We've all heard the call to "simplify" our lives, a two-step process of detaching ourselves from consumerism and reinventing our relationship to time. Even the Coca-Cola Company has joined the call with its Dansani water ads, which urge us to "Replenish the Inner Source: Purify, Liquefy, Simplify." The Simplicity Movement's purported goal is to help us reach ingenious compromises in the brutal battle between economy and time, money and self. Undoubtedly, in the workaday world, we still live by the law "time is money." And, American culture views work as salvation, and attitude that resonates with a Puritan legacy. In fact, to paraphrase Barbara Ehrenreich, today busy-ness—not leisure—equals status. We live in a time when Jobs.com's insistence that "When you love what you do, you're alive" goes unquestioned. This pervasive mindset—which conflates work with freedom and defines personal productivity as the measure of self-worth—renders free time irrelevant and sets an exhaustive pace that makes achieving simplicity anything but simple.

First, let's define the authentic Voluntary Simplicity Movement. The contemporary Simplicity Movement originated with publications such as Dwane Elgin's 1981 Voluntary Simplicity: Toward a Way of Life that Is Outwardly Simple, Inwardly Rich. Perhaps the most influential book, however, has been Vicki Robin and Joe Dominguez's 1992, now in its second edition, Your Money or Your Life: Transforming Your Relationship with Money and Achieving Financial Independence ("FI" for short in Simplicity lingo). Also significant was been the quirky and now-defunct Tightwad Gazette, which cost a mere $12/year in the late 80s. It reestablished and brought into vogue the original meaning of the word "frugal," to live well and creatively with what one has. And it helped to remind us of the origins of the word "consume": to destroy, use up, or squander. The Tightwad Gazette lives on in spirit in both printed collections of its issues and in the online Simple Living Newsletter, part of the Simple Living Network (SLN). This online publication carries on Tightwad Gazette's tradition of frugal homemaking and consumer awareness, providing everything from recipes for non-toxic pesticides to advice on choosing the "greenest" washing machine. Not to be left out of the trend, PBS presented an excellent 1997 series Affluenza, which links a more simple and humane life with the rejection of unbridled consumerism. All these sources are mainstays of what I call the "authentic" Voluntary Simplicity Movement, which advocates environmental responsibility and responsible consumerism. Also central to the authentic movement is "downshifting," the individual version of corporate downsizing and the most radical embodiment of the movement's ethics. Two phenomena of the 90s verify the profound, if almost silent, impact of the Voluntary Simplicity on American culture: one, for the first time in history, American workers asserted that, given the choice (Utne--), they wanted more free time rather than more money; and, two, previously upwardly mobile, successful employees—particularly women—began the voluntary climb down the corporate ladder in attempts to simplify and improve the quality of their lives. This raises the provocative question of whether the Voluntary Simplicity Movement is partially a feminist response to male-dominated corporate culture.

Of Time and Things: The Human Time Dilemma

Economist Jeremy Rifkin, in his 1989 book Time Wars: The Primary Conflict in Human History, precisely defines the human time dilemma the Voluntary Simplicity Movement hopes to counteract, a time dilemma created by a spiraling consumerism and spiritually depleted life: According to Rifkin, there is a raging battle between the "nanosecond culture" and natural or human-centered time. The nanosecond culture demands that we live in a techno-time, or at an increasingly inhuman speed. Natural time, the speed at which humanity lived until the advent of the Industrial Revolution, bases itself in the natural cycles: the tides, the movement of the sun and moon, the seasons, or the gestation periods of farm animals, for example. Rifkin's work provides the scientific and philosophical basis for discussions about how we slow down in a nanosecond culture and avoid turning time—and therefore life itself—into a commodity.

In the early 90s, Diana Hunt and Pam Hait offered another answer to the time dilemma in their book The Tao of Time, written in the popular self-help style. The book argues against the day-planner mentality of so many time-management books: that the failure to manage our time is the cause of our time crunch. The Tao of Time effectively critiques the prevalent opinion that time is like a suitcase that, packed properly, will hold as much as you want it to. Such popular self-help and business attitudes merely try to trick us into believing we have more time because we rearrange our schedules or learn to multi-task; they do nothing to change our relationship to time or ourselves. One of The Tao of Time's strongest points is its realistic approach; Hunt and Hait acknowledge that we must all live simultaneously in the nanosecond culture and in an inward, spiritual time—and they provide concrete how-to advice on how to achieve that balance.

With an established Voluntary Simplicity Movement and numerous enlightening publications advising us on how to negotiate the minefield of the nanosecond culture and the consumer culture, it should be easy to live the simple life. However, it isn't so simple, for there is now a trendy commercial Simplicity Movement that has co-opted the "authentic" message of autonomy, freedom, and spiritual well being. Vendors of the "simple life" promise a sense of control over our time—of living in it rather than being run by it. However, these vendors lack the insight of Rifkin or even the authors of The Tao of Time.

Some of the more familiar sources are Elaine St. James' book series, including Simplify Your Life: 100 Ways to Slow Down and Enjoy the Things That Really Matter,, Living the Simple Life: A Guide to Scaling Down and Enjoying More, and Inner Simplicity: 100 Ways to Regain Peace and Spirituality. This book series has some merit, for her no-nonsense suggestions discourage consumerism for its own sake and encourage one to make time to discover true sources of satisfaction, even if they do adopt a kind of "listing and compartmentalizing" approach. She has even simplified our most hectic holiday with her 2000 Simplify Your Christmas: 100 Ways to Reduce Stress and Recapture the Joy of the Holidays. What does it mean that we need professional "simplification" advice even during vacation? Other catchy pocket-sized books are Adair Lara's Slowing Down in a Speeded-up World and Richard Carlson's Don't Sweat the Small Stuff and Don't Worry, Make Money: Spiritual and Practical Ways to Create Abundance and More Fun in Your Life. The latter reverses the authentic Simplicity Movement's argument that the pursuit of money and spiritual wellbeing are antithetical. For example, Carlson asserts that "Developing wealth consciousness is what this book is all about" (59). He continues"if we maintain wealth consciousness, money will flow to us in inexhaustible ways" (59) He maps the way to material comfort via fuzzy spiritual techniques: "You develop wealth consciousness by eliminating worry, by trusting in the universe and in your won inner resources. Once you secure your wealth consciouness, true abundance is just around the corner" (59). Publications such as Carlson's ignore the authentic movement's goal: to the degree desirable, eliminate the need to make money, in other words, remove oneself from the cycle of paid employment-consumerism-"busy"ness. The authentic movement's message does not confuse or conflate monetary and spiritual "abundance," a catch word of the movement.

The corporate world, too, capitalizes on the simplicity trend. Fast Company is an impressive, slick, and weighty e-business magazine whose themes are speed, efficiency, and competition—the watchwords of success. Like many magazines capitalizing on the trend, Fast Company sends a contradictory message to those on the corporate fast-track: the May 2000 cover, with speed-blurred graphics, proclaims that "speed wins," provokes the reader's anxiety by asking "How fast are you?", and then offers comfort with the command "SLOW DOWN! and a helpful "15 WAYS TO AVOID BURNOUT" (figure ___). You can have it all, Fast Company implies: the cutting-edge business person can both move at top speed—and therefore insure success—and luxuriate in the more humane urge to "slow-down." Fast Company's answer to the time dilemma is to go faster and increase efficiency, compress responsibilities to allow for more room to take on even more work and thus perpetuate the successful business image. This attitude of accommodation-without-end, of enough never being enough, sells a death-defying efficiency as success—but its advice about how to manipulate schedules or escape from work does not even begin to question our relationship to time. Fast Company reflects a prevailing American business sensibility and reminds us facts that the U.S. economy's rate of productivity has increased because we have sped up and worked longer hours.

PBS is in on the trend as well. Many of us have seen the numerous financial, health, and spiritual advisers on the PBS circuit, such as Suze Ormand and Wayne W. Dyer, who dominate entire weeks of air time at fundraising time. Many advisers stress that financial wellness is integral—is even a prerequisite—to physical and spiritual health. While I can't say that the trendy movement does not offer some sound advice and comfort, what is crucial to note is that it too fails to offer revolutionary models for the relationship between self and economy, self and time. Instead, it fosters yet another more exotic consumerism that does anything but simplify one's life.

The Simple Faux Facts on the Magazine Racks: Real Simple and Simplycity

Even ads in mass-market publications like Time Magazine are propagating faux simplicity. An ad for the recently inaugurated magazine Real Simple, appearing in a June 2000 issue of Time (figure 2), entices us with the command "do less have more." Like many images from the commercial Simplicity Movement, this ad relies on a stereotype of Eastern aesthetics, a "less is more" idea. The dull background of white sheets and grainy gray carpet highlight luscious purple embroidered satin slippers. Those slippers await our own bare feet and invite us to enter the simple life. This ad exemplifies Real Simple's style, a superficial Zen-ness that draws on the elegance and artistry of Japanese art.

Along with Real Simple, Simplycity illustrates why the commercial Simplicity Movement is so seductive: first, the publications seem to have a strong anti-commercial appeal, even though they encourage rampant shopping; and second, the commercial movement has great allure because so much of its advice really is helpful and clever. Both target a primarily female audience and imply that one can buy simplicity. They also foreground the contradictions between the authentic and commercial Simplicity Movements. Ultimately, such magazines cultivate the reader's dependence on specialized services, publications, luxury items, diets, workshops, expensive day-planners and intricate calendar systems, and spiritual retreats. Pampering oneself has become synonymous with simplifying one's life.

The first magazine, Real Simple confuses, as do many simplicity publications, simplifying with merely organizing, paring down one's possessions, and simulating a cleaner, more "Zen-like" style. A Time Magazine "Trend Alert" column documents this cultural turn toward Eastern aesthetics and philosophy, noting that "the same companies that ushered in aromatherapy are now cranking out Zen-inspired relaxation tools, dubbed 'calming pools' and 'serenity ponds'" (--). Real Simple's covers epitomize this faux Zen aesthetic so evident nowadays in our passion for miniature fountains, Zen rock gardens, and Feng Shui. The August 2000 cover (figure ---), for example, features a close-up of a flower (type? lotus?) and the text seductive text "A Walk into Serenity." The June-July 2000 cover of Real Simple (figure 1) typifies the allure of commercial simplicity publications. We are invited to enter an idyllic beach scene—indeed, our sandals lie in the sand by the beach cot as if we walked away a moment ago. Ironically, it is simple to overlook the significant cost probably incurred to arrive at such a moment: travel, in-season beach accommodations, the large silken scarves that whose canopy shades us from the (tropical?) sun.

A letter to Real Simple from reader Laura Franklin of Chicago, published in the same issue, concisely illustrates the Catch 22 of the magazine: Any manicure involving nail polish is not simple.

Any wardrobe where the average cost of a blouse is 100 plus and you own more than four pairs of shoes is not simple.

If you have to buy new sheets to make your bedroom sleepable, it's not simple.
The magazine is very pretty and makes me feel a lot calmer, but when I say simple, I mean SIMPLE. (24)

Franklin has identifies the inherent contradiction underlying even worthwhile advice—the reader must have something a magazine can never give: one has to have the time and money to put the advice to the test. Real Simple is a step ahead of many simplicity publications in its public recognition of its own shortcomings and practice of accommodating, in its product suggestions, a wide range of reader incomes.

Real Simple expertly and subtly practices what many commercial simplicity vendors do: conflate "organizing" and "simplifying." We're led to believe that organization automatically leads to simplicity. The August 2000 article "One Drawer at a Time," advises the reader on organizing her lingerie if it "isn't suitable for public viewing" (14), as the table-of-contents blurb puts it. Author Jennifer Tung cheers us on with her subtitle, "Getting your lingerie in order is a fun start toward organizing your life" (64). The article provides detailed advice on deciding what to discard, how to choose replacements, and how to correctly place your lingerie in your bureau. However, if you've still got the problem of "too many panties, camisoles, and demicups,…take your storage system to the next level" (65): buy the Stickley Metropolitan lingerie chest for a mere $1,774—or, one can buy cheaper versions from other companies (information not listed). Luckily, Real Simple makes it real simple to make the purchase by printing the phone number and web address of the company, thus illustrating this trendy movement's ulterior focus on shopping.

Real Simple's regular feature "Simple Solutions" cleverly combines the ideas of simplification and consumption while ignoring the obvious contradiction inherent in its message: that increased consumption inevitably complicates one's life. Instead, it promotes the myth that one can buy the simple life. Each month, in a two-page spread, the magazine presents what can be called a calendar of consumption with a theme appropriate to the season, for example, "a month of gravy bowls" for November, "a month of flip-flops" for August, "a month of totes" for September. Each day in the calendar format features a photo of a product, manufacturer information, and its price. September 2000's calendar of totes ranges in price from Fendi's $5,115 tote to—on the final day of the month—L.L. Bean's $19.50 tote, which, to its credit, Real Simple lists as "the simplest solution" (---).

The categories listed on the cover pages of Real Simple, "life/home/body/soul," imply that compartmentalizing and organizing one's physical and mental "stuff" is the answer, that rearrangement over radical revision is the road to simplicity. It merely argues for a rethinking of what and how much one owns, and its placement in the home or workplace, versus a necessary questioning of the relation between owning things and achieving true simplicity. Notably, the tribute to Zen ends here, for the magazine does not suggest that serenity is achieved by cultivating a mindset free of distraction; instead, it suggest, serenity is a matter of style to be had from the outside in. There is the deception that "small pleasures" are automatically easier than larger ones. Serenity is just another balancing act, and life is anything but carefree. Ultimately, Real Simple is about life's packaging, not about changing our thinking or recapturing the free time to truly simplify our lives. In many ways, Real Simple trivializes the philosophical questions of the authentic Simplicity Movement and reduces them to a consumer choice, as in the article, "DVD or VCR?" We must look to the low-budget Tightwad Gazette or the comparatively profound Elaine St. James for the more compelling questions: Why own either one? St. James might ask: Which vital needs do you neglect in working the hours to earn the money to buy this necessity, and which nurturing activities, such as meditation or conversation, do you forego while enjoying electronic entertainment?

An even more extreme manifestation of the contradictions in the contemporary Simplicity Movement is Simplycity, a slick, urban magazine, whose very name is obviously an attempt to exploit the current interest in simplifying—an exploitation made all the more evident by its announcement in the second issue of a name change from Simplicity to Simplicity. The new title thus appeals to both true simplicity seekers and to the "urban-minded yet down-to-earth selves" (9) the editor defines as its audience. The very categories listed on the cover under the magazine title, "ideas," "style," "euphoria," "home," and "frivolities," signal its mere cursory attention to authentic simplicity (fig. ---). In contrast, Real Simple, with its categories of "life/home/body/soul," seems downright Tightwad Gazette-ish in its philosophy. Other than the name and one article entitled "Yoga Simplified" (and it's a mystery why yoga would need simplifying!), Simplycity offers little evidence of its announced purpose, "to live the Simplycity lifestyle." It gives nodding attention to the simplicity theme, not with substance but with repeated plays on the word, as in the blurb for the article "Taking Stock": "A new exchange-traded fund could simplify your investment strategies." This unoriginal article could be found in countless publications that purport no simplicity ethic.

Even the letters from readers affirm that Simplycity's appeal is primarily visual. For example, its March 2000 premiere issue was "so striking," according to one reader, that she was persuaded, from two aisles away, to buy it "without knowing what was inside" (---). The disproportionate amount of text versus photo space is an important factor in the magazine's appeal for many readers, but that preponderance of shiny white space, along with tiny font, mediocre and clichéd writing, and articles that resemble a series of insubstantial blurbs or photo captions, make it clear that the magazine is only trading on the fashionable language of the Simplicity Movement, not supporting even the compromised philosophy of Real Simple. Its objectification of nude and semi-nude women makes it indistinguishable from countless women's magazines with an unabashed emphasis on shopping for the right things and the right style. But, Simplycity's striking appeal is simple to explain: It is faux simplicity at its most sophisticated. Neither Real Simple nor Simplicity hints at self-denial. In defining a new materialism cleansed of the guilt, the commercial Simplicity Movement converts the willing to a kind of perverted Puritanism for the new millennium.

Simply Put: Who Has the Time?

The false salvation for sale in the commercial Simplicity Movement denies the real dilemma, a dilemma that cannot be adequately addressed by trend-setting women's magazine; facile self-help books; pocket-size Zen gardens complete with miniature rakes and stones; stress-reducing gurgling fountains on our corporate desks; pampering weekends at expensive spas; $5000-plus lingerie bureaus; or complicated calendar systems to organize our time. In answer to the excruciating time crisis in our nanosecond culture, the movement offers a mere temporary escape from a work environment, better organizing skills, or a monthly calendar of consumption—not a serious revision of the economy of self, time, and things. What we must do is seriously question the inhuman expectations we have of ourselves. Authentic simplicity—what would be truly easy and elegant—would be to practice what the Tao of Time calls "deceleration." But that would require a radical revision of our personal, temporal, and material economy—and the time to do it.

Home | Interact | About | Feedback | Site Map