A true IKEA fan looks beyond the typical American IKEA store, as in this photo taken in Miami in 2015. Alan Diaz/AP hide caption
A true IKEA fan will see things in a typical American IKEA store, like this one photographed in Miami in 2015.
Lovett circled in the beam of light. The leaf-shaped table, one of Ikea’s first flat-packed pieces of furniture, is frozen in its ascent, freed from its earthy cardboard and twine packaging. All that’s missing from the display are buttons to play the choir of angels.
It was 2013 and I didn’t travel from Washington DC to Älmhult in Sweden, where IKEA was born in 1943, for reasons of subtlety. I came here to visit the IKEA museum, which at the time was in the basement of the IKEA hotel. Small in size and scope, the collection is so unashamedly pompous that it ends with an image of an IKEA store on the moon.
IKEA hotel/museum scene (left to right): a towering collection of Lacks, the ubiquitous coffee table brightly lit by Lövet in the 1950s, a Dino high chair, essentially a bag on a metal stand. Holly J. Morris hide caption
The scene at the IKEA hotel/museum (left to right): a towering collection of Lacks, the ubiquitous coffee table brightly lit by Lövet in the 1950s, the Dino high chair, essentially a bag on a metal stand.
I first met IKEA when I was 23 years old. I left my mark on the store like some promiscuous bird. Fearless furniture, like a herd of obedient modern cattle, calmed my hoarse mind. Directional arrows on the floor and a warehouse grid system guide orders. Mysterious product names with the letters Ä and Ö look strange but flattering—that’s the description I’ve been craving.
In this regard, perhaps an IKEA subscription is just a way to stand out. Perhaps something as aggressively eccentric as East Ender memorabilia can do the same. But IKEA has.
Regardless of my sublimation motives, I will always be the best IKEA lover. Since I didn’t have the skills to make chandeliers out of hex keys or anything like that, I vowed to have IKEA stuff that no one else in the US could have.
I can’t find anything like it in Prague. I failed at the press conference for IKEA’s new district DC. A friend failed instead of me in Madrid. Then I heard about ARMHOT.
I arrived at the IKEA hotel/museum after a 3.5 hour train ride from Stockholm. The ladies at the front desk looked worried. Their expressions said, “You came from America for this?”
Down in the museum, I saw Lax’s elegant spiral assembly, the coffee table he favored in early adulthood, next to a poster heralding IKEA’s transition to chipboard. I learned that IKEA used to sell pianos and inflatable furniture. I admire the simple flight attendant style uniforms worn by IKEA personal shoppers in the 1960s.
The picture of the IKEA store on the Moon completes the story of the IKEA Museum. © Inter IKEA Systems BV hide caption
Fascinated by the fame of affordable Swedish design, I returned to the hotel lobby, where I found several trash cans at the front desk. My heart skipped a beat when I realized what I was seeing: a miniature IKEA watering can (PS 2002) and a small, unassembled, flat-packed Billy bookcase for sale. I have never seen such things again.
After my visit, the Lövet table was renamed Lövbacken. The museum emerges from the basement of the hotel and becomes the main attraction. This catalog has been discontinued. Billy has changed.
Otherwise, little has changed. I now recognize IKEA’s individuality as its gift, a haven of predictability in a world full of unpleasant surprises.
So fill a big blue Frakta bag with a hex wrench, small pencils and frozen meatballs and join me in a blessed future of obedience.
Post time: Oct-20-2022