So, Kendall Jenner’s house. It’s everywhere, isn’t it? Splashed across every design website and glossy magazine. The white walls, the muted tones, the carefully curated pottery. Minimalism, they call it. A sanctuary. A place of peace.
I’ll admit, the first time I saw the photos, I felt a familiar pang. The one I get whenever I step into a gallery showcasing an artist whose work screams “look at me, I’m so deliberately NOT screaming.” It’s the kind of aesthetic that whispers, “I own three cashmere sweaters and a single wooden spoon, and I’m deeply at peace with my choices.”
Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a clean line. I once spent a frankly embarrassing amount of time searching for the perfect white t-shirt. (Spoiler alert: it doesn’t exist.) But there’s something about this brand of curated minimalism that feels… sterile. Like a stage set for a life not actually lived.
Where, for instance, are the stacks of dog-eared paperbacks? The half-finished knitting projects? The rogue coffee mug stained with the remnants of yesterday’s ambition? Life, in my experience, is rarely a perfectly composed still life. It’s messy and vibrant and full of contradictions. It’s about the worn-in armchair that’s seen too many late-night conversations to be replaced, the chipped china inherited from your grandmother, the walls adorned with your children’s finger paintings (even the ones that look suspiciously like a crime scene).
I remember once interviewing a young designer – all sharp angles and black leather – who proudly showed off his apartment. It was, predictably, a temple to minimalism. Everything in its place. Not a cushion out of line. And yet, on the pristine countertop, I spotted a lone, crumpled receipt. It felt jarring, out of place. Human.
“Oh, that,” he said, catching my eye. He quickly snatched it up, a flicker of something akin to embarrassment crossing his face. “Just need to… throw that away.”
And that’s the thing about this kind of curated minimalism, isn’t it? It feels the need to hide the evidence of actual living. To present a perfectly curated facade to the world. But life isn’t meant to be lived in a museum. It’s about embracing the chaos, the imperfections, the things that tell the story of who we are and where we’ve been.
So, is Kendall’s minimalist monastery an oasis of peace? Perhaps for some. But for me, it feels more like a beautifully appointed waiting room. A place devoid of the comforting clutter that makes a house a home.
Give me a lived-in space any day. Give me the mismatched furniture, the overflowing bookshelves, the walls that bear witness to life’s messy, beautiful journey. That’s where the real stories are told.
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