Never before have we witnessed such a prominent presence of revivals and nostalgic references to the past. But whilst in cinema and fashion, conceptual and formal references to past trends are openly acknowledged and celebrated as an undeniable truth—almost turning them into an ode to nostalgia—this attitude is less explicit in other creative industries, particularly in design. This may be because many key players in the arena seem more focused on nostalgia’s immediate benefits rather than a critical exploration or a positive evolution. Admitting how capitalist dynamics shape creativity and influence the perception of objects once they enter everyday spaces remains a rare occurrence. And it is likely this perception that most interests new buyers: a generation that expresses its material desires cryptically, making effective targeting difficult. Perhaps the highest form of praise for design today is to make none.

“What kind of a society is it when you can’t even buy a chair?” Donald Judd asked in 1994. It was a provocative question, but also a sign of his frustration with an aesthetic of empty references, which was becoming increasingly common at the time. In the book “It’s Hard to Find a Good Lamp,” Judd claimed it had become nearly impossible to walk into a shop and buy a chair. Since the late 1920s, following the decline of the Mission style in North America, characterised by the use of solid wood, especially oak, and clean horizontal lines, and the waning influence of William Morris-inspired furniture in England, there had been no furniture design that combined beauty, accessibility and moderate prices. The “Mission” style emerged as a reaction against the overly ornate designs of the Victorian era—which, as Judd said, never ceased. Similarly, Morris advocated for a return to traditional craftsmanship in response to the dehumanising effects of the Industrial Revolution, transforming Victorian interiors—from churches to middle-class homes—with a philosophy where beauty, accessibility, and utility were central.

Judd was born in 1928 in Missouri, during a decade of great prosperity and cultural transformation, reflected in homes filled with furniture in the Art Deco and Modernist styles. Glass, steel, and plastics embodied the opulence of Art Deco and society’s desire to embrace cosmopolitanism: World War I was over, and a wave of optimism and technological enthusiasm had begun. On the other hand, Modernism, inspired by European movements like Bauhaus and De Stijl, sought to eliminate unnecessary decoration, promoting a modern life focused on essentials. ‘Less is more’ was the motto of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, whose furniture Judd considered the best. However, Judd did not directly face furniture, neither conceptually nor in terms of design, until the late 1960s and early 1970s, when he abandoned painting in favour of work in reliefs and free-standing objects characterised by rectilinear, hollow volumes free of superfluous decoration. Crucial to this transformation was his essay “Specific Objects”, written in 1964 and published the following year in Arts Yearbook 8. A seminal essay that became a true benchmark for an entire generation of artists. These three-dimensional objects, which could not be considered painting or sculpture but were closely related to the early paintings of Pollock, Rothko, Still, and Newman, were so different from each other that it was impossible to find common traits: they did not constitute the birth of a new artistic movement or a particular style. “They are, after all, particular forms producing rather specific qualities. Much of the motivation behind the new work is to get rid of these forms. The use of three dimensions is an obvious alternative, as it is open to everything.” Paradoxical hybrids, like Duchamp’s readymade and other Dadaist objects, which, quite deliberately, would never share anything with the first pieces of furniture made by Judd.

It was at the maximum point of his artistic research that Donald Judd began to grapple with furniture design and question what could be considered such. Following a project for a coffee table, Judd initially thought about using one of his works—a rectangular volume with a recessed upper surface—as a starting point. However, the result was both a conceptual and formal failure. Art cannot be directly transferred to design or architecture because design’s primary goal is functionality: this was his simple yet rigorous and concise realisation. Also, by distancing itself from being classified as art, a design object avoids unjustified price inflation and the risk of becoming another status symbol for the elite.

A good chair is simply a good chair and nothing new can be achieved with a good chair without significant and unusual effort. Dealing with a new vision of reality, Judd began creating original and new furniture, which he perceived as independent elements of his artistic expression. In 1970 he designed the Fifth Floor Bed 3, originally made in black walnut. Born out of necessity, as Judd himself put it: “there was no furniture and none to be bought, either old (…) or new, since the few stores sold only fake antiques or tubular kitchen furniture with plastic surfaces printed with inane geometric patterns and flowers.” The bed was designed for the fifth floor of 101 Spring Street for himself and his wife Julie.

To give each of his two children their own space— since they shared a bedroom—Judd designed a bed, a closed platform made of one-by-twelves with a central, freestanding wall, also of one-by-twelves. Later, in the same town, he designed desks and chairs for the children using the same construction method. From this beginning, many more pieces of furniture were born, including the Chair 84. In 1973, with them, he relocated to the remote desert town of Marfa in Texas and permanently transformed it to escape his profound dissatisfaction with the commercial art system of New York. In his new home, he designed a desk for his children, but, as Flavin later explained, “Once you have a desk, you also need a chair to sit on to do your homework.” Judd sketched out a dozen chair variations, chose one, and took the design to a carpenter. The design reached its purest essence: simple pine boards. However, in that cubic volume under the seat, Judd experimented: in one version, he inserted a shelf; in another, a slanted board; and in another, a structure rigid at the front but recessed on the sides. Everything led to essential lines and functionality and—about ten years later—a range of colours. During this period, Judd began to develop a critique of contemporary design, a reflection that thirty-two years later remains surprisingly relevant. At the core of this belief was that contemporary furniture did not represent a following of authentic craftsmanship but rather a mere imitation of past styles. This tendency is encouraged by a misunderstanding of decoration’s concept, often considered a superficial element of an object. For Judd, however, decoration had to be an integral part of the project, deriving from function, material, and the artisanal techniques used to create it.

Afterwards, he extended this critique to how both traditional and modern furniture were perceived in society. Traditional furniture, especially those that replicated ancient models, was purchased not for its functionality or design quality but to evoke a past social status, perceived as superior. Furniture thus became a symbol of aspiration, a means to “climb” the social ladder. On the other hand, modern design, particularly prevalent in offices, became a tool to project an image of progress and innovation. However, as Judd observed, this design was often as inconsistent as traditional design, as it rarely addressed real functional needs. Instead of improving everyday life, it creates an illusion of social or professional advancement. This duality between traditional and modern often coexisted in the same environment, as in the case of executive offices. “The bizarre and complicated ‘modern’ office of the rich executive, who has photographs on his desk of his wife and children in their traditional setting, is a summation of the surrounding corporate headquarters. Since he or his wife is on the board of the museum, it must look progressive, like the headquarters, but with a touch of tradition, for her, for upward mobility to the past, for something better than business, such as learning, although there is nothing better, and generally for the gentility of art, which symbolised all of these.” Judd recognised in this symbolic contradiction an attempt to balance progress with nostalgia, creating environments that aimed to reflect both contemporary influence and historical prestige. Here, the paternalism of architects, designers and companies became clear, claiming to respond to the public’s desires but, in reality, imposing their own choices. “They are giving the people what they deserve because of their negligence but are presumptuous to claim to know what they want. What they want is what they get.” According to this view, consumers are stuck in a system that offers no real quality alternatives but only what the market decides to provide. By the 1990s, exceptions to this trend were already few and far between; one such exception wasn’t a creation by a designer but a company: Sony, which—especially regarding TVs—blended technological innovation, functionality, and aesthetics.

Something stood in stark contrast to the pervasive trend of poorly replicating the past, particularly in the United States and Japan, where, in Judd’s view, there had been a marked failure to draw on the essential lessons of their architectural traditions. It is a pity that Judd never had the opportunity to witness the Y2K aesthetics in the 2000s, or Apple’s early presentations—especially with the introduction of the iPhone in 2007—and to see what followed afterwards. But we can imagine that, at first, he would have appreciated its detachment from the aesthetic overload of physical keyboards, small screens, and unnecessary decorative elements seen in brands like Motorola with its Razr series and early Nokia models, only to later criticised its aesthetic minimalism as something that had become empty—a trend he had already identified in industrial design, as just mentioned. “What kind of a society is it when you can’t even buy a chair…and a smartphone?” he might have added.

Luckily, many of Judd’s theories about the possibilities of design in a world dominated by mass production have come to life in tangible objects throughout the decades—totems of meaning from which, thirty-one years after his death, we can still draw inspiration today. His furniture continues to embody values of simplicity, geometric clarity, and honesty, which have not escaped criticism for their perceived discomfort: the result of his rejection of ornamentation and superfluous elements in favour of leaving materials unadorned, showcasing their raw, natural qualities. Thus, tables like the La Mansana Table (1982), chairs like the Narrow Frame Chair (1989), and other pieces like the Metal Bookshelf (1984) were born, all unified by box-like forms or rectangular structures, with careful attention to spatial relationships. Judd always argued that such criticisms reflected persistent bourgeois expectations: “Rather than making a chair to sleep in or a machine to live in, it is better to make a bed. A straight chair is best for eating or writing. The third position is standing.” And since we won’t be standing forever, the only question left is: today, where would we buy a chair? And if we still don’t have an answer, or the one we have doesn’t satisfy us, that for sure means something.