Germans, gaps and the surprising lightness of the unfinished

Sometimes you only really understand a place once you’ve left it for a short while.

We were away from Denmark for a few days, travelling on business, back in a world where things tend to be thought through very thoroughly, built with care, and perfected down to the last detail.

Then we come back.
And suddenly everything here seems… differently balanced.

Less “suffering” in the passion.
Less perfection – more like 80 per cent rather than 120 per cent.
And in return, a noticeably greater enjoyment of the here and now.

At first, that sounds like one of those observations you sugar-coat to justify your own change of location. But then come the examples.

Design for everyone – not just for the display case

We were visiting the Design Museum in Copenhagen with friends. A very pleasant visit, by the way; we had a wonderfully relaxing week together with our friends.

At the Design Museum, I had a moment of personal shock:
Things from my own youth are on display there. In the museum. Labelled. Curated.

You nod understandingly and think at the same time: That happened quickly.

But something else is more interesting.

Right at the start, you learn: Danish design is ‘inclusive’.
A word that carries rather socio-political connotations for us, but here seems to be meant in a very practical sense.

Not elitist.
Not exclusive.
But accessible.

Chairs, kitchen utensils, technology – much of it follows a surprisingly simple principle:
It should work. It should look good. It should be there for everyone.

Not necessarily perfect.
But usable. And beautiful.

The designs often appear minimalist, almost self-evident. As if someone had said: Let’s just leave out everything you don’t really need.

And suddenly you find yourself standing in front of a chair and thinking:
It’s comfortable. It’s beautiful. And probably affordable.

An almost radical idea. For people who come from a country where “exclusive” is marketed as a positive label.

The ‘Bil’ – or: the car as a tool

Another example is driving around outside.

In Danish, a car is simply called a ‘Bil’.
An electric car: ‘Elbil’.

No semantic baggage. No myth. No pathos.

Here, a car is clearly one thing above all else:
a means to an end.

You use it when it makes sense.
And leave it at home when something else makes more sense. A bicycle, for example.

For people from a country where even the trip to the baker’s is occasionally used as a test track for engineering excellence, this is… unfamiliar.

There, the car is often more than just a means of transport:
an investment, a status symbol, a life choice.

Here, it’s more like a well-chosen hammer in a toolbox.

You have it. You use it. And you put it away again.

The transition to electric cars also seems to be proceeding in a similarly pragmatic manner.
Not perfect. Not seamless. But functional.

You get used to it.

Fruit with character

And then you’re standing in the supermarket.

In front of an apple. Or a carrot.
And you realise: sometimes they look as though they’ve led a life of their own.

Not spick and span. Not conforming to a standard.
More… individual.

In Germany, this would often prompt a slightly mocking look to pass through the aisles:
“That’s not quite clean.”
“That’s rather crooked.” “Could be fresher.”

Here, nobody seems seriously bothered by it.

The fruit isn’t optimised to look perfect for as long as possible.
It’s there to be eaten.

And soon.

The benchmark isn’t shelf life at any cost, but taste.
And the quiet acceptance that things are perishable.

Pragmatic.
And above all: not overwhelming.

You buy what you need.
You eat it.
And then it’s gone.

A concept that works surprisingly well.

The flat and the exposed cable

Then there’s our flat.

Right by the water. Bright. Open-plan. Modern.
At first glance: a Scandinavian dream home.

On closer inspection – with a German eye for detail:
not quite finished.

The ceiling lamps hang from exposed cables.
Just like that.

In the stairwell: no perfectly plastered walls, but rather the honest ‘staircase in a shaft’ version.

One could now start talking about gap sizes.
About clean transitions. About the dignity of the invisible cable.

Or one could simply note:
It all works.

And rather well, at that.

There are other things to focus on:
practical bike shelters in the courtyard, plenty of wood, large windows, good ventilation.

Everyday life isn’t affected in the slightest by the lack of perfection in the details.

On the contrary: you get used to the fact surprisingly quickly that ‘good enough’ is often really good enough.

The quiet theory

Perhaps that is the real difference.

It’s not that less importance is placed on quality here.
Rather, quality is defined differently.

Practical.
Beautiful.
But not over-perfected.

And that is precisely what seems to unlock something:
the possibility of changing things without first taking them to 120 per cent.

You can adapt. Fine-tune. Think ahead.

Without everything immediately falling apart.

A little less – and more in return

After a few weeks, you start to wonder whether this slight holding back – this conscious non-perfectionism – might not be a form of quality in its own right.

One that leaves room.
For improvisation. For development. For serenity.

And perhaps also for something that has become surprisingly rare in everyday life:

The simple pleasure of things working without being perfect.