I Don’t Care What Marie Kondo Thinks of My Space
How I came to love being a maximalist in a minimalist world
Staring out from behind my laptop perched atop a small table in the middle of my studio apartment, I can see most of my belongings. There are bookshelves containing stacks of books on pornography, feminism, and art. I see plants, candles, crystals, tarot cards, and art prints thoughtfully interwoven with these stacks. Below, on the table where I type, an overdue bill with the remnants of its torn envelope sits atop my great-grandmother’s crystal ashtray. Inside the ashtray, a mix of jewelry and pens shares space with a disposable camera and a half-smashed pack of cigarettes that clearly endured a holiday party season. The ashtray serves as a kind of catchall, but it could never catch the collection of papers, notebooks, and odds and ends that sit between the table and the covered surfaces on either side—a printer and a freestanding air conditioner that were not made to be surfaces at all.
Out of my apartment—which is comprised of a main room, a separate kitchen and dining area, a walk-in closet, and a bathroom—I run three businesses. These businesses require me to have many belongings. My designer/illustrator/artist identity requires me to have more pens, markers, paints, paintbrushes, and miscellaneous art supplies than you can imagine…
