On Instagram, the hashtag “minimalism” boasts over 20 million posts, paradoxically inundating the digital realm over the past decade. Stark white walls, nearly empty bedrooms, compact living spaces, and an unexpected array of Apple products dominate this aesthetic wave.
Minimalism, as a philosophy, challenges our consumerist tendencies, urging us to expend resources only on what is truly essential. Amidst green spaces, this notion has spurred transformations, inspiring individuals to reorganize everything from kitchen pantries to wardrobes. I, too, have partaken in this trend, dedicating weekends to meticulously curating my belongings and parting ways with sentimental relics under the banner of earning the coveted title of a “minimalist.”
“It’s a mindset, not a movement,” echoes in my thoughts as I contemplate the essence of minimalism. According to the Merriam-Webster definition, minimalism is characterized by extreme simplicity and sparseness, prompting me to ponder whether it’s more about creating mental space than physically purging our homes.
In its pursuit, minimalism ought to transcend materialism, avoiding an exclusive focus on pricey, so-called “ethical” products. The essence of living minimally lies not necessarily in eliminating possessions but in cherishing and caring for what we have. Repurposing, reusing, and mending become the pillars of a genuinely minimalist lifestyle, emphasizing that what we already possess is, indeed, sufficient.
However, the minimalist trend has not escaped critique, especially concerning its class implications. While seemingly noble, minimalism is rooted in privilege, promoting a form of consumption accessible only to those who can afford it. It hints at a moral elevation from mindless consumerism, allowing individuals to adopt aesthetics and morals associated with poverty without actually experiencing it.
The dichotomy between choosing to live simply and being impacted by poverty becomes apparent, challenging the notion that minimal living is universally noble. The concept of “minimizing” presupposes surplus, an assumption that doesn’t hold true for everyone. Minimalism can inadvertently romanticize poverty, portraying simpler living as a morally superior choice—ignoring those who live with less out of necessity.
The past year has underscored the importance of material possessions, especially for those who have experienced hardship or displacement. The anxiety surrounding COVID-19 prompted frantic stocking up, a reality familiar to those affected by calamity or emigration. For some, holding onto possessions becomes a survival necessity, as uncertainty looms over when or if they can be replaced.
Moreover, not everyone possesses the luxury of contemplating and executing minimalist ideals. Those focused on self-care, battling oppressive systems, or caring for loved ones may overlook the time and resources required for decluttering.
It’s crucial to recognize that material possessions often streamline our daily lives, affording moments for rest, social interactions, and self-care. The idea of “slowing down” may prove challenging for many, and sometimes, having extra belongings is vital for mental well-being. Not everyone has the means to frequent a laundromat or owns a washer and dryer, and we must acknowledge the challenges faced by parents unable to sanitize baby bottles after each use.
In the end, minimalism should not be an all-or-nothing expectation. The pressure to fully commit, akin to the zero-waste movement, can be unreasonably high. A nuanced perspective allows us to appreciate the benefits of a minimalist mindset while acknowledging the complexities of individual circumstances.
