Unfolded for church basements, garage bands, and backyard funerals alike, the folding chair makes no claims to permanence or comfort. Its metal frame, cool to the touch regardless of season, creaks a single warning note upon being sat in, as if reminding the occupant of the arrangement's contingent nature. Its seat, a thin sheet of vinyl or plastic, offers just enough give to avoid outright hostility.
Stacked in closets between events, dozens deep, folding chairs form a kind of dormant congregation, waiting for the next occasion that requires more seating than a household naturally owns. They scratch floors, pinch fingers on the hinge, and tip backward with alarming ease on uneven ground, and still they are hauled out, year after year, because nothing else folds so flat or asks for so little storage. It is furniture that understands its own disposability, and wears that understanding without complaint.