In Defense of Ugly Ornaments
On learning to love the garish, the tacky, and the totally-falling-apart.
By Dan Howarth
’Twas a fortnight before Christmas, and all through the house, the “creatures” stirring were not mice, but the holiday ornaments—good, bad, and ugly—emerging from the attic. During the annual decorating ritual that takes place in my parents’ home in rural England, where they’ve lived my entire life, the scene never changes. John Denver’s Rocky Mountain Christmas crackles to life (the only time the record player is ever used), gin and tonics flow liberally, and laughter erupts as each deranged ornament is unwrapped from its tissue-paper cocoon and placed onto the tree, mantel, console, or literally anywhere there’s space.
This bizarre cast of festive characters—assembled over three generations—ranges from “slightly rough around the edges” to “should probably be exorcised.” Some belonged to my Nan; a few were made by me and my sister as kids; and many were collected from trips we’ve taken around the world. Each one comes with a story, gleefully retold as they’re hung one by one. A handful weren’t always ugly, but the years have taken their toll. (Relatable!) Allow me to introduce a few of the most egregious.
“Piss-Pants Santa,” who used to inhabit a charming snow globe, occupies a prominent position in the roster. His once-white frozen flakes have now aged into a yellow liquid that sloshes around his boots, as though control over his bladder melted away like a snowman in July. An unnamed peacock figurine is missing a leg—no one knows how or when this happened, but we all assume some untoward trauma was involved. A family of tiny teddy bears wears knitted sweaters that scream “Office Secret Santa.” One ornament, a naked angel sporting lipstick, fake lashes, leather boots, a belt, and nothing else, smokes a cig or other instrument—and, well, you can imagine what we call her. Tattered paper stars from preschool, ceramic pasta shells from Italy, a raffia angel from South Africa, and a starfish-shaped Santa (acquired in Maine the first time my family met my husband’s)—every last oddity finds a home on the needled boughs. At the crown of the tree sits a glass cartoon Tinkerbell bought at Disneyland Paris, while fairy lights, beads, and tinsel in every color ever produced cascade down the branches. Visitors never quite know where to look.
Our very “collected” approach to festive décor doesn’t stop at the tree. Presiding over Christmas dinner is a (1960s?) ceramic jug shaped like Santa’s head, which holds the rum sauce for our traditional British Christmas pudding. The presumably cursed vessel’s cracked paint, glaucoma in one eye, and vaguely threatening aura reliably elicit screams when dessert arrives—much to my mother’s joy. Saint Nick pops up again as a Russian doll set whose artist tried valiantly—but failed spectacularly—to fit Santa’s jolly face onto progressively smaller figurines. Our stockings do not match: My Nan lovingly made two of them; one came courtesy of a Coca-Cola promotional giveaway; the rest are of deeply mysterious origin. As Christmas cards arrive from friends far and wide, they’re strung across the hallway like mismatched festive bunting.
As a design-conscious youngster, I found the entire gaudy spectacle mortifying. Why couldn’t we have a tasteful, color-coordinated tree like the ones in movies or magazines? Why must our festive aesthetic be so garishly chaotic? For years I yearned for a chic, curated Christmas. But as an adult—and a design editor who sees more “perfect holiday décor” than any human should—I’ve realized that perfection is in fact the antithesis of holiday joy. I much prefer the idea of curation through stories and sentimentality, not through matching baubles to table settings. And I believe in the power of objects to hold memories and bond a family together better than an Instagram-worthy wreath ever could.
It recently struck me that the fir or spruce that pops up in our living room every December is actually our family tree, tracing the history of our loved ones, occasions, vacations, and the happiest times we’ve experienced together. I look forward to trimming it all year, because each ornament offers a chance to reminisce and compels a collective descent into giggles. Some families will fight over jewelry or silverware someday. My sister and I will playfully bicker over who gets the Santa jug, and it will spark both laughter and tears for many more years.
You could call this love of ugly ornaments a small rebellion against elitism in design. As social media proliferates images of immaculately decorated homes—typically those with abundant resources—every holiday season, it can be easy to feel pressured to replicate those scenes in our own spaces. This year, “Ralph Lauren Christmas” is already trending, and I’m sure people are racing to replace their entire ornament collection with preppy little accessories. Not only is this expensive and terrible for the environment—it also sounds exhausting and not much fun at all.
If designing a new trend-forward display every year genuinely thrills you, by all means, have at it. But if you’re just doing it for the likes or the clout, I urge you to reconsider. Decorating for yourselves—not the algorithm—might bring you closer to the people who matter.
So to you, discerning Wrong House readers: embrace your inner holiday chaos and find beauty in the meaning, not the aesthetic, of your ornaments. Seek out the weird, the wonderful, the sentimental, the hilarious, and yes, the ugly, and hang them with pride. Decorate not just with your eyes, but with your hearts—and preferably with a beloved vinyl playing, your tipple of choice in hand, and your favorite people around you, too. ⌂