My Deep-Dive into Minimalism

Graphic by Ruth Ellen Berry.

I left Northwestern for a quarter, and during this time I kept most of my personal belongings in a storage space. When I returned in the winter, my storage had disappeared. I tried and failed to recover the lost items, which included all of the art I’d stored over the years, letters from family and friends, books and most of my clothes. I would have to start over, I thought — to commence the tedious process of buying all of the items that constitute a life. 

Over the past few weeks, I have reflected upon the importance I place in material items. My connection to my “things” — personal memorabilia, clothes, art — has always been deeply intertwined with my attachment to, and nostalgia for, the past. Without these items, I feel that I have lost some of the memories that they represented. I remember with yearning the items which are now forever lost: the painting my best friend made me, my last letter from my grandpa, the NorCal hoodie that reminded me of the Surf Shop in Pacifica. Now a junior in college, I can feel my past selves — my high school self, my college-freshman self — slip away from me like ghosts. My belongings gave substance to the people and identities I used to carry with me; now, it feels as if those are gone, too. 

I also faced a frightening sense of newness. Who am I, when I no longer possess the material items that constitute my identity? Is it possible to have a sense of style and a sense of self without my belongings? This caused me to consider the socioeconomic implications of fashion, as well as the freedom of expression that privilege and wealth provide. 

I have also become interested in the minimalism movement and its alluring “less is more” mentality. More and more people have adopted minimalist lifestyles in the last decade, as society has begun to grapple with the havoc that mass consumption is wreaking on society and the environment. 

Minimalism is particularly popular amongst wealthy millennials, who are already privileged enough to “choose” to have less things. As Jia Tolentino points out in this New Yorker article, “Less is more attractive when you’ve got a lot of money, and minimalism is easily transformed from a philosophy of intentional restraint into an aesthetic language through which to assert a form of walled-off luxury.” 

Tolentino suggests that the “choice” of minimalism implies an inherent precedent of materialism and privilege; this is compounded by the strangely aloof, sleek visual style which has become associated with minimalism in recent years. This style, Tolentino argues, only furthers the goals of capitalism: it is “a vision shaped by the logic of the market: the self is perpetually being improved. …it methodically sheds all inefficiencies and flaws.” 

However, minimalism doesn’t have to be a means to achieve a sleek, aesthetically pleasing lifestyle. I believe that it can also promote a more spiritual approach, wherein, instead of serving as an escape from the messiness of our modern realities, it can clear the space to directly grapple with these issues. Without my items, I have been confronted with the memories associated with them. I have considered the sheer quantity of what I owned, the mark that these items have made on the environment and the many people and systems that went into producing those things.  

Who am I without these items? Who do I have the capacity to become? Since my storage was lost, I have found myself treasuring and delighting in the items that I have kept with me. This gratefulness makes me feel a profound sense of style and self. I feel immensely thankful for what I owned, and what I am privileged enough to still own. I will never again take these things for granted.