The Weight of a Pen

Recently I spoke at Objectspace as part of their Design Lives Here series.

All speakers were asked to select a beloved object or design item in their lives. I pondered many things. It was a moment to reflect—not just on design as outcome, but on the quieter tools that shape how we work. The objects we carry. The ones we return to, day after day.

For me, that object is a pen.

I've carried one my entire working life, and for the last 25 years, it has been a black lacquer DuPont with palladium trim. I’ve owned several—replacing it every five years—but they’ve all been the same. The form never changes. Only the patina changes, worn by time and use.

I only use black ink. Never blue. It’s a small thing, but it matters—clean, clear, and final. That pen has written every Crane Brothers collection: four a year, for 25 years. Dozens of garments, each begun by hand, in ink. It’s made notes in showrooms, circled fabric codes, adjusted lapel widths mid-flight.

Every made-to-measure suit still begins with a handwritten order. I average fifteen a week—nearly a thousand a year. That’s over 18,000 commissions committed to paper before they start. All drafted in the same ink, with the same pen.

And every Crane Brothers jacket includes a pen pocket. It’s not there for show. It’s there because I use it. That’s where the pen goes—through recessions, pandemics, good times and bad. If I forget it, I turn back. Its absence throws the day off balance. There’s a certain weight to it. Not just the brass, but what it represents: habit, intention, care.

Then, as equally important, are the personal notes—birthday cards, farewells, small gestures of thanks and affection. Too many to count. Quiet, consistent marks of presence. Of showing up.

Dieter Rams once said, “Good design is as little design as possible.” I’d add: good design is something you use and appreciate every day. Not something you put away for later. Something that becomes part of your rhythm.

I’ve already decided I’ll be cremated with the most recent version—whenever that may be. The brass likely won’t survive the fire. But by then, it will have done its job—quietly, completely.

This pen isn’t a keepsake. It’s a working object. It’s how I begin.

And it will be with me at the end.