Dear Fiona,
I’m getting in touch about something rather embarrassing. This summer, I hosted a party, which was lovely. Except, somebody broke one of my Hans J. Wegner Wishbone chairs. He was leaning back too far, and it fell apart – admittedly I have had them for about eight years. Everybody laughed, and somebody said, “Wouldn’t have happened if it was real!” And everybody laughed again. I laughed too, because I didn’t really know what else to do. But I didn’t realise that everybody had identified my Wishbone chairs as faux.
Later, I asked one of my other friends about it – and she confirmed that yes, everybody knows – and that they do find it funny but in an endearing way because I always refer to them as the Hans Wegner chairs or the Hans Wegner Wishbones. But if anybody had ever really asked me about them, I would have confessed that they probably aren’t real – I mean, I bought them online for a lot less than what they’re sold for in Skandium – but I suppose I had wanted to believe that they’re real. I feel a bit judged, though my friend pointed out that everyone has got something that is reproduction.
It’s since occurred to me that she’s right: the person who called out my chairs has got faux ancestors hanging in his dining room – as in they’re definitely not related to him – and yet everybody thinks he's got tremendous style. I know that several others of those present that evening have had expensive paint colours matched by cheaper brands – for they’ve crowed about the savings they’ve made. And so that’s what leads me on to my question (finally!) – what’s the deal with faux/reproduction/copies et cetera – when are they okay, and when not? Going forward I’m going to need to replace the chair, and I’ve realised that a couple of the others are actually looking a bit tatty, but I still love a Wishbone. The thing is, despite the embarrassment it’s caused, I’ve always found it hard to buy something full price when I can find a variation for less . . . Is there anything actually wrong with reproductions, were I to find more convincing copies?
Thank you so much,
Love,
Caught-Out XX
Dear Caught-Out,
Thank you for your letter – and sorry to hear about the broken chair, and your embarrassment. Though it sounds like you styled it out; well done joining in with the laughter. And it could have been worse: some years ago, the art dealer Michael Findlay had tea with Donald Trump, who insisted that his reproduction Renoirs – which were recognisable from major museums – were absolutely the real deal. Recently, the anecdote was published in The Times (and now it’s being repeated here) a fate that you will not suffer, not least because, as you say, you would have confessed as to the probable not quite genuine-ness of the chairs had you been asked.
At the same time, know that yours are far from the first set of dubiously provenanced Wishbone chairs that I’ve come across – and equally, I do understand your wanting to believe that they’re real, and you wouldn’t be alone in that, either. There’s a term for it, ‘motivated reasoning’, and in the past, I’ve been as guilty of it as anyone. I bought a black nylon ‘Prada’ handbag (then, the last word in chic) from a street seller in Florence, convincing myself that it was genuine via the back door of the factory. Harder, maybe, for that to be the route with a suite of chairs (and there are ways to tell in Hans J. Wegner Wishbones are real – for a start, they’re marked with the manufacturer’s details) but it does lead us on to your question: “what’s the deal with faux/reproduction/copies – when are they okay, and when are they not?”
Most of us – certainly House & Garden readers – find connection in stuff; it’s why we like our homes to look a certain way and derive tremendous satisfaction from them when they do. The look we like depends on our taste – and the only tragedy of taste is that all too frequently we can’t afford what we’d like, or perhaps didn’t inherit what we’d like, hence ‘faux’ ancestors (which might once have been sniffed at, in the manner of Conservative MP Michael Jopling saying of his own son “the trouble with Michael [Heseltine] is that he has had to buy all his own furniture,” but, these days, happily, there’s less undermining of the meritocracy.) Even if money were no object, we still can’t necessarily have what we’d like because neither the Courtauld nor the V&A are commercial galleries. And so we have copies, reproductions, ‘inspired by’ – and full-on ‘faux’ (your term.) Irritatingly, there isn’t necessarily clarity in the terms – a spade is all too often dressed up a shovel (just as faux does sound less damning than fake) – although we can try.
The first thing to understand is that the rules are not consistent: plagiarising might be agreed to be wrong (even a cancel-able offence) when it comes to novels and academic papers, but it’s not always the case with furniture and furnishings. Philip Hooper, joint managing director of Sibyl Colefax & John Fowler, reminds us that early William Morris chair designs are “copies of rustic cottage pieces such as the Sussex Chair.” In these instances, ‘reproduction’ refers to emulating designs of the past that, crucially, are not protected by copyright (because of their age.)
Notable is that reproductions can be so excellent as to improve the interiors landscape – and not only is there nothing wrong with them, but they are very right. Think of Chelsea Textiles’ reproduction 18th-century embroideries, and Jamb’s exquisite reproduction fireplaces. They’re also useful – “we often copy things to make up sets or pairs,” explains Philip. And he’s far from the first: Elsie de Wolfe, Syrie Maugham, and Robert Kime all used reproduction furniture in their schemes – and I could go on, but it’s such a long list that I’d still be at it come Christmas. For the other pertinent point – which is what you like – is that “it gives people who love beautiful furniture a chance to have a design from the past they would love in their home, but at a more affordable price,” says Deborah Ogden, Manager of The Blanchard Collective, a group of antiques dealers based just outside Marlborough. It’s a generous observation coming from somebody in her position, but there exists antique reproduction furniture, too: not only those William Morris chairs, but 19th- and early 20th-century copies of Georgian furniture (I’ve got some) that Philip says can do quite well at auction, “mainly due to craftsmanship and the patination even 140 years can add to a piece.” He specifies items that originated from Gillows’ workshop (which mine don’t) – but that craftsmanship is key, for that is what enables the furniture to last, which is good both for our purse strings, and the environment.
But the issue with the term ‘reproduction’ is that it can also describe shoddily made versions, which is why the word can also conjure up “frightful images of clumsily carved pieces from the Far East, inferior wood of a dubious colour, nasty varnish and bad proportions,” lists Philip. This can similarly apply to the term ‘inspired by’. Used correctly, it refers to the fact that “we all draw inspiration from antiques and classical pieces,” explains Sarah Vanrenen – for instance, a scalloped tray table might be inspired both by scallops (which have their decorative origins in Ancient Egypt) and the tray tables that appeared in the 1950s (coinciding with televisions …) But important to note is that “there is a difference between inspiration and imitation,” Sarah continues – and yet there are times when ‘inspired by’ has been used in place of the latter, as a loophole to get around copyright laws for more recently designed items that are not viable for legal reproduction, and in these instances the term essentially becomes a synonym for ‘cheaply made copy’ – and that is far from ideal.
I’m sure your chairs are not these, but there exist variants of the classic Wishbone Chair (which, incidentally, is protected by copyright until 2077) with nylon seats, and back and armrests made not from a single piece of wood, but from composite parts, glued together. Copyright laws were tightened up in 2016, so it is supposedly trickier for companies to churn these out – i.e. it ought to be impossible for you to find reproductions so good as to convince people that they’re real – but it happens, just as it happens with other classic mid-century designs.
Then there are the scalloped tray tables and bobbin-legged bedside cabinets and rattan consoles that have been put into production by contemporary designers using traditional materials and techniques and employing craftsmen who are paid appropriately – which then appear at a fraction of the price elsewhere. And of course, there’s the paint that you mentioned. It’s tricky – because no one owns a scallop or a bobbin leg or a colour (well, except Vantablack, which I believe is still only able to be used by Anish Kapoor outside of the aerospace and defence sectors, but I’m not sure why anybody would want to turn their interiors into a void so it’s a fairly moot outlier.) However, it can be dispiriting for those who recognise their designs as having been copied. And, often, the secondary versions are poorly made from substandard materials – or, in the case of paint, are not plastic-free and the pigmentation ratio is lower – and thus all too often they end up in landfill.
And that, legalities aside, is what’s wrong with ‘faux’ – and some copies/reproductions/‘inspired by’ – for you’ll have noted that there’s no reliable safety in semantics. We, as a society, need to move past motivated reasoning to critical thinking, and buy for longevity, as well as environmental and supply-line credentials (which is to do with makers being paid a fair wage, and working in decent conditions.) Livia Firth, founder of Eco-Age, describes it as using our purchase power as a vote. What makes it challenging is that not all of us have equal purchasing power – which is why despite my point about ‘faux’, I absolutely understand the allure of getting a look for less, and, indeed, applaud those who find successful ways to overcome budgetary restrictions. Often, though, knock-offs are a false economy: the proof being that your appreciation of Wishbone chairs has outlasted the chairs themselves.
And so I’m going to suggest that you don’t re-buy what you already have – or attempt to find ‘a better copy’ (at least, not unless you’re prepared to wait until 2077) – and instead replace the broken one with a real one. I know that they cost more than the approximations that you found online, but if you replace them one at a time the outlay will feel less. Or, look sideways, to a style that maintains your favoured aesthetic and combines it quality of craftsmanship, but which doesn’t come with such a name attached: for instance, the Ikea Stockholm chair – which is ‘a tribute’ to Scandinavian design (another phrase to beware of, but in this instance it’s well employed.) Alternatively, if you’ve got the patience for it, you can find second-hand examples at auctions and antiques fairs – or, there are the bentwood ‘café’ chairs that the Wishbone was designed to compete with. Originally conceived by Thonet, their patent expired in 1869, so there are lots of good reproductions on the market of varying ages: Vinterior has got a very reasonably priced set from the 1960s.
Whichever option you choose, you’ll know that you’ve got something genuine, and well-made, and there’s satisfaction to be found in that, as well as less judgement from others, for “there is nothing more naff than a bad, fake antique that you try to pass off as an original,” says Sarah Vanrenen. It’s quite punchy, but it’s not an unusual attitude: note how your friends are open about the origins of their paintings and paint. It brings me to my final point, which is to do with finding a more accurate description for the remaining chairs while they last – ‘Hans J. Wegner wish-they-weres’? You can doubtlessly think of something more clever.
I hope that this has made things clearer – and that you enjoy finding the new chairs that should see you through many parties to come without falling apart.
With love
Fiona XX
