The Lost Art of Craftsmanship

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Welcome back to Reflections Unfiltered. Today, we’re peeling back the layers on something that’s quietly slipped through our fingers—craftsmanship. Not just the word, but the spirit behind it. I keep thinking about how, in centuries past, a single object—a chair, a shoe, a bowl—could carry the weight of a person’s pride, their patience, even their family’s reputation. It’s wild, isn’t it? The idea that a thing could be more than just a thing. John, you’ve seen this up close, haven’t you?

John Harvey

Yeah, Nikki, I have. I mean, I remember as a boy in Holland, my father took me to this tiny cobblestone street—there was this old Dutch shoemaker, hands like leather, eyes sharp as tacks. He’d been making shoes the same way for, I don’t know, fifty years? Maybe more. Every stitch was deliberate. He’d talk about the grain of the leather, the way the sole should flex just so. There was this... reverence, almost. Like he was part of a lineage, not just a business. And, you know, as a kid, I didn’t get it. I just wanted to run outside. But looking back, it’s clear—he wasn’t just making shoes. He was making meaning.

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Meaning, yes. And now, we live in what some call the “age of expedience.” Everything’s about speed—how fast can you get it, how cheap can you make it, how many can you sell. We’ve traded patience for productivity, and somewhere in that bargain, the soul of the craft got lost. I mean, when was the last time you bought something and thought, “This will outlive me?” Instead, it’s “Will this survive the year?”

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It’s so true. And it’s not just nostalgia, is it? There’s a real shift. Mass production—on paper, it’s a marvel. It’s made things accessible, affordable. But it’s also, well, flattened the landscape. Suddenly, the story behind the object disappears. The hands, the hours, the tiny imperfections that make something unique—they’re gone. And we’re left with, what, a sea of sameness?

John Harvey

Exactly. And, you know, it’s not that mass production is evil. It’s just that, somewhere along the way, speed and cost started to matter more than quality. I mean, I get it—people want things now, and they want them cheap. But there’s a cost to that, even if it’s not on the price tag. We lose the connection, the sense of continuity. That old shoemaker—he was part of a chain stretching back generations. Now, it’s just... transactions.

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And the irony is, we’re surrounded by more things than ever, but maybe we value them less. The abundance makes each item feel disposable. It’s a quiet catastrophe, really. The loss isn’t loud, but it’s everywhere.

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Let’s talk about what that loss actually means. Because it’s not just about missing out on pretty shoes or hand-thrown pottery. There’s a ripple effect. When quality drops, things break. They end up in landfills. We buy again, and again, and again. It’s a cycle of waste—of resources, of time, of attention. And, honestly, of appreciation.

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I see it all the time, especially with my students. They’ll come in with gear—boxing gloves, yoga mats, whatever—that’s falling apart after a few months. And I’ll ask, “Where did you get this?” Nine times out of ten, it’s some online mega-store. There’s no story, no sense of care. It’s just... stuff. And when it breaks, it’s easier to toss it than to fix it. That’s a skill that’s vanishing, too—the ability to repair, to mend, to make do.

John Harvey

Yeah, and it’s not just physical skills. It’s cultural memory. Think about all the traditional crafts that are fading—blacksmithing, weaving, even something as simple as darning socks. These aren’t just hobbies; they’re ways communities used to bond, to pass down knowledge. When those skills disappear, something in the community goes with them. There’s a kind of amnesia that sets in.

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It’s like we’re forgetting how to value the invisible labor behind things. The patience, the discipline, the artistry. And when we lose that, we lose a bit of ourselves. I mean, what’s left when everything is replaceable? What do we anchor to?

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That’s the question, isn’t it? And it’s not just about objects. It’s about how we see the world. If we’re always chasing the next thing, never pausing to appreciate what’s in our hands, we miss the chance to connect—to the maker, to the process, even to ourselves. I think about what we discussed in our episode on Um-Yang—the art of balance. Maybe this is another place where we need to find it. Not just between old and new, but between convenience and care.

John Harvey

And, you know, there’s a cost to communities, too. When local crafts fade, so do local economies. People lose livelihoods, towns lose character. It’s not just nostalgia—it’s economics, it’s identity. And I might be wrong, but I think we’re only just starting to see the long-term effects.

John Harvey

But it’s not all doom and gloom. There are sparks—movements, people, even whole communities fighting to keep these traditions alive. I mean, look at the resurgence of handmade Japanese knives. Those blades are works of art, forged with techniques passed down for centuries. Or bespoke tailoring in London—still thriving, still respected. There’s a hunger for authenticity, for things that last.

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And it’s not just about the object, is it? It’s about the ritual, the relationship. When you buy a handmade knife, or a tailored suit, you’re not just buying a thing—you’re buying a story, a connection to a lineage. It’s a kind of quiet rebellion against the disposable culture. But I wonder—can that really scale? Or is it destined to be a niche, a luxury for the few?

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That’s the tension, isn’t it? I mean, I remember photographing a Muay Thai master in rural Thailand—he made his own training equipment. Every pad, every rope, stitched and knotted by hand. It wasn’t fancy, but it was beautiful in its own way. There was this sense of pride, of utility meeting artistry. And the students—they respected the gear because they knew where it came from. It made me think—maybe it’s not about going back, but about carrying something forward. Finding ways to blend tradition with modern life, even if it’s just in small pockets.

John Harvey

Yeah, and maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s not about overturning the whole system, but about making space for craft, for care, wherever we can. Supporting the makers, learning a skill, even just pausing to appreciate the work behind what we use. It’s a start.

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A start, yes. And maybe, just maybe, that’s how we remember what matters. Not by rejecting convenience outright, but by choosing, now and then, to honor the hands and hearts behind the things we hold. That’s the real art, isn’t it?

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It is. And that’s where we’ll leave it for today. Thank you both—John, Eden—for your stories and your wisdom. And thank you to everyone listening. We’ll be back soon, exploring new corners of this wild, beautiful world. Until then, take care of yourselves—and maybe, take a moment to notice the craft in your own life. Goodbye, everyone.

John Harvey

Goodbye, Nikki. Eden. Always a pleasure.

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Farewell, you two. And to our listeners—may you find something worth keeping, and someone worth thanking, before the day is done.