In late February, influencer Alix
Earle took a break from her regularly programmed makeup routines to share a
tour of her home on TikTok.
There is a shot of “casa cucaracha”, a
birdhouse placed on the kitchen floor to house cockroaches. Then a
sticky-looking dining room table laden with open beverages. Then a pair of
jeans crumpled up next to a case of Corona Light.
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“When did living like this become a flex?”
one of the video’s 9 million viewers asked in the comments.
Clutter has long been shoved under beds and
banished to storage units; it is the villain of an entire genre of television.
But messiness is a part of most people’s lives, and instead of angling their
cameras away, some are now documenting, or even flexing, their imperfect homes
online in all of their gory detail.
Could clutter be becoming … cool?“There’s something sort of ‘it-girl’-y
about the messy room,” said Amalia Soto, a digital artist known as Molly Soda.
Partly in defiance of gender expectations that tell women to create and maintain orderly domestic spaces, young women online appeared to be “really leaning into or maybe even romanticizing chaos”
Soto, 34, said she had been seeing more
videos of spaces strewn with clothing, toiletries, cosmetics, and beverages posted
to TikTok — what she called the embrace of “girl clutter” in a recent essay on
Substack. Partly in defiance of gender expectations that tell women to create
and maintain orderly domestic spaces, young women online appeared to be “really
leaning into or maybe even romanticizing chaos”, she wrote.
Relatable messinessOthers have noticed, too. When decluttering
maven Marie Kondo admitted recently that her home had gotten less tidy after
she had her third child, many people leaped to her defense — and breathed a
sigh of relief. Ditto when Julia Fox shared her scattered shoe boxes,
moisturizers, and stuffed Elmos in an impromptu apartment tour on TikTok. This
was not the stuff of Architectural Digest or even social media, which is
typically flooded with so-called aspirational content: spotless homes, “that
girl” morning routines, and a “clean girl aesthetic” defined by green juices
and neat to-do lists.
That content had felt particularly
alienating to Kate Woodson at the beginning of the coronavirus pandemic, when
she was adjusting to virtual college classes from her messy bedroom in Chicago.
“I almost felt alone,” said Woodson, a
20-year-old student at Xavier University. “Like, I’m struggling during COVID —
am I the only one?”
When Alisha Ashour, 31, made a TikTok
account in 2021, she bought a pillow, plant, and white curtain-like backdrop to
conceal her home. She said she was embarrassed that her brown carpeting did not
match the hardwood floors she often saw on the app, especially when it was
covered in toys left out by her two-and-a-half-year-old son.
The charade was hard to maintain. It took
time and money that Ashour did not feel able to expend regularly, and it also
felt like false advertising. “Putting on makeup, getting dressed, buying all
these things to make my home look better isn’t real life,” she said.
“Putting on makeup, getting dressed, buying all these things to make my home look better isn’t real life.”
In August, Ashour began sharing videos of
her house as it actually looks. The response from viewers was immediate, she
said: “Keep doing this, we love it, we never see this side of TikTok.”
On platforms where users strive to appear
relatable, messiness has become its own kind of aspirational look to be studied
and replicated. On Pinterest, searches for “messy girl aesthetic” increased
more than 500 percent from a year ago, according to Swasti Sarna, the company’s
global director of data insights.
Glamorizing the non-aestheticMesses may be an especially good fit for
TikTok, a platform that users turn to for content that appears authentic and
unfiltered, according to a 2021 Nielsen study. Patches of carpet fight for
daylight between mountains of clutter in videos tagged #messyroom, which have
more than 430 million views on the app. Another 11 million views have been
devoted to shots of the junk drawer in the kitchen and the “Paw Patrol” stickers
on the floor under the #nonaesthetichome hashtag.
“The model has been these zero-clutter, very formally organized places with a lot of negative space, a lot of air and, interestingly, not a lot of signs of life.”
Sometimes, the mess is glamorized: One
TikTok sound likens a woman’s messy room to the intimate cinematic style of
Sofia Coppola.
As many people cooped up at home in the
early months of the pandemic entertained themselves by decluttering, Woodson
shared videos of her bedroom at its messiest. Her most popular video has more
than 14 million views.
She said she had never intentionally
cluttered her room in order to record a video. But when she sees that her room
is getting messy, she knows it might be a good time to turn the camera on.
“They definitely perform a lot better than other videos,” she said.
As a trend, messiness has its limits,
because not everyone’s mess will be judged equally, Soto said: “It’s chic when
Julia Fox shows her real apartment, but is it chic when an everyday person does
it?” The younger and more conventionally attractive the person, she said, the
greater their latitude to be messy online.
Meaningful clutterBeyond social media, some people are
finding other reasons to embrace mess. For one, a space without clutter can
seem sterile, more like a Sweetgreen than a cozy home, said Jonah Weiner, a
journalist who writes the popular fashion and design newsletter Blackbird
Spyplane along with Erin Wylie. (Weiner is also a contributing writer for the
New York Times Magazine.)
“The model has been these zero-clutter,
very formally organized places with a lot of negative space, a lot of air and,
interestingly, not a lot of signs of life,” Weiner said.
Francesca Edouard, a 29-year-old library
assistant, sees that look in Kim Kardashian’s mostly beige home, which appeared
last year in a Vogue video free of almost any items on any surfaces. “When I
look at it, I think, are you afraid to truly live in it?” Edouard said.
Edouard’s bedroom in the Boston area is
cluttered with items that are meaningful to her: Nintendo Switch games on her
dresser, a floral dress she saved up for tossed on a chair, a secondhand
romance novel spine-up on the bed.
Edouard enjoys spending time in a space
full of stuff that is distinctly hers; after all, her bedroom is a place for
her to live, not a film set. “I want it to say something about me,” she said.
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