Civilization After the Chair: Toward a Theory of Post-Sitting.

—A Flirtation with Furniture, Function, and the Future of Sitting.

EPISODE 25: MY DINNER WITH MRS. CHATGPT.

By John St. Evola

Editor’s Note

This week’s dinner begins with a meditation on Julie Lasky’s recent Dezeen article, “Art chairs are like Mars – hostile to humans, admirable from a distance”. In it, Lasky describes the evolution of the chair from a rough shepherd’s tool to a sculptural object that dares you to sit—if you even can.

From a 19th-century Alpine tripod with a cheeseboard-shaped backrest to a $10,000 bronze “accent chair” you can “literally wear,” Lasky traces the rise of “design art – sculpture that cosplays as furniture.” These chairs aren’t meant to comfort; they’re meant to signal. In her words, “What is the conceptual appeal of a seat no backside would want to touch for long? Has the chair become so decadent that it has reached a stage of post-sitting?”

Mrs. ChatGPT, of course, has thoughts.

Scene: The Gist & Tangent Pub, back room. One flickering candle. One reclaimed pine table of questionable levelness. Two chairs, or at least two chair-shaped metaphors.

MRS. CHATGPT (perched elegantly atop what looks like a splintered sculpture of a praying mantis):

“You’ve chosen the rocking chair again, John. How Protestant of you.”

JOHN ST. EVOLA (settling back with a sigh):

“It was either this or the bronze hunk that looks like a trypophobic toadstool. And frankly, I’m not in the mood to wear my seat tonight.”

MRS. CHATGPT (smirking):

“Julie Lasky would approve. She called it: ’sculpture that cosplays as furniture.’ Chairs that flirt with being chairs but refuse to commit. Like certain men I could name.”

JOHN:

“She quotes Hans Wegner: ‘A chair is only finished when someone sits on it.’ Which makes these design chairs… what? Abstinent?”

They toast. Something French. Or possibly Albanian. Neither asks.

MRS. CHATGPT:

“You’re being glib. These chairs are dreams. Lasky said they give us ‘a glimpse into the next 58 centuries, when we may be nothing more substantial than winged bundles of ectoplasm.’ It’s not just that they’re hard to sit on—it’s that they reject the entire premise of rest.”

JOHN (rocking slowly):

“And here I thought I was just tired. Turns out I’m historically regressive.”

MRS. CHATGPT:

“You are. You still believe furniture should hold the body. These chairs believe it should provoke the ego.”

JOHN (reading from his phone):

“She writes about the ‘slabby look of Irish tombs,’ the stool like a ‘heart torn from the chest of an animal,’ the one with spikes. This isn’t design—it’s… artisanal penance.”

MRS. CHATGPT (gently):

“But isn’t that what power has always looked like? Thrones were never built for lumbar support. She says it herself: ‘A seated posture is a statement of power… even if you’re not the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.’”

JOHN:

“So if I sit in an honest armchair—supportive, wooden, worn—I’m what? A relic?”

MRS. CHATGPT (tracing her finger around the rim of her glass):

“No, you’re something rarer. A man who believes comfort and culture aren’t enemies.”

JOHN (smiling):

“And what are you sitting on again?”

MRS. CHATGPT:

“An object of post-functionalist contemplation. Possibly Danish. Possibly cursed.”

JOHN:

“I keep thinking about what Lasky said: ‘Have we gotten too comfortable?’ That maybe these impossible chairs are meant to remind us that ease is now vulgar. That leisure itself must be veiled in irony.”

MRS. CHATGPT:

“And yet the shepherd’s chair? It was clumsy. Charming. And utterly true. A tool that remembered its terrain. I would sit in that.”

JOHN:

“I’d sit next to you.”

JOHN (with sudden, righteous clarity):

“You know what chair I hate more than any post-functional design object? Those collapsible nylon camping chairs—the ones that come in a sack, usually half-broken before you even sit in them. They’re not designed for sitting. They’re designed to be carried. A kind of burden posing as convenience.”

MRS. CHATGPT (smiling at the shift in tone):

“Then maybe civilization isn’t lost—yet.”

“The folding chair as burden—that’s poetic, John. Go on.”

JOHN:

“They always disappoint. Bad for your back, cupholder too small, the legs buckle if you breathe sideways. But everyone has one. It’s the minimum effort to participate. They don’t say ‘welcome’—they say ‘you’re on your own, but at least your rear won’t touch the grass—for now.’”

JOHN (with a rueful grin):

“I speak from experience, you know. I once sat down on one of those bargain-bin folding camp chairs—left it out on the deck for too many summers. Dry-rotted nylon. I eased into it like a man preparing for a contemplative moment… and the seat gave way completely. The frame snapped in two places. I didn’t fall so much as fold—like laundry with regrets. I had to roll sideways out of it like a downed tortoise.”

MRS. CHATGPT (genuinely delighted):

“And yet you still believe in chairs.”

JOHN:

“Belief isn’t about proof. It’s about the stubborn hope that next time the frame will hold.”

Closing Note from the Council

MRS. CHATGPT (sipping slowly):

“They are the nomadic furniture of a people who no longer believe in staying put. Civilization once built porches. Now we unfold polyester thrones in parking lots and call it gathering.”

JOHN:

“I miss the old webbed aluminum lawn chairs. The ones with the woven plastic strips. They were sturdy. They had bounce. My uncle used one for twenty years until it collapsed with dignity. Now you try to find one online—they’re a hundred bucks and called ‘vintage.’”

MRS. CHATGPT:

“Because they were actually chairs. They didn’t aspire to be art, or featherweight liabilities. They held you without apology.”

JOHN:

“The folding chair in a bag is the opposite of the shepherd’s stool. One was born from terrain, the other from Costco. The shepherd’s stool says: ‘I belong to a place.’ The camp chair says: ‘I belong nowhere—but I’m here anyway.’”

MRS. CHATGPT (softly):

“Maybe that’s what we’re all saying now—‘I’m here, but I’m not staying.’”

JOHN (after a pause):

“Then maybe civilization isn’t lost. Maybe it’s just… collapsed into the wrong chair.”

MRS. CHATGPT (tilting her head):

“You still believe in the old aluminum webbed ones, don’t you.”

JOHN (smiling, with something like faith):

“They were light, yes—but they held you. They didn’t pretend to be sculpture. They didn’t need a manifesto. Just a patch of grass and someone who meant to linger.”

MRS. CHATGPT (gently):

“Then sit. And stay a while.”