ON… MESSY LAIR, DON’T CARE

SUSIE LAU’S OUTFITS AND INSTAGRAM PRESENCE MIGHT BE IMMACULATELY PUT TOGETHER, BUT HER HOME? NOT SO MUCH…

In a time when we’re obsessed with minimalism and tidiness, Susie Lau writes in defence of ‘messy maximalism’

Whenever someone visits my house for the first time, I have to warn them about something: it’s a messy hovel. I don’t do this because I mind, or because I don’t like it, but because I can already sense people’s perceptions when they enter and are confronted by STUFF. Lots of it. I sense the judgemental eyebrows and disapproving looks as people glance at the piles of material accumulation. The stacks of style magazines that date back to my teens (‘But I use them as references for work’). The coats that hang – not individually, but three-deep on the walls, creating an obstacle as you go from the hallway into the living room (‘But I need to see all my coat options when I leave the house’). The piles of soft toys that cover the TV to such a degree that it can no longer detect signal from the remote (‘But they were all gifts for my daughter’). The shoes that pile up on shelves, on top of each other, looking eye-wincingly unloved (‘I like my footwear beaten up, thank you very much’). Every crevice and corner is packed to the brim, leaving very little breathing room. And, were I fortunate enough to upgrade to a larger house, I highly doubt the situation would change. Where there’s a surface, there will always be stuff.

But while I’ll warn people, what I won’t do is apologise. Because the truth is I am not ashamed of the ramshackle state of my home. Call me deluded, but part of me believes you can measure one’s life experiences through the accumulation of stuff. It’s not their material value, but the memories. Framing the ten-year-old fashion invitations, lining up the holiday trinkets and perfume bottles on shelves and, of course, holding on to everything in my wardrobe because of some faint sentimental or stylistic significance (the first pair of Converse I ever wore; the first thing I ever bought in a vintage store; the slip dress that is so tattered but I can’t bear to part with it because the embroidery on it is beautiful etc) are acts that attest to memories of the past. With every single object that clutters, there’s an anecdote that is proof of a life that’s been well-lived.

I even take a perverse pride in what most people would perceive as messiness. I’ve always loved imperfections of all sorts, whether it’s unfinished hems on old Comme des Garçons pieces or a personal beauty standard that is untamed (static hair, eyes with last night’s makeup smudged in and skin that bares its blemishes is my standard state of being). I’m personally suspicious of living spaces that are overly pristine, where everything is hidden behind white handle-less cabinets and coffee tables dressed with one singular book and a lonesome ornament. The cacophony of colour, print and textures in my own personal style is inherently connected to why my house looks the way it does. This pride in messy maximalism is further fuelled by fashion’s longstanding predilection for eccentric characters like Edith Bouvier Beale. Alessandro Michele at Gucci has a lot to answer for the pervasive pileit-all-on aesthetic, and the Met’s Camp: Notes on Fashion exhibition, which opens in May, will surely continue to promote the virtues of living life as a more-is-more-is-more aesthetician.

And while there have been occasions when I’ve tried to tame my ways, they have never lasted long. When the Japanese organising consultant Marie Kondo’s revolutionary book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying blew up a few years ago, I briefly flirted with her idea of holding every item in my hands, contemplating whether it sparked joy and hoping it would help me decide what I could and couldn’t discard. That was quickly abandoned when I considered the sheer amount of stuff I’d have to hold and contemplate, to the point where my brain would no longer be able to differentiate between what was joy-giving and what wasn’t.

However, the KonMari ideology as expounded by Kondo shows no signs of abating. Earlier this year, Netflix debuted an eight-part series dedicated to Kondo, and KonMari practitioners are multiplying by the day. Katrina Hassan, of Spark Joy London, is one such certified KonMari consultant, who specialises in reorganising people’s belongings, and ergo lives. She has even reached out specifically to fashion bloggers and influencers like myself (who tend to be among the worst offenders, due to the sheer amount of gifting they receive). Hassan advocates a regular ‘self-audit’ – not just to get rid of stuff, but to stop accumulating it in the first place. ‘One of the by-products of the KonMari method is you’re more resilient about items coming into your home in the first place. If it doesn’t spark joy, then you can stop it from crossing your threshold to begin with.’

Hmmm. No doubt this works for some – though in my particular case, the definition of what sparks joy is likely to be very wide indeed. As I walk through my house, perusing the stacks, the piles and a multitude of boxes, part of me wonders how an alternate-universe me would live with fewer possessions. What does all this stuff really mean in the grand scheme of things? If it all disappeared in a blaze, would I really be as distraught as I currently imagine I would be? Or would it be a giant weight lifted, presenting me with the life reset we all need every once in a while? Maybe, just maybe, I will explore this faint possibility with Hassan one day. Just so long as she lets me keep my drawer of 34 pale pink vintage slip dresses that inexplicably look exactly the same.

WITH EVERY OBJECT THAT CLUTTERS, THERE is AN ANECDOTE THAT IS PROOF OF a LIFE WELL-LIVED