A hinge, drain cover, bracket, a hose clamp… you walk past dozens of them every day and most likely don’t notice any of them, because that is precisely what they are built to do. They work invisibly, in the background, holding things together so well that you never have a reason to look. The Italian designer Bruno Munari spent much of his career arguing that the most honest design wasn't the heroic object but the modest, functional one. Victor Papanek made a related case in Design for the Real World, insisting that the objects which matter most are often the ones nobody thinks to credit. Hardware sits at the furthest edge of that argument. It is design with the authorship deliberately scrubbed out: standardised, mass-produced, sold in shops rather than galleries, and valuable because it disappears into its function as part of something else.
Liang-Jung Chen has built a practice around noticing these objects. The London-based artist, designer and researcher – originally trained in industrial design in Taiwan – is the founder of Hardware Archive, a growing digital collection of household hardware items sourced from shops, factories, online research and informal tip-offs sent in by followers around the world. Each object is photographed individually on graph paper, arranged in a gallery-like grid. There’s a skatestopper, a cow ruminal magnet, a lipped handed fairlead, a snaffle bit, a horse brass, a bus drop grip. And the more familiar ones too like a pipe valve, a door wedge and a hose clamp. Formalised in 2021, the archive now holds hundreds of entries, each one showing that the unglamorous and the anonymous deserve the same recognition as anything hanging in a museum.
The project started spontaneously, as these things often do. In 2017, Chen was working as a freelance furniture designer in an industrial park in rural Taiwan, surrounded by factories producing components for global export. Chen began collecting sample parts directly from the source, and alongside that, developed a growing fascination with hardware shops themselves. The first phase of the work began as a collaboration with a friend making what was called The Misused, a project that repurposed hardware components into domestic objects. The idea drew on the resourceful, makeshift sensibility Chen had observed growing up, where older generations improvised with whatever was available. Over time, though, the objects featured in The Misused started to become the subject.
After moving to London in 2018, Chen began noticing how different the hardware available in UK shops was from what they'd grown up with in Taiwan – proof that even the most standardised, mass-produced objects can still be shaped by specific locations and economies. That discovery became the conceptual backbone of the archive ever since. Below, Chen talks through the project in full, explaining what hardware actually is, where the objects come from, why building an archive of things that already exist has made them think twice about making anything new, and what's next for a project they describe, with a kind of affectionate ambivalence, as “a side quest”.
How would you define hardware, and what does it mean to you personally?
My own definition of hardware is that it is a semi-finished good. It cannot function on its own – it only operates in relation to other materials. It is typically something standardised, mass-produced or batch-made, and accessible through shops rather than being customised.
Personally, I think this connects to the way I pay attention to the world. I’ve always been more drawn to observation than fiction – I tend to notice small, seemingly unimportant details in everyday environments. I’m often the kind of person who points out random stuff on the street that others might overlook. I’m drawn to the aesthetic of this kind of half-finished artefact. It feels like a puzzle or a clue – something that points towards a larger structure that isn’t fully visible. There’s a certain openness to it: you don’t know exactly what the final configuration will be, and there is freedom in how it can be used. Its function is elastic and tolerant.
Where do you source the objects?
In the beginning, it started quite simply with spending time in hardware shops, especially when I travel to other countries. I am drawn to objects whose functions I didn’t immediately understand – I would note down their names and research them later. The process of not knowing, and then gradually finding out, became an important part of the work.
Over time, the process has expanded online. I follow different threads through continuous searching and browsing, keeping an evolving document of potential objects. The archive also grows through informal exchanges – people occasionally send me suggestions via Instagram, adding another layer of circulation to the project. Since 2024, I’ve also been using ChatGPT to identify unfamiliar hardware, although it remains a relatively under-discussed area and there is still a fair amount of hit and miss. It still feels like an ongoing treasure hunt.
Many of the objects in the archive are anonymous and mass-produced. Why are these overlooked designs worth documenting?
The way we live has changed significantly over time, and hardware quietly underpins many of those shifts. In that sense, hardware carries a very quiet form of zeitgeist – one that is embedded in material and everyday use. I’m particularly interested in vernacular hardware – items that are shaped by collective local wisdom. Even in an increasingly globalised world, these small differences persist. They reflect how people respond to specific environments, constraints, and ways of living, often in subtle but highly practical ways.
Has building the archive changed the way you look at ordinary objects?
In some ways, I’ve come to see hardware as a kind of jewel that brings different materials together. I am deeply fond of the precision and intelligence behind these mechanisms. It has made me look more closely at ordinary artefacts, often questioning their origins – where a design comes from, why a particular material is used and how it is manufactured. At the same time, building the archive has made me more cautious about making. Encountering so many objects that already exist so effectively raises questions about production – how to justify extracting more resources to create something new that may not be as necessary or considered. In that sense, the archive has made me a more conscious and intentional practitioner in relation to what I put out there.
Is there a particular object that captures what interests you most?
It’s difficult to pick a favourite, but one of my recent finds is the pavement light prism, which is commonly seen in London. These are flat, walk-on glass elements set into pavements or floors to channel daylight into the spaces below. Many incorporate prism structures that refract and redirect light deeper into buildings. Developed in the 19th century, they became widespread before the adoption of inexpensive electric lighting in the early 20th century. What interests me is how something so subtle can have such a direct impact on how a space is experienced. It also reflects a moment in time when electricity was not yet widely available, and daylight had to be carefully channelled and maximised. ⠀
What’s next for the project?
Hardware Archive has always existed as a kind of side quest within my practice. It’s not a theme I want to fix myself to, nor a project I’m interested in fully capitalising on. I tend to work on multiple projects of different disciplines simultaneously in my not-very-well-organised studio.
That said, I’m currently developing the project through a more focused period of research on Hardware culture. I’ve been working with the collection at the Museum of the Home, going through a range of lesser-known objects with the curatorial team, alongside reading materials from their library – particularly around mid-century British hardware. Later this year, I will also undertake a research residency in Japan with Tokyo Arts and Space, which will allow me to expand the project beyond a Western context and explore different material cultures. This research will feed into an exhibition in London in 2027, where the archive will take on a more spatial and immersive form. Watch this space!