How many times can you redraw a chair? For Erich Dieckmann, the answer was at least 64. But it’s not about the number — it’s about the idea. Dieckmann’s 64 sketches of a single chair profile aren’t duplicates. They’re 64 variations on a theme. Sometimes the curve shifts slightly, sometimes the seat angle changes, sometimes it’s just the boldness of the line. But none of it is random. Every line is a reinterpreted thought.
So why would a designer go to such lengths? Especially in 1930s Germany — where materials were scarce, politics were unstable, and design was anything but playful?
In this piece, I’ll explore how Erich Dieckmann turned the quiet act of sitting into a formal investigation, and why his forgotten sketches might just be one of the most elegant meditations on design ever put on paper.
The Bauhaus Designer Nobody Talks About
Marcel Breuer. Walter Gropius. Mies van der Rohe. Everyone knows these names. But what about Erich Dieckmann?
Born in 1896, dead by 1944, Dieckmann trained as a carpenter at the Bauhaus. But he didn’t just build furniture — he built a philosophy. In 1931, he wrote: “One only finds warmth and sincerity where human nature is allowed to flourish… Let’s treat our homes to something humane. Something provisional. Something with space to grow.”
His furniture wasn’t flashy, but it was never generic. It was disciplined, almost architectural. But it always left room for life to sneak in.
Steel Tubing as a Constraint — Not a Preference
Erich Dieckmann was a master of wood. But the industrial 1930s demanded new materials, and he, like many of his contemporaries, turned to steel tubing — reluctantly.
He called it an “artificial product,” lacking the warmth of natural materials. But instead of rejecting it, he adapted. While Breuer and Stam embraced the cube, Dieckmann found curves. His metal chairs flowed. They felt bent by hand, not forged in a factory. And somehow, they remained soft. Human. As if even steel could be coaxed into empathy.
64 Variations on a Theme
Erich Dieckmann’s now-famous grid of 64 chair sketches is more than a study — it’s a design poem. Each drawing riffs on the same side profile, but with tiny shifts: a curve tightened here, a backrest lowered there, a line thickened or straightened.
It’s not just visual experimentation. It’s a meditation on how many ways you can say the same thing without repeating yourself. It’s Miles Davis in chair form. It’s Bach with an Allen key. And beneath it all is the designer’s hand, measuring, redrawing, reconsidering. Geometry becomes narrative. Form becomes language.
Modular, But Never Cold
Erich Dieckmann’s approach to furniture was both industrial and poetic. He believed in standardization — not for conformity’s sake, but to make good design accessible.
His Typenmöbel (type furniture) concept is a precursor to today’s modular systems: chairs, tables, and shelves that shared structural logic and could be mixed and matched with ease. They weren’t designed to impress. They were designed to live with you. And that’s what makes them brilliant — they’re rational, yes, but never robotic. Honest design, honest materials, honest use.
Why Was Erich Dieckmann Forgotten?
The sad truth is: Dieckmann didn’t go to America. He didn’t build skyscrapers or teach at Ivy League schools. He died at 48. He didn’t get a postwar second act. Breuer became a Bauhaus icon. Dieckmann became a footnote. And yet, he was every bit as refined as Breuer. As daring as Rietveld. As empathetic as Alvar Aalto. History, unfortunately, is not a meritocracy.
More Than a Chair
For Dieckmann, a chair wasn’t just a place to sit — it was a place to think. His 64 sketches aren’t a product catalog. They’re a form journal. A philosophical inquiry into what it means to rest, to lean, to occupy space. After seeing them, you may never look at a chair the same way again. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe sitting deserves a little more thought. Maybe, just maybe, design does too.
