Fake vs Real Part II: The Camaleonda

Like the Capitol Complex chairs, and other recently ​‘refound’ design pieces, the Cama­le­onda is not just a sofa of the moment. It has a signif­i­cant history. Bellini debuted his Cama­le­onda design to the New York design world in the summer of 1972, as part of an exhi­bi­tion of Italian design at the Museum of Modern Art, enti­tled ​“Italy: The New Domes­tic Land­scape.” The exhi­bi­tion presented the work of a new wave of Italian design­ers, each inves­ti­gat­ing new ways of living through inno­v­a­tive mate­ri­als and production methods. 

Follow­ing that auspi­cious debut, the Cama­le­onda became almost imme­di­ately iconic. The sofa has a sprawl­ing sense of freedom, and could be added to over time. The easy modular form, combined with a limited edition produc­tion-run quickly propelled the sofa to the status of collec­tors-item. Mixing the Italian words cama­le­onte (chameleon) and onda (wave), Bellini captured the radical freedom and adapt­abil­ity the sofa offered in its name. But today, that adapt­abil­ity is not limited to recon­fig­u­ra­tions of the sofa modules within a room. Like the Capitol Complex chairs, the Cama­le­onda is subject to dupli­ca­tions and adap­ta­tions of the sofa itself. Illicit repro­duc­tions and deriva­tions are now readily avail­able through online stores for a slither of the price of a real piece. 

The relaunch of the Cama­le­onda brought renewed inter­est in the bulbous piece, which suddenly appeared every­where from insta­gram feeds to the homes of celebri­ties. But, typi­cally, the most desir­able prod­ucts also become the most repro­duced. The market flooded with fake Cama­le­onda sofas. Consumers play a central, if silent role in this process. From the comfort and anonymity of our homes we browse online, privately place items in our check­out carts, enter our card details and await deliv­ery. Our brows­ing and purchase history data is collected, becom­ing evidence of our collec­tive desires and demands. With this evidence in hand, compa­nies refocus their offer­ings on the objects most likely to sell and gener­ate profit. So while it might not seem prob­lem­atic for each of us to indi­vid­u­ally buy one fake sofa, or one knock-off chair, our actions as indi­vid­u­als collect together to create an aggre­gate demand. The result­ing impact is felt deeply across the wider design industry. 

So as the prolif­er­a­tion of fake prod­ucts contin­ues, concerns for the future of the design indus­try only grow. The more power we give to fakes, the more the role of design­ers becomes increas­ingly unten­able. Without confirm­ing the value of their work by support­ing it through purchases, the ability for design­ers to invest time and craft in new pieces is limited. To be able to build a life around their prac­tice, vision, and craft, the support of consumers who purchase and share their designs is para­mount. If we consider each of our purchases as a kind of commit­ment, then purchas­ing a real, orig­i­nal design is a way of making a commit­ment to people. It is an acknowl­edge­ment of skill, wisdom and craft. It is a recog­ni­tion of the value of the people that drive and enable the produc­tion of design. 

To buy a fake, then, is a commit­ment to having, at the expense of support­ing. It is a confir­ma­tion that the look of the thing is more impor­tant than its phys­i­cal mate­ri­al­ity, struc­ture or quality. That being able to share a snap of your­self loung­ing on your new ​‘Cama­le­onda’ on social media is more valu­able than the lives of those who poured hours into the real piece. It is a denial of crafts­man­ship, of the time and patience, research, testing and reso­lu­tion that goes into devel­op­ing a design product.