I object.

I'm in a brightly lit department store on a crisp winter day, contemplating small bowls.

I know what I'm looking for in the general sense only: something to hold snacks. For years I've put a handful of nuts or chips in the little plastic bowls we used to feed our babies. They're the perfect size for it, but I'm a grown-up and I want grown-up things. Even the kids are grown up, come to think of it. I've been using primary coloured plastic baby bowls for my evening TV snacks for a decade.

Does a snack taste better from a good bowl? Probably not, though I'm pretty sure coffee tastes different from a plastic cup. I can say with confidence that both are more satisfying from a good receptacle. Good quality objects satisfy in different dimensions. They can be aesthetically pleasing – nice to look at. They can be ergonomically satisfying, the way a great kitchen knife feels right in the hand. Good objects aren't just functional. They have character and beauty, and we all need more beauty in our lives.

In fact, that everyday beauty might be the most important kind. Sōetsu Yanagi, the Japanese art historian and philosopher, argued that the beauty of everyday objects was more important than the fine arts, because we encountered them every day. "There is no greater opportunity for appreciating beauty than through its use in our daily lives," he wrote.

It's a philosophy that he dedicated his life to demonstrating, by collecting and curating crafted household objects. His Folk Crafts Museum opened in 1936 and still welcomes visitors in Tokyo today.

During his travels to collect objects, Yanagi came to some conclusions about what it was that he was drawn to. For a start, he scrupulously ignored the identity of the maker. He expressed his frustration at those who looked for the name first to judge the value of something. This was irrelevant to an object's quality and a distraction. Besides, signing an object makes it self-conscious somehow, as if it is "making an unwarranted claim on your attention." Anonymous objects can be appreciated entirely for what they are, not the reputation of their maker. They have no agenda, and so "the general feeling is one of freedom."

Yanagi was also drawn to items that were handcrafted. This felt particularly important at a time when Japan was industrialising rapidly. Mass-produced industrial objects had a glamour to them. They felt like progress, like the future. Yanagi wanted to draw people's attention to the unique character that comes from hand crafting in an era where those skills were being devalued.

Not that these handcrafted objects should be unique or bespoke – they were produced in quantity and available to everyone at an affordable price. The humble beauty of folk crafts, by definition, is open to everybody. Besides, unique and bespoke items are often made for display, to be set on a shelf and looked at, occasionally dusted. The seeker of everyday beauty can discount that sort of thing, looking instead for objects that are "wholesomely and honestly made for practical use".

Like my snack bowl, which I intend to use on a regular basis. Get the kids off to bed, shut down the laptop. Pour a drink. A symbolic moment of transition from evening to night, and the closing of responsibilities for the day. This is sacred time. It might not always feel like it, as we stick on the next episode of whatever mini-series we're watching, or sit at either ends of the sofa, reading or playing video games. But it is. It's often the only time that we get with just the two of us. It's time that matters, with a person who matters. As mundane as it might be, why shouldn't this time have its own sacred objects?

I have this vaguely in mind as I browse the tableware department. Beyond that perfect palm-size, I don't have a set idea in mind. I figure I'll know the right thing when I see it. It won't be plastic. I want something stable. That rules out the elegant little miso soup bowls, that look likely to tip over and scatter popcorn everywhere if I bump the table. I want something with the right weight, which rules out the stoneware or these double-walled stainless steel bowls that are otherwise a nice size.

It's here somewhere.

"There is no greater opportunity for appreciating beauty than through its use in our daily lives."

I'm not committed to all the tenets of Yanagi's philosophy. I don't necessarily aspire to fill my house with handcrafted things, but I am nonetheless drawn to the idea of everyday beauty. And here in a department store, surrounded by abundance, what I find myself thinking about is how this challenges the values of a consumer society.

Disregarding the maker’s mark is the very antithesis of branding. Take a Louis Vuitton bag. Yanagi would not be impressed at how desperately such a bag wants our attention, and how it speaks of privilege and wealth. “Society cannot be proud when a product is available to only a select few,” he wrote. “Equating the expensive with the beautiful cannot be a point of pride.”

Anonymity doesn't mean soulless objects, and that's the value of the handmade. Even if they are mass produced, there's still something distinctive and unique, a human touch that gives them character. My favourite mug isn't unique at first glance – I have a set of four that all look the same. But as they are hand painted, there are subtle differences. Thicknesses of paint, the streaks left by a paintbrush along the handle. I don't think about these things 99 per cent of the time when drinking from it, but I like the connection that's possible here. There was a maker, a real person, and I can see the evidence of their care and attention to detail. The distance between maker, object and user feels shorter, and there is a warmth and humanity to this mug. I would be sad to lose it, which is why I have four of them.

In an age of disposable convenience, choosing household objects more purposefully also prompts us to think about durability. This isn't just important because it reduces waste. There's a companionship that comes with well-loved and well-used objects. Having broken a couple of glass cafetieres, a friend gave me a steel one for my birthday. It was a thoughtful present, and only much later did they reveal that they had stolen it for me from a hotel room service trolley. This fact notwithstanding, I have used it every day for 20 years and it brings a simple joy to my morning coffee. Disposable objects have no such stories.

I am not a 'consumer' of these household objects. They do not need to be upgraded like a piece of technology. They won't go out of date like a fashion item. I will not lose interest in them because they were never all that interesting to begin with – part of what makes them easy to live with is that they are not attention seeking. These are humble, honest objects and I hope to enjoy them for a long time.

This is bad news for the marketing departments of consumer capitalism, which require things to be used up and replaced as often as possible. But we're paying a high price for that way of life, and I rather like the irony of undermining consumerism by paying more attention to what we own. To keep the wheels turning, consumerism needs us to value quantity and treat our possessions with disdain. Care and appreciation for quality is an act of resistance. As Yanagi wrote in 1943, "quality is how the heart and soul of a civilization should be measured".

This might sound like a lot of philosophy to bring to a shopping decision, but it isn't in practice. I choose a set of three little bowls, hand-turned from bamboo. Brightly lacquered on the outside, spiralling woodgrain on the inside. They are good quality. I like them. They will be well used.

They're from Thailand, not Japan – apologies to Mr Yanagi. I will make up for it by filling them with seaweed crackers and wasabi peas.