004: Aesthetics vs. ethics
The paradox of less: when minimalism becomes another form of consumption
Minimalism often conjures images of pristine white spaces, sleek furniture, and a curated, clutter-free aesthetic. It appears in capsule wardrobes, airy open-concept homes, and the sleek packaging of high-end products designed under the philosophy of “less is more.” But is that all minimalism is? Over time, I’ve come to see it as something far more profound—a mindset, a lens on how we consume, and a deeply personal philosophy.
Yet as minimalism has gained cultural traction, it has also been transformed into a marketable image, often detached from its deeper ethical roots. This raises an essential question: Can minimalism exist as both an aesthetic and an ethical practice? When does the pursuit of simplicity shift from intentional living to yet another form of consumption—one that paradoxically fuels the desire for more?
Before we embark on this journey, let me set the stage: This isn’t an essay of rules or moral judgments, nor will I present a rigid blueprint for how to live. My aim is to offer a perspective—one that invites clarity, sparks reflection, and allows you to interpret minimalism in a way that resonates personally. Instead of giving you answers, I want to prompt the questions that may guide your own understanding.
Minimalism as an ethic: the integrity of simplicity
The core principle of minimalism is clarity—stripping away the unnecessary to make space for what truly matters. This concept has deep historical roots, from Bauhaus design, which championed function over ornament, to Japanese Zen philosophy, which finds elegance in imperfection and restraint. The modernist architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe famously declared, "Less is more," emphasizing that true beauty is not found in excess, but in the careful refinement of what remains.
As minimalism entered the mainstream, it morphed into a luxury aesthetic. The quiet elegance of high-end brands like The Row, Celine, and Lemaire embodies a version of minimalism that is deliberate and refined—yet often financially unattainable for the average consumer. A sculptural chair, a perfectly tailored coat, or an understated leather handbag all evoke restraint, yet their exclusivity contradicts the very principle of “owning less.” This raises an uncomfortable paradox: When minimalism becomes aspirational, does it lose its ethical foundation?