Science is all about taking humankind to a better place. Sometimes this means that long-held beliefs are challenged and that orthodoxy is upended. In the case of the beanbag it meant that we, as a species, had to overcome our prejudice and accept that not all chairs need to have legs. Beanbags were so much more than just a piece of furniture – they were the future.
Science is all about taking humankind to a better place. Sometimes this means that long-held beliefs are challenged and that orthodoxy is upended. In the case of the beanbag it meant that we, as a species, had to overcome our prejudice and accept that not all chairs need to have legs. Beanbags were so much more than just a piece of furniture – they were the future.
They were an integral part of the fabric of society; which, in 1978 was velour and stuffed with polystyrene. In those heady days, no lounge room was complete without a beanbag. In was a golden era in which every home had one or two of these amorphous beauties, along with a strange string-on-nail wall decoration in the study and a set of wind chimes by the front door. In our house, the beanbags were prized above all other chairs. That was partly because the beanbags were so incredibly comfortable and partly because the alternatives were universally awful.
There was the rocking chair. Not only was it amazingly uncomfortable to sit on, beyond anything else it belonged to my father. This meant that a decision to perch yourself in the rocking chair came with the ever present threat of instant eviction. Then there was the couch. We had several couches whilst I was growing up. The worst came in three parts made of foam. These constituent elements did not so much as slot together as they did sit lazily on top of one another. It had a metal frame that was supposed to keep the whole thing in some kind of order but, instead, it looked hopelessly dishevelled much of the time. Worse than that, because it was up against the back wall for support, the couch was as far away from the TV as you could get without being in another room.
But worse than the couch was the lounge. This object sat by the bay window and, for decades, was a reminder that my parents had gotten married in the seventies. It was, of course, covered in black leather – the kind that might once have been a very bad jacket that, if worn to a 1970s nightclub, would have had the effect of driving away every human being within a ten-metre radius. Indeed, such a jacket would have functioned like sartorial Aeroguard, repelling people rather than insects. The lounge was in two parts. Aside from the black leather cushioning, there was string netting and a footrest. The cushions were affixed with buttons that routinely popped whenever you sat down. The whole thing seemed adrift. These various defects all served to make the beanbags look even more enticing.
Most chairs demand that you submit. You have to adjust your posture to suit them rather than the other way around. This, of course, goes against every principle that the beanbag stands for. That’s because beanbags shape themselves to you. Whilst it’s probably about as good for your posture as sleeping in a box, it’s as close as a piece of furniture can ever get to giving you a hug.
Better still, unlike most chairs, beanbags can go anywhere. In most lounge-rooms, certain objects belong in a certain place and pity the child that dares to interfere with this rigid, immutable law of the universe. Beanbags, however, are the anarchists of family furniture and can go any place they like. Want to be a little closer to the television screen? No problem. Just shimmy forward a little. This is the kind of freedom that couches can only dream of.
Also, beanbags are the closest thing to lying down without actually going to bed. In our house, it was a great tradition to retire to the beanbag after dinner and to fall asleep. I very much doubt that my father has ever watched a game of football through to its conclusion, surrendering to cradling charms of the beanbag somewhere after half time. They can be used as sleds down stairs and can also be thrown at marauding siblings. Although throwing a regular chair is largely frowned upon, it’s different with beanbags.
But things have changed. Just as every lounge-room used to have an ashtray full of matches souvenired from various motels, the beanbag has begun to vanish. I fear that, soon, it will be extinct. Granted, it still has its defenders, but they’re loosing the battle on the nation’s lounge-room floors. I confess that I’ve led a beanbag-less existence for many years now. Instead, I am forced to fall asleep on rigid furniture that refuses to compromise for the benefit of my comfort. It’s time to do something.
Here in Victoria, we have a number of emblems. As it happens, both our bird and animal emblems are endangered. Hopefully, by giving them a special status, they might stand a better chance of survival. There is, I think, room for one more. That the humble beanbag should be our furniture emblem would go without saying, were not for the fact that having a blank space on the page would look quite odd. It’s time to acknowledge all the beanbag has done for us and to return the favour. To this day, I fervently believe that I have seen the future of quality seating, and it is legless and stuffed with little pieces of foam. Long live the beanbag.