The ergonomic office chair I’ve recently purchased from a somewhat popular designer brand came with a 45-minute sermon from the sales assistant on lumbar support and anatomical design. But as I sat there, testing model after model in the showroom, a peculiar thought struck me: aren’t these just modern-day thrones, minus the velvet cushions and royal prestige?
Historically, chairs weren’t meant for the common folk. They were reserved for those who commanded — kings, queens, judges — while the masses depended on having enough luck to sit on a log instead of the ground beneath their feed. Thrones were more than furniture, they were physical statements of power.
If everything is political, so are chairs. Archaeological evidence shows that in ancient Egypt, even the humble wooden chair was a luxury item, while pharaohs sat upon golden thrones that literally elevated them above their subjects. But this isn’t mere speculation about ancient customs, as the same power play continues in corporate America: the CEO’s premium leather chair versus the intern’s squeaky, should-have-been-replaced-years-ago cheap seat. Same symbolism, different era.
There is a delicious irony in how something ostensibly designed for comfort so effectively reinforces power dynamics. The privileged are those who get to sit all day, engaging in “knowledge work” while others stand in assembly lines, stock shelves or clean floors. The very act of prolonged sitting has become a marker of social status.
God forbit we sit for hours on end without perfectly aligned spines.
This sardonic observation points to a deeper truth: our pursuit of the perfect chair mirrors a broader cultural obsession with optimization. Just as we endlessly chase happiness through self help books and productivity apps, there is a constant seek for the mythical perfect chair that will solve all society’s postural sorrows. It’s nothing but another battleground in the war for personal efficiency, where every aspect of human existence must be optimized, perfected, controlled.
High-end office chairs have become status symbols, with prices that could feed a family for months. Companies like Herman Miller and Steelcase have built empires on the promise of ergonomic salvation, their marketing materials read like medical textbooks full of terms like “sacral support” and “dynamic recline technology”.
The absurdity isn’t lost on me as I write this, comfortably settled in my new chair, engaging in a centuries-old ritual of power, comfort, and compromise. At least while I’m participating in this very system, my back feels properly supported while I contemplate if my medieval counterpart might have yearned for a seat at the noble’s table while questioning the divine right of kings. Perhaps the real insight isn’t about chairs at all, but about how objects reveal our social hierarchies, our aspirations, and our contradictions. Every time there is adjustment to lumbar support or swivel in ergonomic thrones, there is a performance of an ancient drama of status and comfort, power and submission.
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