Essays

On the Virtue of Owning What One Cannot Use

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By Compton Greene

There are those who believe in the merit of utility, who speak reverently of function over form and mutter dark oaths like “practicality” as if it were a virtue. These people, of course, are precisely why the world is so irredeemably dreary. For it is my contention that the highest form of ownership is not of things one can use, but of things one cannot, and probably will not, ever use.

The beauty of an object lies not in its utility, but in its utter refusal to serve any purpose at all. A porcelain snuffbox too delicate to hold snuff, a chair upholstered in silk too rare to sit on, or a clock that neither ticks nor tocks but merely gleams—these are the treasures of the true aesthete. To own such items is not to possess mere things, but to elevate oneself above the vulgarities of practicality and into the ethereal realm of connoisseurship.

The Historical Precedent of Pointless Possession

History, as ever, is on my side. Consider the great collector Charles Saatchi, who famously purchased Damien Hirst’s The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living, a dead shark suspended in formaldehyde. What could be less useful than a shark in a tank? And yet, what could be more profound? Saatchi did not acquire this piece to swim with it, nor to eat it, but to display it as a statement: “I own this shark, and therefore I own the idea of mortality itself.”

Even further back, Louis XIV adorned the gardens of Versailles with fountains so elaborate they required an entire river to function. Did anyone truly need fountains that could spray 27 distinct patterns while a quartet played nearby? Of course not. But that is precisely the point. Such gestures proclaim, “I am beyond the tyranny of purpose.”

The Philosophy of Uselessness

To own what one cannot use is to engage with life as the Greek gods do: detached, serene, and ever so slightly amused. Usefulness is the realm of beasts of burden and bureaucrats. Uselessness is the domain of the divine. As the great 19th-century dandy Oscar Wilde wrote, “All art is quite useless.” Wilde understood that to be useless is not a failure, but a triumph—a refusal to be reduced to mere function.

The useless object, then, is not a thing—it is an idea. It exists solely to inspire, to provoke, and to remind us that we are not machines bound to work, but humans born to dream.

Why Own What You Cannot Use?

Owning useless things confers three inarguable benefits:

1. It Demonstrates Power

The act of acquiring something utterly impractical is the ultimate display of dominance. Anyone can own a functional wristwatch, but to own a Fabergé egg encrusted with diamonds—an object that tells neither time nor truth—is to proclaim, “I am free from the petty chains of necessity.” It is a flex of the highest order.

2. It Cultivates Mystery

There is nothing more alluring than a person who owns things they cannot explain. Imagine walking into someone’s drawing room to find a 16th-century suit of armor looming in the corner. Does the owner wear it? Probably not. Do they even know its provenance? But does it make them seem impossibly intriguing? Absolutely.

3. It Elevates the Mundane

To own useless objects is to transform one’s life into a curated exhibition. A paperweight carved from meteorite. A goblet made of Venetian glass too fragile to hold wine. A 12th century 12-foot tapestry depicting a hunt for a mythical beast impossible to identify. Each item whispers of a world beyond the ordinary, a realm where function bows to fantasy.

The Dangers of Utility

Utility, I must stress, is a dangerous and insidious trap. The moment one begins to value an object for what it does rather than what it is, one has surrendered to mediocrity. Consider the tragic case of the modern smartphone: a device praised for its versatility, its endless stream of functions, its ceaseless usefulness. And yet, who among us truly admires it? No one places their iPhone on a pedestal or invites guests to gather round and marvel at its dull perfection. It is, in the end, a slave to its purpose, and thus entirely unworthy of reverence.

Contrast this with a gilded clock crafted by an 18th-century French artisan that no longer keeps time but still captures hearts. It does nothing, but it is everything.

A Practical Guide to Useless Ownership

For those of you new to the world of owning what you cannot use, I offer the following principles:

• Start Small: Begin with something minor but absurd, such as a quill made of solid gold. You will never write with it, but you will admire it endlessly.

• Curate for Confusion: Choose objects that provoke questions. A marble bust of someone you cannot identify is ideal.

• Display, Don’t Hide: The purpose of the useless object is to be seen, not stored. Place it in a spot where it will baffle and delight in equal measure.

Beyond Use Lies Immortality

In the end, dear reader, the act of owning what one cannot use is not merely a gesture of taste but a declaration of immortality. The useful object fades into obscurity the moment it ceases to function. The useless object, however, endures. It becomes legend, a testament to its owner’s refusal to be bound by the dull mechanics of practicality.

So go forth, and acquire that which serves no purpose. Buy the chair you’ll never sit in, the chandelier too heavy to hang, the painting too provocative to explain. In doing so, you will not only elevate your life—you will elevate yourself.

And remember: Non utile sed splendidum. Not useful, but splendid. Let this be your motto, your creed, your raison d’être.

On the Art of Spending Lavishly

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By Compton Greene

It has long been my contention that the true measure of a person is not how they make their money, but how gloriously, extravagantly, and unapologetically they lose it. For what is life, if not a grand stage upon which we are tasked to perform a role that dazzles and distracts? And is not spending lavishly—with flourish and flair—the most captivating performance of all? As Erasmus so aptly wrote, “Pecunia non olet” (money does not stink), though I dare add: it does, however, lose all meaning if spent without style.

To spend lavishly is not merely a vulgar act of overconsumption—it is an art form, requiring vision, discernment, and an unerring ability to imbue even the most mundane purchase with a sense of the sublime. One does not merely purchase a thing; one transforms it into a declaration of self, a monument to taste, and a hymn to one’s own ability to live life as it should be lived: extravagantly.

The Philosophy of Lavishness

Lavish spending is not for the faint of heart or the small of mind. It requires a certain intellectual rigor, an aesthetic sensibility that borders on the spiritual. As Aristotle might have said, had he possessed a decent tailor, “Excess is not merely excess; it is the perfection of form when liberated from utility.”

Consider, if you will, the infamous example of the great 17th-century Swedish king, Gustavus Adolphus, who once commissioned a ship so outrageously top-heavy with gilded carvings that it sank before leaving the harbor. What a triumph of vision! What a glorious failure! Gustavus understood what so few do today: that greatness lies not in the result but in the audacity of the attempt.

Thus, let us reject the dreary philosophy of moderation. Let the stingy insist on “value for money” and prattle on about practicality. We, the true aesthetes, know that to spend lavishly is to transcend the banal and enter the realm of the poetic.

Why Spend Lavishly? Three Irrefutable Arguments

1. Lavish Spending Is a Statement of Individuality

In an age where everyone is content to order mass-produced trinkets and dress like mannequins in some dystopian department store, the act of spending lavishly is an act of rebellion. To commission a bespoke item—be it a tailored suit, a rare painting, or a bathtub carved from a single block of Carrara marble—is to proclaim, “I am not like you. I am better.”

The poet Lord Byron, himself a connoisseur of the finer things in life, once declared, “There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture on the lonely shore,” but I daresay Byron never truly knew rapture until he spent an entire year’s income on a silver tea service he used precisely twice. Such gestures are not mere purchases; they are acts of self-definition.

2. Lavish Spending Elevates the Ordinary to the Extraordinary

Why drink wine when you can drink wine aged in barrels once owned by Napoleon? Why light your home with mere bulbs when Venetian glass chandeliers exist? To spend lavishly is to assert that life’s daily rituals—eating, drinking, sitting—deserve to be enshrined in beauty. As the French painter Jean-Antoine Watteau so beautifully illustrated in his fêtes galantes, even a picnic can become an affair of grace and grandeur if only one adds silk cushions and champagne.

3. Lavish Spending Is a Legacy

When one spends lavishly, one is not merely acquiring objects; one is constructing a legacy. It is no accident that the most enduring names in history—Lorenzo de Medici, Louis XIV, and Catherine the Great—are remembered as much for their spending as for their achievements. What are we, after all, if not the artifacts we leave behind?

When future generations rifle through our belongings, let them marvel not at our practicality but at our splendor. Let them gasp at the absurdity of a jewel-encrusted lobster fork or a library filled with books too fine to touch. Let them say, “Here lived a person who understood the value of beauty above all else.”

The Technique of Lavishness

Of course, one must spend lavishly with precision. Careless extravagance is no better than miserliness; to be gaudy is as sinful as to be dull. A true master of lavishness follows these principles:

• Always Choose the Unnecessary Over the Practical: A gold-plated umbrella stand is infinitely preferable to a sturdy plastic one. Why? Because it makes people ask, “Who on earth buys this?” And to that question, you may simply smile.

• Never Explain Your Spending: To justify a lavish purchase is to cheapen it. Let others assume you have secrets they’ll never understand.

• Spend on the Experience, Not Just the Item: A lavish purchase should tell a story. A tablecloth handwoven by monks on a Greek island is not just a tablecloth—it is a conversation starter, a slice of mystique, and possibly a veil for an unanticipated wedding.

In Praise of Pointless Luxuries

Finally, I urge you to embrace the pointless luxury, the item that serves no function other than to delight and bewilder. Proust spent entire afternoons admiring a single porcelain vase. Marie Antoinette kept sheep dressed in ribbons. Michelangelo once purchased marble he had no intention of carving, simply because it was “too beautiful to touch.”

To spend lavishly on the unnecessary is to assert that life is not a series of problems to be solved but a canvas to be adorned.

Conclusion: Spend Lavishly, Live Immortally

I leave you with the words of Horace: “Pulvis et umbra sumus” (we are but dust and shadows). Yet, in the fleeting moments before we return to that dust, we have the power to make ourselves glitter, to shine, to stand apart from the gray masses. To spend lavishly is not merely to purchase—it is to ascend.

So go forth, dear reader, and spend as if the world depends on it. Because, truly, it does.