“Oh, East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,” wrote Rudyard Kipling in 1889, giving us a line that has since been hijacked for many a pair of opposing views - and which could equally be identified as a suitable analogy for the case of minimalism versus maximalism. While it must be noted that few declare allegiance to either term, the words are regularly bandied about, being useful labels for distinguishing between, say, Rose Uniacke’s house in Pimlico, where enviably serene interiors are achieved through a pale palette and “generous wasted space”, and Alidad’s flat, which is richly and ornately layered with colour and pattern and objets, as well as Suzani needlework, Turkestan cushions, Georgian furniture and modern sculpture.
Another on the side of ‘less’ is William Smalley, who states “spaces that have got too much stuff in them make me feel physically uncomfortable,” revealing that at home even his books are kept in “big built-in cupboards … I’m glad not to have them shouting at me.” While further to the ‘mores’ is Gavin Houghton, who, in a rallying call, declares “I like colour, and I like contrast; early Delft next to a modern painting in a visual treat. I like curtains and trims and florals and ceramics; I have de Gournay wallpaper in my house, and I’ve hung paintings on top.”
Most of us identify more with one camp than the other – albeit often rejecting a label except in the negative (“I’m not a minimalist, so therefore I must be a . . . . ”) and to varying degrees of commitment. But for others, the conviction isn’t there or it changes according to mood or what we last saw. We wonder how people can know so certainly that they’re one or the other and if it is instinctive, practiced, or happenstance? Is it possible to cross over – gladly and by design as opposed to being coerced by circumstance (i.e. cohabitation with one from a different tribe) – and are there instances when we might, could, or even should, embrace both?
Certainly, our upbringings have a lot to do with what we each intuitively find visually comfortable; Sister Parish spoke of the “first memory of some house, some room, a vivid picture that will remain deep down in one forever.” Sarah Vanrenen points out that it can go either way: “some recapture it, some react against it. If you grew up in a house full of stuff and it drove you mad, you’ll want the opposite.” (Interestingly, both Rose Uniacke and Daniel Slowik – the one more minimalist, the other maximalist – had parents who were antiques dealers.) At the same time, taste doesn’t stop developing; William Smalley’s book, Quiet Spaces, is interspersed with photographs and accounts of interiors that have influenced him: Kettle’s Yard in Cambridge, Barbara Hepworth’s sculpture garden in St. Ives, the homes of fellow architects Luis Barragan and Geoffrey Bawa in Mexico City and Columbo, Sri Lanka. But, although we’re well versed in the importance of looking at and examining a range of styles, not many of us try them on for size, or necessarily think we should. And yet, “if you are passionate about design and opinionated, why pigeonhole yourself with only one genre?” asks Philip Hooper, joint Managing Director of Sibyl Colefax & John Fowler.
Philip enlarges on his point, explaining “my training as an architect always leads me down the minimalist route, my decorator gene takes me in the opposite direction and although maybe not a maximalist I certainly enjoy a layered eclectic look. Personally, I find no conflict.” What’s clear is that there are moments in our lives – or elements of our lives – when we could be better suited to one than the other. “If you’ve got children and dogs, maximalism is more forgiving,” moots Henriette von Stockhausen. Some buildings are better suited to maximalism – there’s nothing like ‘stuff’ for disguising and drawing attention from imperfect proportion plus there’s clever trickery that can be employed with curtains, and more. On the other hand, and particularly if you work from home, you might be interested in the study that found the more physical objects there are in your visual field, the harder your brain works to filter them out – which can increase tiredness and reduce productivity over time. Bridie Hall, who sees the Sir John Soane Museum as the domestic dream, has countered her shelves full of collections of collections with occasional empty white walls, saying “I have such a visual life and mind, I find peace in these blank spaces, especially on waking” – an attitude which could provide stimulus for any minimalist-maximalist co-habitors. But what might also help is to visualise minimalism and maximalism as two points that are joined by a line, up and down which we can slide.
Because, returning to Kipling, it’s worth reading beyond the opening line of the ballad. It charts the stealing of a British Raj-era Colonel’s mare by a tribal chieftain of the North-West Frontier, the adventure to get it back, and the respect the men develop for each other, to the extent that “there is neither East nor West.” Arguably there are similarities in the design of minimalism and maximalism, even if “one is layered and deliciously hectic, and other is zen,” describes Gavin Houghton. “The vocabulary is the same,” says Alidad, who explains that to do either really well takes both talent and the discipline of knowing when to stop – either adding, or taking away. He recounts that he often designs rooms that would be described as quiet interiors, but that those rooms tend not be photographed as magazines invariably want his ‘real’ (i.e. maximalist) look. Conversely, if you happen to be acquainted with Rose Uniacke’s book, Rose Uniacke At Work, you’ll have seen the room in Chelsea she adorned with pretty, block-printed wallpaper, a frieze of irises, and seat cushions in a William Morris print, and the house in St. John’s Wood where the study is papered in a frivolous Godwin pattern, the stairway is painted pink and given a yellow carpet, and there’s an inviting green gloss and velvet TV room. And “I am just as comfortable working with clients who want a ‘full’ look as I am working with clients who want a more curated and empty feel. Good design skills transcend styles and periods,” says Philip Hooper.
Philip’s mention of a client is pertinent – because it’s taking an element of the personal out of it – and we know, because their homes have been published in this magazine, which style these interior designers prefer to live with day-to-day. Alidad might afford quiet interiors to clients, but nobody would suggest that he has practiced the same in his London flat. And yet he’s also got a Sussex cottage that is, he reveals “about half-way down the line towards minimalism.” He’s not alone in varying his position on the spectrum between homes – and it’s not the first time a weekend retreat is less maximalist than a main residence. Others move up and down the line over time; several interior designers report clients who’ve gradually increased the quantity of colour and pattern that they live with, but it can just as well be sudden. “In August 2015, I left my husband for a 20-foot strip of bright orange Corian,” is the opening line of Lucy Kellaway’s autobiographical Re-educated, which was the beginning of her shift to more minimal – via modernism – interiors. This isn’t to say everyone has got both minimalist and maximalist within them (“I would definitely not be happy in a pale monotone interior,” says Sarah Vanrenen) but isn’t it rather liberating to know, we can, if we wish, be both?
