be irritating, and refuse easy classification. Perhaps that is exactly its signature. Therefore, for me, the return of the analog is not a nostalgic longing for a better past. I don’t want to give up my digital camera or abolish social media. But I do think it’s important to re-evaluate some things we prematurely considered obsolete: slowness. Materiality. Care. Craftsmanship. Things that are allowed to age. Things you want to keep. Things that are not replaceable at any time. I don’t always need the latest update. Sometimes, I’d much rather have a backup.