My home recently underwent a “reorganization”— my wife’s favored euphemism for the rearranging of items so that I can no longer find them. Supposedly, these periodic cleanouts are conducted in the name of efficiency, but I believe they’re at least partially motivated by her secret delight in keeping me in a perpetual state of confusion and bewilderment.
While moving some books from one area to another, she commented on the need to buy a small bookcase to house them. As my ears perked up and I prepared to ask my standard, always-appreciated battery of questions to aid her in determining whether the proposed purchase was really necessary, I realized that a better solution was readily available, in the form of several thousand tiny plastic bricks.
Lego bricks have been put to use in a myriad of unconventional ways, as mosaic, sculpture, and even prosthetic animal limbs. My own experience with Legos goes back more than 40 years, to an era when Lego minifigures stood blankly where they were placed, straight, immobile, and faceless. The “Lego Space” sets of the late 1970s and early 1980s were among my favorite playthings as a kid, and I loved looking at Lego idea books, which wordlessly immersed a kid’s imagination in a world of possibilities—if only we had the bricks. I still have photographs of some of my childhood creations, including many residences (or, as I preferred, “headquarters”) built for later-edition minifigures lucky enough to have actual faces and movable arms and legs. Although I didn’t become an architect—contrary to my parents’ predictions—the abundance of hand-cranked elevators, slides, and trap doors in those structures, along with a lack of interior walls and a general preference for battlements instead of balconies, suggests that the world was better off designing its buildings without me.
When my own kids got into Legos, we attended “Brickfairs” in Virginia and Philadelphia, which showcased the elaborate works of mostly adult builders who used Legos to create everything from World War II battle dioramas and replicas of famous buildings, to fantastic scenes featuring dragons, aliens, and memorably, “Amish in Space.”
Inspired by these displays, I sought raw building potential in the form of large quantities of bricks, and buying individual Lego sets was not the most cost-effective way to do it. I remember looking online around that time for bulk Lego bricks, and finding a guy with multiple eBay listings at a nearby apartment complex. I worked out a deal to buy in person and avoid shipping costs, and as I collected several heavy bags of color-sorted pieces from a large bouncer-type who didn’t speak and only opened his door wide enough to squeeze the bags through, the whole situation felt more like a drug deal than a toy purchase.
I used those bricks to build shelves and dividers for a thousand-plus CDs. They proved versatile, colorful, and functioned nicely as a conversation piece for many years. When I sold a number of the CDs, I dismantled the Lego shelves and boxed up the pieces. Now, like a hero dusting off the tools of his trade, I was being called upon once again to aid a family member in need.
“I don’t need that,” my wife protested. “I’ll just buy a bookcase.” She paused, then added, ”Really.”
“Nonsense,” I replied, dismissing her polite and much-too-delicate refusal. “Just give me the measurements you need.”
Over the next several days, I built to those measurements with the bricks I had, using five different colors—a choice born of necessity more than style—to create the finished product. “What do you think?” I asked my reluctant patron when it was finished. She delivered her verdict succinctly: “It’s hideous.”
Unfazed, I moved it into place, only to find that the measurements she’d provided were slightly off, and the bookcase didn’t fit where it needed to. I chose to view this as an accidental oversight rather than intentional sabotage, and perhaps out of guilt more than actual interest, my wife volunteered to help me rebuild the bookcase to fit the space.
I enjoyed the process—and I daresay, she did as well. It was like doing a jigsaw puzzle, but with a purpose, and it got me thinking about the potential for other Lego furniture in the house—desks, tables, chairs, beds… sure, there’d be some dot-sized imprint patterns on your skin to deal with, but a few thousand smooth tile Lego pieces could fix that problem.
Building big things requires an awful lot of Lego bricks, but some companies have started manufacturing much larger plastic bricks with the purpose of making things on the scale of real people, not minifigures. This feels a bit like cheating or at least an admission of Lego-building incompetence to me, since in my childhood, larger-sized blocks like “Lego Duplo” were reserved for preschoolers who couldn’t be trusted not to eat the regular-sized Lego bricks.
There’s also the issue of price. One company, EverBlock, makes these larger sized bricks, or as they call them, “modular building blocks.” They’re not as expensive per foot as new Legos, but they’re not cheap, either. EverBlock’s kit to build a 10 foot long, 7 foot high wall costs more than $1600, and a kit to build a 6 foot sofa will run you about $1000.
Given the number of old sofas I see on curbs every year, maybe there’s something to be said for less-than-luxurious furniture that can be easily broken down, reused, and repurposed when it’s no longer wanted. Having used a good percentage of my brick inventory on the bookcase, however, I’ll be keeping my focus on building small objects of limited usefulness, like a preschooler making clay ashtrays, mixed media pencil holders, and yarn-covered drink coasters—except my items will be built out of Legos.
The prospect of a Lego-built chessboard intrigues me, and I’m hoping to stage a minifigure-populated Nativity scene atop the bookcase this Christmas. If your kids aren’t using their Legos—heck, even if they are—take a few moments, and a few bricks, and build yourself something nice, or at least something colorful. If you run short on building materials, there’s always eBay—or some big, silent dude selling Legos from his apartment.