By Sinead Campbell
I wouldn’t consider myself much of a homebody. I live in London — a city whose sprawling demands — be they work, leisure or a commute time of 40 minutes — mean I spend more time outside the confines of my home than I do inside it. But as much as I willingly succumb to the frenetic pace of city life, I often yearn to escape the chaos.
When watching Wim Wenders’ latest feature Perfect Days, I was struck by the refined living space of Hirayama — a toilet cleaner who spends his days driving in his van and eating alone in restaurants. The film is set in Tokyo, a city I have never visited and can only picture through schematic depictions in books and films. Tokyo, like London, is possessed by a seemingly inescapable pandemonium — yet Hirayama (played by Kôji Yakusho) has somehow achieved the impossible and cultivated a sanctuary in the midst of the commotion.
There is minimal furniture in Hirayama’s tiny apartment and scarcely any amenities. He sleeps on a roll-out mattress, showers in a nearby bathhouse and gets his morning coffee from a roadside vending machine. He owns very little, but possesses what he needs and cherishes what he loves. Perhaps the only sign that someone lives in the apartment is the shelves containing books, DVDs and cassette tapes, neatly stacked and intentionally ordered — a collection that exists purely for his own joy, rather than to serve as an intellectual status symbol.
I recognise myself in Hirayama’s apartment. I too am an avid collector, particularly of clothes and books. But while I don’t quite have the propensity for bona fide hoarding, I struggle to make space for my ever-growing array of stuff. I often fantasise about donating my belongings and basking in the momentary jouissance of owning close to nothing — but this is only ever a passing impulse.
Certainly, Wender’s artful filmmaking alleviates the crushing realities of such a sparse environment — I won’t kid myself into believing I’d last more than a week without a shower or kitchen at my immediate disposal. But what the apartment lacks is precisely its virtue. I can’t help but envy the ability to live with only the basic necessities, to find a kind of spirituality in asceticism.
Hirayama’s apartment is like a time machine, his home library of physical items insulated from the humdrum of constantly online modern life. As someone born after the turn of the millennium, I have no experience of a pre-connected world and the possibility of it does allure me — if only in theory. After a day of darting my eyes from my phone to my laptop, all I truly desire upon returning home is the ability to switch off.
I will admit that the prospect of a towering mansion or a sweeping penthouse is certainly seductive. But when sifting through the endless possibilities of what my fantasy home could be, I find myself questioning what I truly need. I’m hardly ever at home, and when I am, I want the chance to relax, unplugged and undisturbed. How lovely to be surrounded by plants, music, films and books — to enjoy the little things in a space of one’s own.