I used to think creativity meant having more stuff. More art supplies, more space, more options. My college dorm room was proof of this flawed logic – shelves crammed with half-used sketchbooks, drawers overflowing with pens I'd forgotten about, canvases stacked against walls gathering dust. I was drowning in creative potential but couldn't actually create anything meaningful.
That changed during my junior year at BU when I stumbled into minimalism. I mean, I didn't plan it – I was reading about environmental impact and started questioning why I owned so much junk I never used. But somewhere in that decluttering process, something unexpected happened. My creativity exploded.
I know that sounds counterintuitive. How does having less stuff make you more creative? Shouldn't artists need all the tools they can get? That's what I thought too, until I tried working with constraints and realized they were actually freedom in disguise.
The breakthrough moment came when I was moving out of my dorm. I'd decided to pare down my art supplies to what would fit in one small box. Instead of the usual panic about "what if I need this someday," I felt… relieved? Like I'd been carrying around this heavy backpack I didn't realize was there, and suddenly someone had lifted it off my shoulders.
That summer, working with just a basic watercolor set, some pencils, and cheap paper, I created some of my favorite pieces ever. Not because the materials were special – they definitely weren't – but because I wasn't paralyzed by infinite options. When you've only got three colors to work with, you stop overthinking and start experimenting with what's possible within those boundaries.
I think about this painter I read about who limited herself to just black, white, and one other color for an entire year. Sounds restrictive, right? But she told this story about how it forced her to really understand texture and form in ways she'd never explored before. She wasn't constantly mixing new colors or second-guessing her palette choices. She just painted.
That's what minimalist creativity feels like – you just create. There's no decision fatigue about which of your seventeen different pens to use. You grab the one pen and get to work. The focus shifts from the tools to the actual expression, which is where it should've been all along.
My creative space now is embarrassingly simple by most people's standards. One small desk, good lighting, and a few carefully chosen supplies. My parents visited last month and my mom kept asking if I needed them to buy me more art stuff. "Don't you want a proper easel? What about oil paints? This seems so… limited." She meant well, but she was missing the point entirely.
The limitation isn't a bug, it's a feature. When I sit down to work now, I'm not spending twenty minutes deciding between different sketchbooks or wondering if I should try that new technique I saw on Instagram. I have my tools, I have my space, and I can focus entirely on what I'm trying to express.
This approach has spilled over into other areas of my creativity too. I started writing more – just simple observations about living with less in a consumer culture. Nothing fancy, but it felt authentic in a way my college essays never did. Maybe because I wasn't trying to impress anyone with elaborate vocabulary or complex arguments. I was just saying what I meant as simply as possible.
Photography became interesting again when I deleted most of my editing apps and stopped obsessing over having the latest camera gear. Turns out you can take pretty compelling photos with an old phone if you actually pay attention to light and composition instead of relying on filters to make everything look "artistic."
The environmental angle makes this even more meaningful for me. Every art supply I don't buy is resources saved and waste avoided. I'm not contributing to the endless cycle of manufacturing stuff that ends up in landfills. My creativity has a lighter footprint, which aligns with my values about living sustainably.
I've connected with other young creators online who are <a href="https://declutterglee.com/digital-minimalism-declutter-your-online-world-for-peace/"><a href="https://declutterglee.com/digital-minimalism-declutter-your-online-world-for-peace/">exploring this intersection of minimalism</a></a> and environmental consciousness in their work. There's something powerful about making art that doesn't just express your inner world but also reflects your commitment to not destroying the outer world through endless consumption.
The daily practice matters too. I start most mornings with fifteen minutes of sketching – nothing elaborate, just whatever's in front of me. A coffee cup, shadows on the wall, my hands. It's meditative in a way that scrolling through art inspiration never was. I'm not consuming other people's creativity, I'm generating my own.
This doesn't mean I'm anti-technology or think everyone should work with the most basic tools possible. It's more about being intentional. Every tool in my creative kit has earned its place by being genuinely useful. I'm not keeping things "just in case" or because I think serious artists are supposed to have elaborate setups.
The storytelling aspect has been huge for me. Instead of trying to create impressive, complex pieces, I focus on simple stories about everyday life lived differently. What does it look like to choose experiences over possessions? How do you maintain creativity when you're working for a nonprofit salary? What happens when you stop buying things you don't need?
These aren't glamorous topics, but they're real. And I've found that authenticity resonates more than elaborate concepts ever did. People respond to honest stories about trying to live according to your values, even when it's imperfect or challenging.
The learning curve wasn't always smooth. I definitely went through phases of wondering if I was limiting myself too much or missing out on creative opportunities. There were times when I wanted to buy some new supplies or try a more complex project, and I had to figure out whether that desire was coming from genuine creative need or just consumer conditioning.
What helped was focusing on the work itself rather than the tools. Am I creating things that feel meaningful? Am I expressing ideas that matter to me? Am I growing as a person through this process? When the answers were yes, the simplicity of my approach felt like strength rather than limitation.
Now, two years into living and creating this way, I can't imagine going back to the cluttered chaos of my college art practice. My creativity feels more focused, more intentional, and honestly more fun. There's joy in working within constraints, in finding unexpected solutions, in making something meaningful with simple tools.
The space in my apartment reflects this too – clean, uncluttered, with room to actually work and think. My parents still think it looks unfinished, but to me it looks ready. Ready for whatever creative impulse strikes, without having to clear away piles of unused supplies or hunt for the right tool buried under other things.
This approach to creativity has taught me that more options don't necessarily mean more freedom. Sometimes they just mean more paralysis. Real creative freedom comes from knowing your tools well enough to use them instinctively, having a clear space to work in, and being free from the mental clutter of managing too much stuff. Less really can be more, especially when it comes to making art that actually means something.
Nicholas’s a sustainability worker in Seattle who sees minimalism as climate activism. He writes about consuming less, living simply, and building a life that aligns with environmental values rather than material ones
