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By Jane Freeman
The other day, we were press-ganged over to a friend's place to have a look at his new stereo system. Apparently the most striking feature of this stereo is not its sound quality but its size. You see, it is very, very, very small. The speakers are about the size of my hands. The stereo bit could easily be popped inside a car glovebox. And the remote control is so tiny that they have to attach it to another larger square of plastic so that you don't lose it (which rather seems to defeat the purpose of making it so small in th first place).
But having duly admired the teeny weeniness of our friend's stereo, it set me pondering the modern mania for miniaturisation. While the last century was characterised by a fascination with the large -- grand buildings, major railways, high ideals, big frocks, big beards, fat books - it seems that our century has been a progression towards tininess.
The sprawling house in the 'burbs with the big backyard is definitely out; the trend is towards bijou townhouses and apartments. Families of five or more are almost embarrassing when one can neatly fit one child into one's life and scarcely take a break from paying off the mortgage or building on a career (and it's so much hetter for the planet! Even dogs are getting smaller: the miniature schnauzer is much more fashionable than buying the kids a newfoundland or a pony.
On the macro level of micro, big business saw the magic of miniaturisation in the early '90s and started downsizing -- every month. Clothes have been downsizing since hemlines started to shrink in the 1920s. Cars arc getting smaller, too (there are even miniature four-wheel-drives which, frankly, is a bit like putting an extra bit of plastic on your tiny remote control). And computers get steadily smaller every year (desktop, laptop, notebook ... now we're promised computers that live in your mobile phone).
And talking of mobile phones, they're getting smaller by the minute. With a total disregard for the anatomy of the human face (to whit, the distance between the ear and the mouth), mobiles are now so tiny that they can fold into your wallet. In fact, for a while now it's been something to boast about: "Have you seen my new phone? Isn't it incredibly small? Look, I can drop it under the restaurant table and it's so tiny that I can't even manage to find it again!"
But what does it all mean, this mania for making everything tinier and tinier? Will the day come when we lumber around our houses like giants trapped in a doll's house, trying not to tread on our itty-bitty stereos and minuscule washing machines and teensy-weensy stoves and minimalist furniture? Apart from television screens, which are heading in the opposite direction, the trend is all downhill from here.
I think it might have something to do with mobiliry and the trend towards impermanence -- change jobs, change houses, change partners, change families, change hair colour, change clothes. All these things become so much more inconvenient if one is lugging around massive oak furniture or silverware or a stereo big enough to have a turntable on it.
Instead, we like to be able to pack our bits and pieces in a jiff ( just pop the stereo in your pocket, throw the clothes in an overnight bag, put the mobile phone in your shoe and out the door). Now we're drooling over our new tiny toys with one eye on the door wondering where the next job or lover or overseas move is going to come from.
In short, we've managed to miniatrise life itself into little relationships, mini-marriages and bonsai careers. Now isn't that cute?
Article written for The Age Sunday Life
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