After having my humble home re-designed for television, I realized the deeper meaning of a new trend in television: where the theme of voyeurism has been replaced by that of personal re-birth. As society's concept of success itself has become democratized, "achievement" has become deserved, and opulence can seemingly be found with little risk. Or can it? The unseen downside of this cultural movement may be quite perilous.
Hidden under the veneer of America's suburbs is a subculture of idle desperation, where the once aggressively pioneered American Dream is being replaced by a desire to be re-made, re-designed, born again in the mold of The New American Fantasy: where achievement carries no risk, and opulence is as easy as 1, 2, 3.
No more apparent is this condition than the emerging genre of home improvement reality television. I journeyed- or better put, stumbled- into this world when my own suburban house was re-made for a popular HGTV design show.
I've always had a fascination with these shows. The surface-level methodical purpose of these programs- be it installing shelves, or adding quirky lighting schemes- always seem to fall within the scale of obvious to humorously impractical. Nevertheless, these shows are still wildly popular. That is because something else is at play: the growth of a cultural welfare state in America.
- WE'RE GONNA BE ON ED SULLIVAN! -
There is nothing more exhilarating than being told that you're going to be on television. Or so that was the expectation of the HGTV producer on the other end when I received the call. Now, I have to admit: I never applied to be on the show. A family member of mine is a professional organizer, and somehow word got around that I not only have a tremendously disorganized house, but I fit some perfect demographic of being a young, single male homeowner who has more eclectic hobbies than watching NASCAR and drinking cheap beer.
Thus, my reaction to being selected was more tepid curiosity than exhilaration. But I was up for it.
And why not? The project on hand was the re-design of my work room, which I had originally architected by piecing together old doors and other thrift-store accoutrements. It was HGTV's notion that they could do better, and I had to believe that a show followed by tens of thousands of people for its organizational techniques would finally show me how to turn this chasm of muddle and chaos into something usable.
I realized early on, however, that hoping for tangible changes may be a stretch. The "designer/organizer" that HGTV chose for my room was everything you'd want for such a project: he was young, hip, with that certain idiosyncratic urban flair. But he wasn't really a designer or an organizer. He was a product salesman for a store that sells overpriced shelves and containers.
The show had very little of what I expected in terms of design and organization theory. In fact, there was very little theory at all- and it made me wonder what the real meaning really is for the audience. You see, while I am no expert on organizing and home improvement, this much I do know: it is a much more psychological process than anything physical or material.
Sure, there were plenty of contrived "ah-ha" moments: attempts at little tips and tricks, the standard-faire impulsion to throw useless things in the trash. That, however, was just filler. The heart of the process in the show was centered a slate of new organizational products, dazzling in their modern design but still affordable, that were meant to transform my cheap and humble old existence into a new life of luxury on a budget.
