Century gadgets endure: a living history in Western Australia
In a world of single-use electronics, a quiet counterculture clings to devices built to last. Across Western Australia, century gadgets—from old film cameras to early video gear and sturdy kitchen appliances—are being kept alive not by corporations, but by the hands of collectors, repairers, and everyday families who value embedded memories as much as craftsmanship. The story of Ron Coald, whose Albany home hosts a remarkable collection, is a vivid example of how durable technology can outlive trends when people choose maintenance over disposal.
“I used to collect old movie film from the projector box in the Katanning cinema,” Ron Coald once recalled. “It built up from that; I bought my first camera when I was a schoolboy.” His remark underscores a broader truth: these aren’t merely objects, but custodians of moments—frames of film, buttons of a shutter, the tactile heft of a device that spoke to a different era of everyday life.
Repair as stewardship: a carpenter of devices keeps the culture alive
In Albany, a dedicated craftsman named Neil Harrison keeps century gadgets functioning, one stubborn resistor at a time. His workshop is a refuge for people who want to rescue gear that still works or once did. Harrison says the work has broadened beyond audio-visual gear as the repair market widens to cover “other stuff” with sentimental value or practical utility. “Sometimes it’s sentimental value, sometimes it used to work well and people want it to work well again,” he explains.
The repairer has noticed a clear shift in the kinds of devices arriving for attention. Vinyl records have enjoyed a revival, and so have the machines that play them. Yet the edge of his work remains the same: patience, precision, and a respect for how things were built. This ethos is what keeps the era’s devices in circulation in a world where modern electronics often travel a shorter shelf life.
Made for repair: the tantalizing differences between old and new gear
Harrison draws a line between yesterday’s and today’s electronics. “Modern electronics, sometimes that can be done, but most of the time it’s almost like replacing circuit boards,” he notes. “Everything has become very miniaturised, surface mounted, and it can be a little bit tricky to actually repair at component level.” The result is a cultural shift: sustainability and repair demand a different kind of skill set than mass production and quick replacements. The century gadgets that survive are often the ones with repairable heartstrings, built to be serviced rather than tossed aside.
Durability at home: a 1970s mixer and a lifetime of use
Further east in Quairading, Elaine Johnson’s kitchen tells a similar tale. She still uses the electric mixer she bought soon after marrying in 1972. “I was a young police woman on duty in the Hay Street Mall and I saw it being demonstrated,” she recalled. The mixer’s continued operation is more than nostalgia: it’s evidence that a well-made appliance can carry out daily tasks for decades without sacrificing reliability or performance.
Across WA, these stories form a chorus about the value of repair and the resilience of well-made devices. They remind us that century gadgets stand the test of time not just for their materials, but for the people who care for them, the spaces that shelter them, and the memories they carry forward into the present. In an age of disposable tech, choosing to repair can be a quiet, meaningful act—a decision that prioritizes longevity, history, and a better future for the next generation of curious hands.
Why stories like these matter
From the Katanning cinema’s projector booth to an Albany workshop and a Wheatbelt kitchen, the arc of these objects reflects a broader social shift: a growing appreciation for durability, repair culture, and circular economies. Century gadgets may be old, but their relevance endures when care and expertise around them remain alive. The next time a vintage camera or an electric mixer sparks a memory, remember that in these moments, the past isn’t gone—it’s being kept closest to the heart by people who refuse to toss away the things that tell their stories.
