I wish I could have added my boyfriend’s too large Le Corbusier lounger. A fraction of what was in that jumble: seven antique glass cake stands that belonged to my mother a dormitory’s worth of new sheet sets and blankets for a bed size that is not mine a set of Lenox china that my grandmother gave to my mother, who gave it to me, and was never used clothes galore a Viking stove grate that arrived cracked, and which I saved because I planned to weld it into a sculpture someday, after I learned how to weld several rolls of Trump toilet paper that I wrongly thought were amusing a few years ago. ![]() I gathered my unwanteds and piled them in the living room. ![]() In my apartment, it’s got so cluttered that sometimes, when I leave-usually to acquire more stuff-it crosses my mind that I should leave a “Dear Burglar” note, urging the intruder to help herself.Ī few months ago, I decided to deaccession an assortment of my things by whatever means feasible: selling, donating, recycling, giving them away, losing them on the subway, or reserving a spot for them on the next Mars Explorer. The son of a friend, when offered his pick of items from his grandfather’s estate-an antique clock? an Emmy?-took a toilet plunger. What to do with this First World surplus? Your children don’t want it. They have to dust it.” A survey conducted by the storage marketplace Neighbor found that quasi-house arrest has made seventy-eight per cent of respondents realize that they have more possessions than they need. ![]() “People are stuck in their houses and sick of their stuff,” Randy Sabin, who runs estate and Internet sales, told me over the phone from Morris, Connecticut. Lately, I, a maximalist, have been yearning to be a minimalist.
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