The beautiful ugliness of a plastic cup
After a pair of companion pieces about mundane objects we found fascinating, Ritwik Dey and I decided to start a series. We call it “Ugly Beautiful” — much like the show, we aim to celebrate the everyday objects we often take for granted.
A few weeks ago, after months of isolation, I met some friends for a socially distant happy hour in the park. Perhaps the experience of an outdoor social gathering after so long heightened my awareness of everything we were doing, but I found myself reflecting on the Solo cup, and what an unlikely little object it is to achieve such ubiquity in the American consciousness.
I first moved to the US in my 20's to go to grad school, and in American college life, the red plastic Solo cup is an intrinsic part — appearing everywhere from house parties to beer pong.
The Solo cup also has its own lore. A common assumption is that the lines on the cup are intended to correspond to standard serving sizes for different types of alcohol. Funnily enough, the lines do correspond roughly to those serving sizes, but it’s purely coincidental. While a users interaction with a product is always infused with personal meaning, I love it when products develop their own collective mythology.
The Solo cup is durable, light, cheap, stackable and holds up to beer pong. But I’m fascinated by it for the questions it raises beyond its functional appeal. Why did the Solo cup prevail in a market which was no doubt saturated with other plastic cups? Why is red the most popular color, despite the creator, Robert Hulseman’s preference for blue? Why haven’t consumers flocked to more aesthetically pleasing designs in the past 50 years?
There’s more Solo products that are worth talking about perhaps in a future post. The iconic Jazz cup, the conical water cooler cup and of course, the brilliant Traveler lid which is now featured at the Museum of Modern Art.
I’ll conclude with perhaps one of the biggest questions i’m left with. A friend recently asked about whether I truly appreciate these products for their function alone, or does nostalgia make me view them with rose colored glasses. I think it’s a great question. Can products that aren’t aesthetically pleasing be appreciated for their function without success, time and nostalgia? What do you think Ritwik Dey?
