Minimalist or Pack Rat?
Marie Kondo might be the newly appointed patron saint of minimalists, but to us artsy, book loving historians her appeal is limited. Ever since Netflix has aired her self-help documentary series, the country seems to be caught up in Kondomania with thrift shops reporting a dramatic rise in inventory levels. Don’t get me wrong, I get it!
Kondo is from Japan. I have been to Tokyo sixteen times over six years and shopped all the cities’ districts from funky Harajuko to tekkie Akihabara. There is an abundance of merchandise adorned with images of adorable cartoon characters or adventurous action figures. Despite the hefty price tags few Japanese can resist so much cuteness. After all Japan is the place where one can see 30-year-old business men wearing socks with a Hello Kitty logo. But all those precious belongings need to be stored somewhere; the size of Tokyo apartments makes New York City abodes look downright palatial. Which is where chain stores like Muji come in, offering a multitude of neutrally colored storage options, and clutter coaches like Kondo.
I liked watching the Netflix series! It was fun to see a generation of Americans who were raised on more is more, coming to terms with the finality of space. I even got inspired. My expensive smart wool socks have rejoiced at being respectfully rolled up, color sorted and horizontally stacked in drawers and my squarely folded blocks of summer blouses present themselves as a cheery, still not perfect, but colorful tableau of conflicting patterns. But my out of print books, bought in countries less travelled are off limits. They stand in untidy rows sorted by subjects, not size and color.
What would have happened to Russian avant-garde art or Central Asian folklore, if Igor Vitalievich Savitsky would have been a minimalist Kondo devotee? The Nukus Museum, located near the Aral Lake in Central Asia, in Karakalpakstan to be precise, a remote northwestern region of Uzbekistan, owns more Russian expressionist paintings than any European or US collection. Walking into the museum I was amazed to see room after room with paintings hanging from floor to ceiling, occupying every inch of free wall space. Talking about cluttered! I noticed a dozen paintings of an artist of which the Whitney Museum has only one example.
I was told a story. Savitsky went around the families of the artists who had been sent to the Gulags by the Soviet authorities for creating art that was considered degenerate, similarly to what the Nazis had banned. Many families gave him the pictures for free, asking him to take them far away as they had only brought them bad luck. One picture had been used to stuff a whole in the attic with pigeons having left a calling card on it. Savitsky became known as the junk collector and local villagers started bringing him their redundant, old carpets, jewelry and everyday utensils, unintentionally preserving their own cultural heritage. Today the collection houses more than 90 000 items. After the towns of Bukhara, Samarkand and Chiva the museum is considered the 4th most important attraction on the Silk Road.
Back home, I am happy to report that my pot-lids stand up proudly in a rack, having been freed from the stifling company of their orphaned brethren who no longer have a pot of their own to cover. I have donated them to a friend, let’s call her Jemima, who stores a few extra pots without lids in the cellar, attic or barn of her large, old house. She is called a hoarder to her face and behind her back. An early bird at every yard sale, she snaps up Waterford or Baccarat crystal glasses, even if slightly chipped, as long as the price is right. She owns a multitude of incomplete Lenox, Dalton or Hutschenreuther china sets, despite the fact that she rarely entertains. After all, attending those estate sales is a full-time job in itself. Where we live, there is always somebody dying or moving to Florida. She also hangs on to every souvenir coffee cup. They give her joy and might come in handy one day.
Her cat lazes on a fake, miniature Chippendale couch ignoring the mice rustling in the kitchen or playing hide and seek in the tissue paper of temporarily stored cardboard boxes. Bags are filled with heavy, faded chintz drapes, she might eventually use in the dining room. Salvation Army designer clothes are piled in stacks on the floor of her bedroom. She will wear them someday, when she lost some weight. Jemima derives happiness from owning all those things, enough to fill a European palace. After all she is the illegitimate offspring of a Duchess or something. She intends to hand all of it down to the next generation, forgetting that she has no children.
So, will her house one day be the site of the biggest yard sale ever seen in our neck of the woods or she will be considered the Savitsky of Long Island’s North Fork? The reviews on TripAdvisor might suggest: ‘Visit Duchess Jemima’s House, a museum dedicated to early 21th century excess.’
What do you think Marie Kondo?
