The anti-dream home! I'm up with the minimalist trend and all, but I suspect there's also a point where distilling something to its essence (i.e., what's necessary) departs from or in fact inflicts pain upon what's actually meaningful (i.e., the point at which something becomes an empty shell, or worse, a back-breaking futon mat on an $8,000 slab of hardwood). You can clear out all the clutter, but isn't that occasionally where the genius—or the joy—is? Plus where do you spill your coffee? Where are the pillows? The lamps? The bedside tables piled with dust-collecting curios and eyedrops and books? And what is up with the Blair Witch/Goody Proctor chair of nothingness in the corner? Do you just perch there and gaze out the window at your own soul fleeing into the desert?
It comes down to personal boundaries, of course, and god knows there are many things about this bedroom that resemble my own, but that's due to laziness and not being able to pound nails into a brick wall, not deliberate choices I'm trying to repackage as an artful conceit. And in the language of my peoples: To assume that everything can or should be reduced to the metaphorical level of a Haiku is to discount the potential value of a sonnet, is it not?
+ anyhoo: from tumblr, natch