The beauty of grit
When does new become old? I ask myself this all the time. When exactly is the moment that something new suddenly becomes old? I’m not trying to define what “new” or “old” is, but rather pinpoint the moment when something stops being modern or desirable and starts fading into the background, eventually forgotten, torn down to make way for something new.
Maybe it’s the environment I grew up in, but when you live in a city that’s so pristine, you kind of start missing the grit. Don’t get me wrong—when I say "grit," I don’t mean literal dirt. I’m talking about charm, imperfection, character, history. So when you hear me use the word “grit” or “dirty,” think of it in that sense.
These days, you see it more and more—buildings and spaces getting demolished or renovated because they no longer fit the modern cityscape. They’re labeled old and unpleasant. Back in the day, that kind of “grit” was valued. Old buildings didn’t need to be torn down immediately. They were used, accepted for what they were—lived-in spaces that carried stories. They weren’t discarded the moment they stopped being shiny and new.
When I see an old, rundown building, my first thought is always: “This was once new and exciting, and people were in awe of it.” I wonder about the stories that played out there. Did the young people who lived there ever think about the fact that one day they, too, would grow old and be forgotten?
“What was it like back then?”
One of my favorite things to do is sit in bars or cafés that probably should’ve been renovated decades ago. Bars with dim lighting, where the walls are yellowed from years of cigarette smoke. Places that hold on to their charm and history.
I imagine the people who hung out there—thinkers, poets, artists, musicians, photographers, maybe even high society types, all mixing together. Parties were thrown, deep conversations happened, maybe even a few dramas played out. These spots have character, they have soul. I could spend hours in them, just asking myself, “What was it like back then?”
But today, everything feels like it has to be new and perfect. The old gets torn down, and something shiny and flawless gets put in its place—perfectly designed and “unique.” But how unique is it, really? Most of the time, these new designs look like copies of each other. Everything feels the same. There’s no charm, no grit. Bars all look the same. Modern buildings are just blocks with windows and doors. What happened to the love for detail? The passion to make even a simple apartment building impressive and unique?
Maybe I’m being too dramatic, and this is just the cycle we have to go through over and over again. What’s new becomes old, old gains history, charm, imperfection, and eventually it’s considered dirty and needs to make way for the new. And it all starts again. I wonder when the things we consider “new” today will be seen as old, and people will look back on them with nostalgia, the same way we now look back on the '70s, '80s, or '90s.
Personally, I miss the time when it was okay not to be perfect. A time when “gritty” wasn’t a bad thing, but just part of the experience. It brought personality, a certain character with it.
I’m craving more imperfection, more authenticity, more honesty, more grit.