A Minimalist’s Occasional Indiscretions

I have long suspected that my relationship with minimalism is less that of a devoted practitioner and more that of a well meaning acquaintance who drops by unannounced, stays for tea, and then the stay extends all the way to dinner. I do not fall into temptation daily, which would at least have the merit of consistency. No, my lapses are far more dignified. They arrive roughly once a month. For weeks I move about with admirable restraint, owning little, wanting less, and feeling rather pleased with myself. I sort of stuff and get rid of it. I tell my family and friends about the advantages of being minimalist. And then, without much warning, something gleams, or creaks, or otherwise presents itself as indispensable, and I find myself making yet another addition to my supposedly minimalist existence.

I am trying, you understand, to be a minimalist. I have been quite successful too, most of the time. I rise in the morning with the firm resolve of a man who intends to own fewer things than he did the night before. Usually it remains so. But sometimes by evening, I am the proud custodian of an object or two that was not in the original scheme of operations.

The trouble begins with what I like to call the Investment Argument. It is a most persuasive fellow, this argument. He starts his dark magic on me in shops and markets and whispers that a thing is not a mere purchase but a legacy. Take, for instance, metal vessels. A fine bronze plate gleams at me with the quiet dignity of something that expects to outlive empires. “You are not buying this,” says the Investment Argument to my brain, adjusting its spectacles, “you are preserving civilisation.” And before I know it, the plate is wrapped and paid for, and I am already imagining it being handed down to the next generation, who may or may not share my enthusiasm for ancestral crockery.

Yesterday it was a pair of hurricane lanterns. Kerosene, I am told, is no longer that easily available. But that is beside the point. These lanterns had character. They seemed the sort of fellows who would perform admirably in a storm or at the very least look splendid while not doing so. “Keepsakes,” murmured the Investment Argument. “Investments.” And I, being only human, succumbed.

There are times, too, when I acquire wood. Good, solid wood. I tell myself I have secured it at an excellent price and that it will have ample time to cure, which sounds quite practical. What I do not tell myself is that I had no immediate need for it. The minimalist within me observes all this with a raised eyebrow and later, when the excitement has worn off, administers a mild but unmistakable dose of buyer’s remorse. This, however, fades in a few days, and the stage is set for a sequel some months hence.

Curiously, I have had better luck with electronics. Here I am something of a model minimalist. So restrained am I that people occasionally regard me as a man who would cross the street to avoid a gadget. I possess a proper alarm clock, which performs its duties without any of the philosophical complications of its smarter cousins. I did, after more than a year of deliberation, acquire a pair of headphones, but that was less an impulse and more a treaty negotiation. My recent acquisitions here would suggest a man who regards gadgets with suspicion and admits only the most well behaved among them. A phone last year, only because its predecessor took a regrettable fall and the screen broke. A few bulbs. A couple of USB cables. Two extension boards so that I might read by a lamp and charge the phone at the same time. I even resisted the siren call of the modern “smart” contraption, which promises to do everything except, one suspects, make a decent cup of tea.

Printers, alas, are my undoing. I distrust them deeply, for they possess a mysterious talent for developing personalities after a few years, none of them agreeable. Two years ago I had to buy another one. It sits there now, watching me, waiting for its moment. And knowing printers, I know that it will soon start to misbehave and then I will be forced to buy a new one.

And then there are the ambushes. A good quality metal pan appears in my line of sight and my purse opens of its own accord, like a flower responding to sunlight. Books are another hazard. I own a perfectly serviceable Kindle, yet from time to time I find myself buying physical copies. These are the books I wish to flip through, to revisit, to keep close at hand, and go back and forth. It is, I tell myself, a matter of practicality, though I suspect the Investment Argument has been at work again, wearing a different hat.

Clothes also present no difficulty. I have no particular enthusiasm for them. If they cover me and keep the elements at bay, I consider them to have done a splendid job. Brands hold no charm. Indeed, I prefer garments that do not feel the need to announce their ancestry to the world. When I buy a sweatshirt, no logo is the best design element for me. Quality is welcome, vulgarity (brand) is not.

A more insidious trap, however, lies in the modern custom of gift cards and shared wish lists. A gift card is a curious creature. It sits in my possession and emits a sort of silent pressure. “Use me,” it seems to say. “I am waiting.” And I feel an odd obligation to oblige. The result is often the acquisition of something that was never on the list of life’s necessities, purchased not out of desire but out of a wish to silence the card’s persistent whisper. A wish-list, much like a gift card, also refuses to be ignored and keeps nudging me towards purchases I had very nearly forgotten I didn’t need. Though keeping books in a wish-list helps me plan what to read next, even these, from time to time, find their way into my purchases.

So here I stand, a minimalist in spirit if not always in inventory. I have made good progress over the last few years, especially in certain quarters and not so much in others. It is, I suppose, a long game. One stumbles, one recovers, one occasionally buys a pair of hurricane lanterns.

The important thing, I feel, is to keep trying. And perhaps to avoid eye contact with bronze plates and cast-iron pots.

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