About five years after she became a sensation in her native Japan, professional house organizer Mair Kondo found fame in the West through her new show on Netflix. By helping both common people and celebrities clean out their cluttered homes in a show watched by millions, KonMari, as she is otherwise known, almost single-handed created a platform that redefines what it means to be happy. In a rather simple and straightforward manner, she argued that to achieve true happiness, people must limit themselves in terms of physical possessions. But throwing away unwanted items, the resulting cleanliness brings joy.
Behind the pseudo-spiritual calling that is part of the feted "KonMari method" of tidying up is a complete rethinking of what defines the relationship between people and capitalism, at least in the American context. That much is reflected in the criticism Kondo is facing among her newfound American audience, even as her fame has drawn extensive coverage in both mainstream and social media. The criticism, in essence, is centered on the broad question of how throwing away things can bring joy, when those things are paid for by and often has sentimental value for their possessors.
Beneath the criticism lies the discomfort with Kondo's friendly yet blatant attack on a cherished value that Americans, as the self-professed upholders of free-market capitalism, hold dear. For decades, if not longer, the American public defined personal success through possession of big-ticker material objects, including big houses, big cars, nice clothing, and great home decor. The American pride in being able to display wealth through material items is often expressed through hosting large parties in suburban houses for friends and families, impressing them with material beauty in ways the Japanese, with their tiny apartments, cannot.
And the buying of material things is often not just about personal vanity. Many, both laymen and professionals, see buying things as what makes America economically powerful. The rise of major American firms like Apple and Walmart rested on the fact that Americans are willing to shell out a large number of things on many expensive things. The idea that the American economy is powerful because of the massive consumption power of its people is made clear when President Bush asked citizens to restore the country to greatness after 9/11 by spending more money to buy more things.
The KonMari method flies directly against such a mentality. By asking her audience to only keep a certain number of each thing, whether it be pairs of jeans or books on the shelves, Kondo is indirectly asking people to buy fewer things. If people should only keep things that provide them with "true joy," then they should think about what they buy in the first place, so that they only come into possession of things that provide them with true joy. Kondo implies that American spendthriftiness, a trait that supposedly made the Amerian economy powerful, should be reined in, to a reasonable degree, for the sake of psychological health of individual consumers.
At the same time, the Asian American community has not missed the racist undertones associated with the criticism of Kondo among Americans. Asian Americans note that American reaction to Kondo's cutesy bubbliness, conforming to the Japanese notion of kawaii, harks back to the concept of Orientalism. By shrouding Kondo and the KonMari method in a sense of Eastern mystique and exoticism associated with Japan's notorious sense of order and organization, American critiques wrap her ideas as a fundamentally foreign and incompatible with the American psyche, unsustainable beyond superficial cleaning of some houses.
The notion is rather odd that modern Japan, just like America, is a consumerist society that maintains high living standards with a string of firms that depend on spendthriftiness of the country's residents. If anything, the Japanese general public is even more receptive to buying loads of less-than-useful things to stuff their residences, based on subtle changes in functionalities, colors, and marketing techniques. The fact that the Japanese are so willing to be materialistic, combined with their smaller residences than those of Americans, is what made Kondo popular in Japan in the first place.
Of course, this is a point that is lost to her American critics, who are too busy resisting her through their description of her "un-Americanness." Yet, these critics should be more hesitant to portray America as fundamentally materialistic. As a new generation of Americans, struggling with expensive housing, stagnant wages, and fond of tiny share houses in gentrified downtown areas, they have taken to heart the underlying principles of the KonMari method, even if they do not know who Kondo is. Perhaps Kondo is riding a wave of de-materialization that is beginning to sweep America as the millennials come to age. Her critics should take note of the changing American attitude toward capitalism and consumerism.
Behind the pseudo-spiritual calling that is part of the feted "KonMari method" of tidying up is a complete rethinking of what defines the relationship between people and capitalism, at least in the American context. That much is reflected in the criticism Kondo is facing among her newfound American audience, even as her fame has drawn extensive coverage in both mainstream and social media. The criticism, in essence, is centered on the broad question of how throwing away things can bring joy, when those things are paid for by and often has sentimental value for their possessors.
Beneath the criticism lies the discomfort with Kondo's friendly yet blatant attack on a cherished value that Americans, as the self-professed upholders of free-market capitalism, hold dear. For decades, if not longer, the American public defined personal success through possession of big-ticker material objects, including big houses, big cars, nice clothing, and great home decor. The American pride in being able to display wealth through material items is often expressed through hosting large parties in suburban houses for friends and families, impressing them with material beauty in ways the Japanese, with their tiny apartments, cannot.
And the buying of material things is often not just about personal vanity. Many, both laymen and professionals, see buying things as what makes America economically powerful. The rise of major American firms like Apple and Walmart rested on the fact that Americans are willing to shell out a large number of things on many expensive things. The idea that the American economy is powerful because of the massive consumption power of its people is made clear when President Bush asked citizens to restore the country to greatness after 9/11 by spending more money to buy more things.
The KonMari method flies directly against such a mentality. By asking her audience to only keep a certain number of each thing, whether it be pairs of jeans or books on the shelves, Kondo is indirectly asking people to buy fewer things. If people should only keep things that provide them with "true joy," then they should think about what they buy in the first place, so that they only come into possession of things that provide them with true joy. Kondo implies that American spendthriftiness, a trait that supposedly made the Amerian economy powerful, should be reined in, to a reasonable degree, for the sake of psychological health of individual consumers.
At the same time, the Asian American community has not missed the racist undertones associated with the criticism of Kondo among Americans. Asian Americans note that American reaction to Kondo's cutesy bubbliness, conforming to the Japanese notion of kawaii, harks back to the concept of Orientalism. By shrouding Kondo and the KonMari method in a sense of Eastern mystique and exoticism associated with Japan's notorious sense of order and organization, American critiques wrap her ideas as a fundamentally foreign and incompatible with the American psyche, unsustainable beyond superficial cleaning of some houses.
The notion is rather odd that modern Japan, just like America, is a consumerist society that maintains high living standards with a string of firms that depend on spendthriftiness of the country's residents. If anything, the Japanese general public is even more receptive to buying loads of less-than-useful things to stuff their residences, based on subtle changes in functionalities, colors, and marketing techniques. The fact that the Japanese are so willing to be materialistic, combined with their smaller residences than those of Americans, is what made Kondo popular in Japan in the first place.
Of course, this is a point that is lost to her American critics, who are too busy resisting her through their description of her "un-Americanness." Yet, these critics should be more hesitant to portray America as fundamentally materialistic. As a new generation of Americans, struggling with expensive housing, stagnant wages, and fond of tiny share houses in gentrified downtown areas, they have taken to heart the underlying principles of the KonMari method, even if they do not know who Kondo is. Perhaps Kondo is riding a wave of de-materialization that is beginning to sweep America as the millennials come to age. Her critics should take note of the changing American attitude toward capitalism and consumerism.
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