Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, psychologist known for the concept of “flow” and sociologist Eugene Rochberg-Halton wrote many years ago: “Things that people hold in their hands “conduce permanence in life.” one’s intimacy”. Everything,” an early and profoundly influential foray into the psychology of materialism, “and therefore the things most involved in the making of his or her identity.”
Their conclusions were based on a survey of 82 families about a total of 1,694 meaningful objects in the home. They write: “We have found that things are valued not for the material comfort they provide, but for the information they convey about their owners and their relationships with others.” Furthermore: “We are beginning to notice that people who deny meaning to objects also lack any strong network of relationships between people.”
Of course, that doesn’t mean minimalists are inhuman or that the connection really depends on material totems. But these personal associations between meaning and object certainly challenge the familiar critique that material attachment is a signaling function of emptiness. Describing clutter as something for “people who have a multitude of objects that each have their own story to tell,” Apartment Therapy added the important point that this means “things they love.” like it, no matter how odd, petty, or unimportant it may seem to someone on the outside.” We can imagine an audience, no matter how intimate, for messy stories. But really, these are the stories we’re telling ourselves.
And that’s fine – or more. Because the things you already own are more likely to be intertwined with the people and experiences that give life meaning. That’s why your weird old mess is probably more important than any It-object improvements you might get next. (Often, I suspect, the minimalist directive “clean up” is actually the last sneaky materialist argument that you need to clean up the trendy, influencer-hyped stuff. enjoy… so you can make room for tomorrow.)
More importantly, as I argued with my mother, no one else will enjoy your mess as much as you do. For nearly a decade, I have taught an annual object writing workshop for the design studies department of the New York School of Visual Arts. Many participants from all over the world have consistently chosen subjects-objects that most of us might consider messy — coffee mugs, lighters, poodle pins — but the stories they tell Talking about them has deep meaning and serves as a useful way for students to introduce themselves.
More recently, I worked with author and editor Joshua Glenn to explore his interest in a genre of material culture that has not received much attention but offers a different approach to neatly arranged: the meaning of the things that we ever owned. Specifically, we asked many writers and artists to tell us about things they’ve lost – lost, broken, stolen, thrown out, given away. Some even describe intentionally throwing away stuff — a pair of walking shoes, a piece of macramé art, a Dodge Dart — just to expect to see it again, or at least to complain. breathe about the loss of time it represents. In almost every situation, nothing clarifies an object’s instrumental value more thoroughly than its complete disappearance.
I’m sure you can think of a personal example: an object that has disappeared from your life that you would like to get back or at least see again. But I wonder – did you know that, when things go awry, you miss it? If my mother had entrusted her collection of bird figurines to me, would she have bothered to glance at the empty spaces on the shelves where they were displayed?
