In an era where excess is supposedly tacky, the new symbol of wealth is a house that appears as if it’s never been lived in. From Kim Kardashian’s monastery-quiet mansion to viral “beige moms” on TikTok and Instagram, minimalism has attracted followers who believe less is more. In many online circles, this principle has evolved into an aesthetic of near-empty spaces.
Minimalism began in the early 1960s as an artistic counter-movement to the abstract expressionism of the mid-century. Unlike its online persona, original minimalists were obsessed with stripping down to the essentials. Early minimalist art installations used repeated dots and geometric shapes to distill visual experience into its most integral shapes.
The concept eventually gained relevance outside of museum halls, seeping into online platforms. With the rise of mobile-focused social media in the mid-to-late 2000s, the concept of minimalism shifted from emphasizing natural materials to popularizing muted colors and empty space. Through online fashion challenges like the 333 Method, in which consumers craft a muted wardrobe from three tops, three bottoms and three pairs of shoes, minimalism has slipped into mainstream millennial and Gen Z culture and fashion.
For Gen Z specifically, minimalism has become the blueprint for the clean girl aesthetic that’s influenced 2020s fashion: slicked-back bun, “glazed donut” skin and minute gold hoops. Subtle variations between these living Pinterest boards — whether a blush is peachy or pinky or if a top is cashmere or linen — bring about entirely new aesthetics, from vanilla girls to coastal grandmothers, all sharing a monochromatic closet.
At West High, minimalism appears less as a modernist art form or short-lived social media trend. Students such as Lily Colleran ’28 integrate minimalism into patterns that shape how they structure their lifestyle. Although Colleran’s wardrobe appears simple, she notes that the simplicity of her attire does not reflect her lifelong eye for fashion.
“I have been picking out my outfits since I was four years old,” Colleran said. “My mom would try to pick my outfits in preschool, and I would literally throw them on the floor because [the outfit] didn’t match my pants with my dress.”
On social media, wardrobes like Colleran’s would be folded alongside TikTok “Sunday reset” videos and Pinterest boards filled with white kitchens and taupe couches. However, she believes that this restrained portrayal misrepresents minimalism.
“If you focus on confining [yourself] to these colors, brands and types of outfit, then that’s not what a minimalist is. It’s about wearing what you enjoy and feel comfortable with,” Colleran said. “If it happens to [fall into ‘basic’], then it happens to fall in. I don’t think ‘basic’ is a negative way to describe someone’s fashion. I’m proud to be basic in my fashion.”
Minimalism is not only an aesthetic to Colleran, but rather a function of daily life. Shaped by routines and expectations, it informs how she organizes her time and stays consistent across her responsibilities and goals.
“I’m currently on the path to medical school, which is 12 years of [education],” Colleran said. “I’m a very focused person. I use my planner every day, list everything out, [complete] all of my homework and stay on top of all my classes. [Minimalism] in different parts of my life keeps me a very consistent, successful person.”
For Colleran, self-expression through fashion is less about the appearance of the clothes themselves and more about how it feels to wear them. Her confidence is channeled through how her hoop earrings sway against her braided hair and bracelets chime beneath her Brandy Melville sweaters. Although style varies from person to person, their feelings culminate in the same way when they finally find their look — into pride and satisfaction.
“You can tell by someone’s confidence how they feel [about] their outfit,” Colleran said. “[If] they’re proud of what they’ve worn, they’re glowing. It’s not just what you put on in the morning. It’s reflecting everything else in your life.”
The relationship between self-expression and structure isn’t exclusive to minimalism. In the art world, as well as in a teenager’s closet, maximalism is the yin to minimalism’s yang. With its roots in ancient civilizations — from Egypt’s jeweled dynasties to Ancient Greece’s frescoed villas — maximalism has long been a language of abundance, notably a medium for aristocrats to announce their status. After minimalism’s resurgence in the 1960s, maximalism rebounded in the late 1970s, often adopting a bohemian, hippie-inspired style shaped by the cultural shifts following the Vietnam War, celebrating individuality over affluence.
Today, maximalism is less about flaunting wealth and social commentary and more about personalization, though the latter remains central. Designers and enthusiasts describe it as a way to reflect a person’s genuine interests rather than follow a trend toward simplicity. Bright colors, pattern-mixing, eclectic souvenirs and walls lined with posters have become common expressions of that approach. Gen Z maximalism mixes the stand-out aesthetics of Y2K: emo, grunge, McBling, pop-punk, skater — less silhouettes, more chunky belts and Juicy Couture.
Maximalism’s influence at West appears in the students who treat their rooms and their outfits like a running scrapbook. In a sea of gray hoodies and plaid pajama pants, Jack Overholt ’26 stands out with an ever-shifting mix of baggy jeans, graphic tees and a zip-up for every occasion. Overholt draws inspiration from the grunge aesthetic and alternative fashion, as well as TikTok, Pinterest and even clothes handed down from their older brother.
“I really like having accessories [and] playing with all my necklaces,” Overholt said. “I have a big graphic T-shirt collection with my interests: ‘Attack on Titan,’ ‘Littlest Pet Shop,’ Minecraft.”
For most of their wardrobe, Overholt thrifts, sometimes mending or adding designs to personalize pieces. Like their fashion choices, the spaces Overholt creates are a few decades off, dated to the lived-in charm of the ’80s and early 2000s.
“I exercise maximalism the most in my room. I get itchy when there’s nothing on the walls — an actual feeling of discomfort,” Overholt said. “I like to display my collections [and] the physical media I have. I have a whole bunch of CDs, DVDs, cassettes [and] records. I like being able to get lost in looking at my room.”
At West, minimalism and maximalism differ from their online portrayals of cleanse and clutter. Minimalism is found in the repeated outfits that feel safe and familiar, the same jeans worn week after week or the same neutral hoodie pulled on before class. Maximalism is evident in overcrowded desk spaces, thrifted tees, posters taped to bedroom walls and shelves that keep filling up.
Regardless of stylistic preferences, Overholt ultimately believes students should unapologetically express themselves, whether pared down or piled high — style, after all, is a way of being seen.
“You need to take up space,” Overholt said. “In society, they’re trying to push you down [and] make you small; digestible. When really, you’re a human. You should act like a human. Have a voice, and take up space.”
