Amanda Sullivan’s unofficial motto is “less, but better.”
Less stuff, but stuff we like better.
Less stuff, but stuff that’s made better.
Less stuff, but stuff that is better for the planet.
“Less, but better” makes particular sense in our closets. Opt for seven well-made, classic, comfortable tees over seventeen cheap, trendy, ill-fitting ones. Opt for a few pairs of well-made, classic, comfortable shoes over a mountain of cheap, trendy, blister-inducing ones.
Critics of minimalism are quick to point out how “less, but better” smacks of privilege. And they’re not entirely wrong. That said, some critiques are almost exclusively about the privilege of having more money to pay the first cost of an item, i.e. the ticket price, without acknowledging the fact that many items that cost more upfront end up saving money over the life cycle of the item.
Let’s say I’m in the market for a new backpack. I can spend $20 on backpack A or $50 on backpack B. To the impulsive shopper, bag A seems like a great deal.
But what makes bag A so much cheaper? First and foremost, externalized costs. If something is too cheap to be true, somewhere a person or the planet was likely exploited to make it so.
But also, bag A is more likely to be poorly constructed from low-quality materials. After a few months of hauling my belongings, a strap tears off the bag. Not a huge deal, and I can get it repaired for about $10. Now the total cost of the bag rises to $30.
A few months later, a seam in the body of the bag tears. I can get it repaired for about $10 again, bringing the cost of the bag to $40. Or I could opt to replace the bag entirely, having sunk $30 into it and needing $20 more to buy a new version, bringing my expenditure on backpacks to $50.
Alternatively, I could just purchase backpack B the first time for $50. It has a higher initial price tag, sure, but it’s made in a nation with strict environmental and workers’ rights regulations. It’s made by a reputable brand that offers parental leave to its employees and gives money to progressive political candidates. It’s made of durable canvas, the fabric is joined with reinforced seams, and the zippers are flat and covered with a placket. It will last me ten years, all while my expenditure on backpacks remains at $50.
(Okay, maybe I spend $20 bucks to get it dry cleaned after reading some scary clickbait about the bacteria our backpacks can harbor.)
That’s the difference between a first cost and life cycle cost. Bag A was $20 at first cost, but then required money, time, and energy to repair or replace, perhaps even surpassing the cost of bag B when you take the long view of the product’s life cycle.
When I abide by the “less, but better” principle, my real privilege is not so much money as it is time. I can afford to go without an item altogether while saving up for the better version.
When I don’t abide by the “less, but better” principle, that smacks of another kind of privilege: the privilege of getting to turn my back on the externalized costs that made that first cost so cheap.
And if the plight of other humans and our planet isn’t enough to sway you, just think about how much more organized your home filled with “less, but better” things will be.