Living with 89 Items: Spain's Minimalism Radiograph

Three months living with 89 items: The 100 Things counted

How many items do you own? Few can answer, which is the starting point. One man has lived with less than 100 objects for three months, counting 89 items, aiming for 70 by August. His catalyst was liquidity, not enlightenment: he started selling unused items on second-hand platforms and realized he accumulated forgotten clutter.

The number is misleading. Living with 100 things differs from 100 objects, raising the first problem. The count has rules, and they are debatable.

What counts as one item and what does not

A pair of shoes counts as one. A charger does not, as the phone is useless without it. Documents do not count if archived with expiry dates; memories do, provided they fit in a shoebox. Consumables—deodorant, toothpaste, food—are excluded. Clothing worn daily is also excluded.

With these rules, the real number is more elastic than the title suggests. There is also fine print regarding housing: renters use furniture included with the apartment, making comparisons unfair. The experimenter excluded furniture, focusing on personal wardrobes, drawers, clothes, and luxuries.

Photos, lists, and the six-month rule

The method is rudimentary yet effective: photograph everything, review images, list what to keep or discard, and repeat until the number fits. No app, advisor, or subscription.

The homemade algorithm adds a recurring criterion: items unused for six months are unnecessary. This maxim has defenders and nuances—some items are not used daily but are essential, like an electric blanket. For those overwhelmed by the 100-item limit, a reduced version exists: discard one item per day. Less epic, more sustainable.

How much money stays in the account

Here, the issue becomes financial, not philosophical. Selling excess generates immediate liquidity, and buying less frees up monthly budgets. One case cites savings of nearly $1,000 per month living in a camper van, summarized as: "my month-end is now the 20th, not the 15th".

The underlying argument is not about minimalism: owning only what you use stops spending on replacements, storage, and repairing forgotten items. Savings come from knowing what is in your home, not austerity.

The emotional cost of emptying wardrobes

Not everyone can do it. Comics, DVDs, CDs, and books accumulate hundreds of units. One person notes: "it would earn money and gain space, but selling would hurt, and I would regret it". Others have passed through without trauma: after a breakup, 80% of wardrobes emptied, and the house functioned normally.

Then there are stories where decluttering is not an aesthetic choice. Some lived transiently—months in one city, others with family—and later, the death of their partner in 2007: donating clothes and keeping only four sentimental items was less a method and more a necessity. The boundary between minimalism and grief is thinner than it seems.

Rationality or making poverty "cool"?

The divide is clear. One current argues minimalism is a packaged trend, a marketing product that turns imposed scarcity into virtue, selling to those who barely make ends meet that having nothing is a free choice. It is said, with sarcasm, that the seasonal motto is "you will have nothing and be happy", and austerity is disguised as an agenda. Some dismiss it as making poverty cool.

On the other side, the defense is not about quantity but criteria: it is not about having little, but having only what adds value, cultivating one hobby deeply instead of twelve superficially, and not buying snow equipment for two trips a year. A historical correction disarms those who label this new: Diogenes syndrome refers to compulsive hoarding, whereas Diogenes himself was a radical minimalist.

Questions the system does not resolve

Every count has loose ends, some posed segarro. Does a hard drive with 2,000 movies count as one object or 2,001? Is a drill bit set one thing or sixteen? No answer closes the system, unsettling more than it seems: a method claiming accuracy cannot handle a toolbox.

Some take out a screwdriver twice a year and do not think of discarding it. Others, on the opposite side, defend maximalism without apologies: workshop, gym, and library with hundreds of paper books. A half-empty house, they say, feels like a soulless generic hotel.

With these rules, counting one's life seems simple until one starts. What if the problem is not how many things you have, but how many you can name?