The space that breathes: Why minimalism still speaks to us
The first time you step into a room designed by John Pawson, something strange happens. It isn’t the silence—though the absence of noise is striking—nor even the light, sculpted with surgical precision between white walls. No, it’s that almost physical sensation of breath. As if the volumes, freed from all excess, had finally found their natural rhythm. The clean lines, raw materials, the deliberate absence of useless objects create a curious alchemy: the less there is, the more alive the space seems. And it’s in this apparent paradox that the genius of minimalism lies.
By Artedusa
••9 min readYet this aesthetic, which fascinates us today—from Scandinavian interiors to contemporary art galleries—wasn’t always obvious. It was born from rebellion, a visceral rejection of excess, before becoming, ironically, a new dogma. How did an artistic movement born in the austerity of New York studios in the 1960s come to conquer our homes, our screens, even our relationship to the world? And above all, why does this quest for "less" feel, now more than ever, like an answer to the chaos of the modern world?
01The day art decided to fall silent
Picture New York in 1966. The city pulses with pop art, Warhol’s garish colors, and expressionist canvases where paint seems to scream. Amid this tumult, one exhibition changes everything. At the Jewish Museum, Primary Structures presents works that, at first glance, don’t seem like art at all. Donald Judd’s steel boxes, Sol LeWitt’s cubes, Carl Andre’s metal plates laid directly on the floor. No brushstrokes, no apparent emotion, not even evocative titles—just geometric forms, cold, repetitive. The public is scandalized. One critic writes, "This is art for engineers, not for humans."
Yet these silent works contained a revolution. Judd, Stella, and their contemporaries weren’t trying to represent the world, but to present it. Their pieces weren’t illusions, but concrete objects, almost brutal in their honesty. "What you see is what you see," Frank Stella declared about his Black Paintings—canvases striped with black, paint applied with a roller, leaving no trace of the artist’s hand. By rejecting symbolism, emotion, even the creator’s signature, the minimalists were thumbing their noses at centuries of artistic tradition. Their message? Art doesn’t need to tell stories to be powerful. Sometimes, a simple steel box, placed in an empty space, says more than a thousand paintings.
This radicalism wasn’t accidental. It emerged from a specific historical context: the postwar era, the Cold War, the rise of consumer society. In a world that seemed artificial, controlled, even deceitful, minimalism offered an alternative: the truth of materials, the transparency of forms, the honesty of emptiness.
02The alchemy of emptiness: when absence becomes presence
There’s something deeply unsettling about Agnes Martin’s work. Her canvases, covered in delicate pencil grids on pastel backgrounds, "represent" nothing. Yet if you stand before With My Back to the World (1997), a strange emotion washes over you. It isn’t melancholy, nor joy, but a kind of physical serenity, as if the canvas’s breath synchronized with your own.
Martin, who lived in seclusion in the New Mexico desert, rarely spoke about her work. But in her few writings, she often evoked the idea of "innocent beauty"—a beauty that doesn’t impose itself, but reveals itself to those who know how to look. Her grids, drawn by hand with manic precision, weren’t perfect. They trembled slightly, like a breath. And it was precisely this imperfection that made them human.
Unlike Judd, whose polished steel boxes reflected the world without ever blending into it, Martin sought communion. Her canvases weren’t objects, but experiences. When you contemplate them, you’re not looking at a work—you’re feeling a mental space, a pause in the world’s noise.
This almost spiritual approach to minimalism finds an unexpected echo in another tradition: that of ma, the Japanese concept of the space between things. In traditional Japanese architecture, a room isn’t defined by its walls, but by what it doesn’t contain. An empty tokonoma (alcove), a shoji (sliding screen) filtering light, a rock garden where emptiness matters more than the elements—all illustrate a philosophy where absence isn’t a lack, but an invitation.
What if minimalism, at its core, is just a way of relearning to see what isn’t there?
03Is minimalism soluble in capitalism?
In 2014, Marie Kondo publishes The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. The book becomes a global phenomenon, and suddenly, millions of people start sorting their belongings, asking themselves, "Does this spark joy?" At first glance, it’s a victory for minimalism. Yet something feels off.
Because at the same time, luxury brands begin selling "capsule wardrobes" for €5,000, Instagram influencers flaunt their pared-down interiors like trophies, and smartphone ads tout their "minimalist design"—as if the word had become just another marketing gimmick. Minimalism, born from a revolt against excess, is it turning into a new form of consumerism?
The question is all the more ironic given that Donald Judd, one of the movement’s fathers, despised the idea of his work being reduced to an aesthetic. For him, minimalism wasn’t about style, but ethics. In his manifesto Specific Objects (1965), he explained that art should be "literal"—without metaphor, without illusion, without lies. A steel box wasn’t a sculpture, but a steel box. Period.
Yet today, minimalism is everywhere—and often hollowed out. The "uncluttered" interiors in decor magazines hide overflowing closets. The "zen" offices of startups conceal noisy open-plan spaces. Even meditation apps, meant to help us slow down, bombard us with notifications.
So has minimalism failed? Not necessarily. But it’s been hijacked. As artist Robert Smithson put it, "Minimalism became a style, when it was an idea." And an idea, unlike an object, can’t be consumed. It has to be lived.
04Marfa, Texas: the last bastion of radical minimalism
In the middle of the Texas desert, 300 kilometers from the nearest city, there’s a place that seems plucked from a dream—or a nightmare, depending on your perspective. Marfa, a small town of 1,800 people, has become, thanks to Donald Judd, a mecca of minimalism. Here, no flashy galleries, no souvenir shops. Just industrial hangars repurposed as exhibition spaces, where Judd’s works—100 aluminum boxes, 15 concrete walls—coexist with the arid landscape.
Judd bought these buildings in the 1970s, weary of New York’s art world and its mercantilism. He wanted to create a place where art wouldn’t be a commodity, but an experience. Today, the Chinati Foundation, which he founded, draws visitors from around the world. Yet nothing is done to accommodate them. No explanatory panels, no marked paths, not even a café. Just artworks, empty spaces, and the wind blowing between the mountains.
What strikes you in Marfa is the absence of compromise. Judd never tried to make his art "accessible." His installations are austere, almost hostile. And that’s precisely why they fascinate. In a world where everything is designed to please, distract, sell, Marfa offers a radical alternative: art as resistance.
Yet even here, minimalism is under threat. In 2005, artists Elmgreen & Dragset installed Prada Marfa, a fake Prada store in the middle of the desert. A provocation, of course—but also a symptom. Even in Marfa, capitalism eventually catches up with art.
05Is minimalism a rich person’s game?
There’s an iconic scene in Fight Club (1999) where the narrator, played by Edward Norton, describes his apartment as "a catalog from IKEA." "I had Swedese cutlery, Orrefors glasses, Dansk plates. I had napkins and placemats. I had bowls, dishes, teak serving trays. I had birch chairs, a glass coffee table, a New Zealand wool rug." The rant ends with a chilling question: "And if I lost it all? Would it really be so bad?"
This scene captures one of minimalism’s great paradoxes: it’s often presented as a philosophy accessible to all, yet in reality, it can be terribly elitist. Buying "less but better" assumes you have the means to choose. Owning a pared-down interior often means hiding the mess elsewhere—in a storage unit, at your parents’ house, or in your service platforms’s closets.
Minimalism, in its purest form, is a luxury. A luxury of time (to sort, to think about purchases), a luxury of space (to avoid clutter), and above all, a luxury of security (to afford not to accumulate "just in case").
Yet there’s another kind of minimalism, humbler and more subversive. The kind of tiny houses, where every square centimeter is optimized. The kind of low-cost capsule wardrobes, where you relearn to love what you already own. The kind of artists who work with salvaged materials, turning waste into art.
Maybe true minimalism isn’t about budget, but attention. Not about what you own, but what you choose to keep.
06What if minimalism is a form of resistance?
In 2020, as the world came to a sudden halt, something strange happened. People started tidying. Sorting. Throwing things away. Sales of minimalism books skyrocketed. "Digital detox" videos flooded social media. As if, faced with uncertainty, humanity instinctively sought to refocus on what truly mattered.
This reflex isn’t new. In times of crisis, minimalism always resurfaces. After World War II, the Bauhaus championed functionality over ornament. In the 1990s, after the fall of the Berlin Wall, minimal techno dominated clubs. Today, as the world teeters on the edge of climate and political chaos, "less" is becoming an answer again.
But beware: minimalism isn’t an escape. It’s not a way to disconnect from the world, but to inhabit it better. As Agnes Martin said, "Beauty is all around us. You just have to open your eyes."
Maybe the real challenge today isn’t to own less, but to see more. To relearn how to distinguish the essential from the superfluous. To understand that emptiness isn’t a lack, but a promise—the promise of a space where, finally, you can breathe.
And you—what would you be willing to let go?