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A Minimal Look at Minimalism

(Number 24 -- Winter 2005)
Phashion Philosopher and Real-Live Architect Bruce Norelius bares, well, everything (including his own living space in a restored Maine schoolhouse), in this reflection on the all of nothingness.

My obsession with minimalism stretches back to age seven. Our next door neighbors, the Tibodeaus, had been promoted and were moving to (seemingly glamorous) Omaha, and I was left staring at the Mayflower logo as it disappeared down the street, stuck in my same old life. Dull Saturday afternoons soon were occupied by the game of removing every item from my bedroom that I could physically manage. And then putting it all back. A psychoanalyst might have quickly gotten to the root of this little fantasy; I simply called it “Moving”. Soon, I came to realize that the part I liked best about Moving was when my room was empty. It was serene, and seemed full of promise. Today, almost forty years later, I still have extremely positive feelings about beautiful empty living spaces.

Now, it seems, I’m not the only one. We’re surrounded by images of sparse spaces, and minimalism has become a term that almost everyone understands and uses. (It’s also used outside the realm of visual art and architecture, but that’s another topic.) As an architect, virtually every client I’ve worked with in the last five years has taken an unsolicited stand on this concept.

How did a term used in art criticism in the 1960s describing common themes in an unrelated group of visual artists come to affect how we think about our concept of home? I do know a little about it from a historical point of view. But it’s the psychology of it that captivates me.

The interior of Bruce's home in Maine: high ceiling, exposed rafters, white columns, hanging partition.A few aspects of our intrigue with minimalism are so obvious as to barely deserve mention. Our lives are extremely hectic, we’re stressed, and we’re burdened by our possessions. We see images of bare apartments which are as alluring as attractive thin models. Emptiness, as thinness, represents freedom from wanting. In our media-saturated lives, minimalism is as much a designer label as Prada. However, I believe there is true substance and authenticity here as well. Here are just three characteristics of architectural minimalism that suggest its complexity:

Meaning
For some, all historical and cultural meaning has been wrung out of every traditional pitched roof, fluted column, palladian window, paneled door, brass light and pedimented clock. These references are comforting to some and stifling to others. Details of ornament are each imbedded with traditions of style and craftsmanship that come from someone and somewhere, far from right-here-right-now. One line of reasoning may find it as incongruous to build a house with colonial details as it is to wear colonial clothing or adopt colonial morals. In minimalist architecture, there is a sense that the slate has been washed clean, and the form comes from pragmatic desire rather than cultural reference: light, space, protection from the elements, and simple accommodation of daily needs.

Materiality
Typically in minimalist architecture, authenticity is sought in the materials used. Materials are chosen for their particular character and are finished in a manner that enhances their natural traits. As with the only-cotton-and-wool crowd, there may be a bit of both pragmatism and snobbery in this methodology. Certainly the quality of good, natural materials is part of the appeal. They last, and they tend to patina nicely as they’re used. Additionally, a large percentage of minimalist spaces are in renovated mundane old buildings, whose cracked concrete and rust stains are left as part of the new material palette.

Theatre
The rejection of historical and cultural meaning and the insistence on material honesty does not mean minimalism denies the messy drama of life. This, perhaps, is what intrigues me the most: the raw expectancy of these spaces. They allow our everyday lives to be just a bit mythically heroic because they don’t nurture us in a cozy, traditional manner. From Homer:

When primal Dawn spread on the eastern sky
her fingers of pink light, Odysseus’ true son
stood up, drew on his tunic and his mantle,
slung on a swordbelt and new-edged sword,
tied his smooth feet into good rawhide sandals,
and left his room, a god’s brilliance upon him.
1
In the emptiness of these spaces, there is a suggestion of performance potential.  Rather than reinforcing the primal womb-like spatial archetypes identified by Gaston Bachelard (nests, shells, corners, etc.),2 minimalism focuses action away from the edges and toward stage center. Everyday life is elevated, and it begs to be rediscovered each morning.

Considering one’s attitude about minimalism requires a focus on physical surrounding that may seem indulgent to some. Nevertheless, I’m convinced minimalism responds to specific and substantial elements of our psyches. Minimalist spaces can contain a spirit of vibrancy not easily found elsewhere.

Besides, when you’re ready for that fresh start, remember that getting rid of everything you own is a lot easier than moving.


1. Homer, The Odyssey. Translation by Robert Fitzgerald. Doubleday & Company, 1961
2. Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space. Beacon Press, 1969.

(The author would really, honestly enjoy hearing what, if anything, you readers think about minimalism. Write to him:
norelius@elliottelliottnorelius.com)

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