Who said less is more?
Every early September, I watch parents and students alike, running boxes back and forth from the car to the house, reminding me I’m definitely not the only hoarder in our midst— and it’s time for us to own it.
For me, “decluttering” is a scary idea. There are too many items I just can’t bear to part with—I still have my class Valentine’s from Grade 4. The way I see it, mess adds character to the room. Instead of a sterile white space that could belong to anyone, I feel my room reflects my personality in all its colourful glory.
In my room, I have a record player, a vintage typewriter, a Keurig machine, a collection of elephant figurines (my favourite animal), a wall completely decorated with purses, and shoes, maps, and plants everywhere.
Both minimalism and maximalism are aesthetically satisfying in their own ways, but the more barren minimalist style makes it harder to get to know the personality of the room’s owner.
Every time I move houses, it feels like I’m excavating my personality from the space, and I wouldn’t want it any other way. My chaos is curated, not solely cluttered.
Those minimalist decorators out there claim that having less things reduces anxiety because it helps concentration. A clean space is proven to be less distracting. But for sentimentalists like myself, the mess in my room is a result of having so many mementos that we love. The objects in my room are more than just stuff; they’re reminders of all the colour in my life.
Being a maximalist depends on a deep understanding of sentimental value, something I’ve been thinking about since watching the 2025 Joachim Trier film of the same name.
The movie follows two sisters, who after their mother’s death, navigate their relationship with their estranged father who was once a renowned film director and is trying to make an artistic comeback. Throughout the film, there are frequent beautiful, quiet shots of their childhood home that remind viewers that the house functions almost as a living, breathing main character, whose walls are full of memories and mementos.
Sentimental Value has reminded me that it’s possible, and also very human, to deeply love inanimate things.
In today’s world full of micro-trends and fads, it’s refreshing to see attachments to things that we buy because they also contain their own history. It transforms shopping and consumerism into something much more intentional and thoughtful.
Sentimental Value isn’t alone in its commentary about how objects help to tell the story of our lives. Netflix has recently released a television-show adaptation of Orhan Pamuk’s Museum of Innocence, a story that follows Kemal’s undying love for Fusun. Kemal builds a “museum of innocence” that’s made up of all Fusun’s items, such as her hair clips, her cigarette butts, the glasses she once drank out of, and more.
Obviously this is creepy and intense, but it contributes to the idea, which I can appreciate, that our life is made up through so many little moments shared with other people and sometimes all it takes to jog these memories is to see the scarf hanging on the wall from a trip visiting your loved one in Paris, the city of love.
I’m not arguing for being a senseless hoarder, but when I look around my room and see the chess board I used to play with my sister, the birthday cards from my friends throughout the years, and my teapots I’ve been gifted by the lovely people in my life that I share steaming mugs with, I’m reminded how much love and colour exist in my life.
Sometimes more is simply more.