Scandinavian minimalism versus Indian maximalism

As an overstimulated technologist, I love how Scandinavian minimalism feels. Yet Indian maximalism spins chaos into beauty. One makes the world stand still, but the other holds worlds together.

What is design, and what is a design philosophy? Design is the arrangement of components. It can be components on a screen, in a room, on a body, or in a city. A design philosophy is a set of axioms from which design decisions are made. In other words, why is this particular style of design the way it is? What inspires it? What is it moving us towards? What does it embrace or reject? What feelings is it trying to evoke or pay homage to? 

My time in Copenhagen was wonderful. For the first time in my life I began to appreciate minimalism. Of course, before I could appreciate it I had to notice it. And so I did. I saw it in the apartment we lived in. How each bit of space was functional, how every object had an intention, and all the neutral colors created a feeling of safety and calm. 

The composition of the elements in our apartment, the buildings on our street, the furniture in cafes, and the clothes on people’s bodies; everywhere I looked Danish life was a humble and artful use of space.

I noticed forms of minimalism I hadn’t considered; natural materials, such as wood, cotton, and stone, are minimalist because they activate our sense of tough and smell as they are, and the use of light. The right hue and brightness of light creates the minimalist feeling of serenity versus frenzy and fervor, eerieness, or sterility.

A design philosophy reflects the culture, and Scandinavian minimalism goes hand-in-glove with environmentalism, anti-consumerism, and a culture that appears to value tranquility above all else. And I can tell you, my time in Copenhagen was exactly this. My boyfriend and I enjoyed fourteen serene days of solitude while we strolled through gardens, museums, along the water, and through neighborhoods. In digital product design (the line of work I am in) we are often told to create balance on the screen. To compose the screen in a way that is “balanced”, and balance doesn’t always mean minimal (Maison Margiela has balance, Oakland-native artist Chondon’s work has balance), rather balance is the artistic eye of knowing when to stop. It is knowing when the piece is finished. And the Danes just know. Be it in their clothes or the presentation of their cuisine, they know exactly how much to give and how much to hold back. This artistic precision kept showing up in places I did not expect. In the design of the sidewalk, the arrangement of wine bottles on a shelf, or the entrance of a train station. As an overstimulated American and Silicon Valley technologist, I loved how Copenhagen made me feel. Scandinavian minimalism, and the peace that brings, was exactly what I needed at the end of a hard year. 

Image from Glamour Magazine, Pat McGrath for Margiela

And then I flew home to India. 

A design philosophy reflects the culture. The culture is a product of the people. Culture is the people. At least in a place like India, and in the small towns of India where my family lives, culture is not in museums or swanky galleries or the creation of intellectuals. Culture is in the maximalism of the people. In their bombastic speech and personalities that teem with emotion and drama. In the untamed and near reckless demeanor of youth on the streets or the survivalist swagger of elderly women running their daily errands in 90 degree heat. I was three thousand miles away from Copenhagen and somewhere over the fertile crescent the soft peace of Scandinavia fell away and the energy of a an ancient yet emerging world exploded from the ground below. 

The maximalism of India is well-known. You can go read about it on your own if you’d like. But what I am here to tell you is how it felt to move from the minimalism of the Global North to the maximalism of the Global South. But first let me ground you in some context. 

My entire extended family lives in southwest India in a state called Karnataka. We speak Kannada, the state language, and Havyaka, our caste’s language. My family has been in Karnataka for generations further back than is documented, and we have historically been, and many still are, farmers. The town I call home is a coastal paradise, filled with religious traditions, rice paddies, narrow winding roads, and the warmest, kindest people. 

Perhaps because I was one of the youngest in the household or perhaps it was because I was female, but I often felt invisible in the family. This was not a problem though because I enjoyed the access my invisibility afforded me. I could observe my family in its element. What made them laugh, made them upset, when they felt embarrassed and when they felt pride. I took careful mental notes of what made each family member tick. Through my family, a collection of every day Indians living in small towns, villages, and culturally Kannadiga cities like Mysore, I formed theories on who Indians are. And I compared what I learned about Indians with what I saw in Beaverton, Oregon. I never felt invisible in Oregon. I stood out as one of few brown kids in my Catholic school, that too an outspoken kid raised by Indian immigrants who did not teach me the rules of American politeness. But still I observed everyone around me. The white Catholic families of Oregon and what made them tick. At a young age I could tell you what they feared, what they loved, and what they longed for. 

I believe that maximalism in India is a reflection of many aspects of the culture, but one less considered aspect is its ancientness. Centuries layer on centuries, and tradition develops layers like sedimentary rocks. We do not let go of the past. We bring it with us. 

Parts of South India are at the same latitude as the Amazon so the landscape is lush and vibrant. Our cuisine is colorful, our music emotional, and our dance is a form of prayer, storytelling, or imitating animals (See huli vesha). These are characteristics I’ve noticed to be unique to parts of the Global South. We live in closer proximity to nature and closer proximity to our spirituality, and this creates a culture that, when contrasted with Europe, is wilder, more emotional, and more raw. 

In further contrast to Europe, India is a place that embraces mysticism and mythology. We bang drums and clang bells when we pray to make sure spirits hear us. We see fire as purifying and sacred, and use plants and fruits in our rituals; for each layer we add to how we pray, there was a layer I felt missing in the silent, austere churches of Denmark. The serenity of minimalism is rarely found in India. I found it at the Golden Temple in Amritsar, but even there I saw maximalist architecture and clothing. 

Skilled craftsmanship is as present in India as it is in Denmark or an esteemed place like Japan, it just isn’t appreciated in the same light and the artisans aren’t given their flowers. However, here is where I see Danish design and Indian design intersect, both cultures value using natural materials and see elegance (and possibly perfection?) in the natural shape and texture of organic materials. 

So which design philosophy do I prefer? Scandinavian minimalism or Indian maximalism? I felt at peace in Copenhagen, and peace is elusive in our information dense world. I was relaxed in the quiet, gentle design of the Danes, and I am grateful for the world they have built for themselves. I am glad it exists. But I am not Scandinavian. I live in-between the enormously complex worlds of America and India. I know too much about human suffering, and am too attached to humanity. India, and the developing world more broadly, puts on display a much wider spectrum of the human condition. There is extreme joy and extreme neglect. Extreme richness and extreme poverty. Extreme knowledge and ignorance. Maximalism extends its arms wide and embraces all this complexity, giving it a shape, a form… a visual language really. Maximalism makes sense of the chaos, and I prefer a design philosophy that accomplishes the nigh impossible, just as Indians do everyday.