Islamic maximalism: spirituality in design as a voice against the aesthetic design hegemony of minimalism

In an aesthetic landscape where “less is more” has become the prevailing design philosophy, I ironically did not feel all the way at home. In my Iraqi household, our family was not included in the concentrated effort to push minimalism as the optimum response to decoration. The same is true for the families I was fortunate enough to grow up around. As a child wandering into the homes of friends who lived on my council estate before my mum returned home, I always found myself a seat at a table, in the centre of a room, that was alive with rich artistic traditions from across the Islamic world.

Minimalism is encompassed by simplicity and bareness, but it is not innocent. Far from the nobility of anti-consumerism, it is actually a luxury, reliant on expensive, high-tech interiors that signal status, not decorative restraint. Grounded in elitism, this philosophy was shaped by Austrian architect Adolf Loos, whose 1908 essay Ornament and Crime positioned ornamentation as a sign of cultural and intellectual inferiority. Loos explicitly linked decorative arts with so-called “primitive” cultures, which is possibly why stark white empty spaces vacant of character are still upheld as symbols of taste, wealth, and intellect today.

It has held the aesthetic reign, ensuring everything that defines us is tucked away in a cabinet, out of sight, falling short of resonance with the beautiful interiors I discovered in the block of flats I grew up in. It wasn’t just the warm flavours of their meals that signalled I was in a Somali home, or an Afghan home. It was in the curtains and wall art and bedding and cushions and lighting and place mats. These homes–to me as a child– were worlds in themselves, where maximalism, not minimalism, set the tone.

In an era of rapid and digitised knowledge-sharing, younger generations, particularly within African and Asian diasporas, are increasingly prioritising their creative autonomy, shifting from the Western status quo. In broadening the parameters of self-expression, a rising trend of maximalist aesthetics takes root amongst young people from the region. This movement marks a return to the vibrant, rich traditions of Islamic design—resplendent with colour, layered textiles, and symbolic patterns—as more Arabs in the West move away from minimalist trends.

This reclamation of aesthetic narrative represents more than a stylistic preference; design is being used as artillery to reclaim and express our cultural histories with unapologetic boldness. It is a decolonial perspective that disrupts the Western default of “minimalism,” asserting instead the beauty of abundance, multiplicity, and the power of ornamentation to tell layered stories.

In a lecture 4 years ago on evolutionary psychology, I was taught the significance of familiarity as a biological lighthouse for safety. Now, many years later, I can see why an Islamically decorated upbringing would prime you to feel safe when you enter a room that activates multiple sensory channels – with tribal, ethnic, or kinship patterns serving as anchors of familiarity–‘I know this pattern, I saw it in my mum’s home.’  

A characteristic feature of Islamic art is its use of geometric and Arabesque (biomorphic) patterns to embellish a diverse range of architectural and decorative surfaces–especially in the use of fractal geometry–-a mathsy term for an infinitely complex shape displaying self-similarity. One feature of a fractal is that it is mathematically eternal. As in a snowflake, no matter where you look or zoom in, you will see the same shape in each–any shape looks similar in smaller sections as it does in the largest section as a whole. 

Evident across the architectural profile of the SWANA region, biomorphic patterns occur in abundance across shrines, museums, elaborate masjids, smaller prayer spaces, and homes. This design formula of self-similarity and scale-invariability is coordinated to invoke themes of fair distribution and equity in the share of what is beautiful, a reflection of the values that ripple outward from. 

Professor of interior design and furniture, Dr. Doaa Ismail Ismail Attia, spotlights this in her 2020 research paper using the case study of El Sultan Hassan mosque in Cairo, Egypt. The therapeutic benefits of the geometric and arabesque patterns that cover the walls, ceilings, domes and floors of the mosque are explored through philosophical and mathematical channels. 

She asserts that the biomorphic designs adorning the ceilings and walls of sacred spaces around the world are both an homage to divine grandeur and a humble acknowledgment: no man-made creation can rival the splendour of what the divine has made; a global garden that is free to engage with but is priceless in its nature. The recursive nature of fractal geometry mirrors the structure of the natural world, from branching trees and river networks to the very synaptic patterns of the human brain. This alignment fosters a neurological state of equilibrium, reducing stress while enhancing cognitive function and long-term memory retention. 

Beyond faith and culture, stepping into a room that reflects back to me the infinite possibilities of the wider world we inhabit is comforting on an existential level. Ornate carpets and cascading prisms of colour become more than decor; they are offerings, echoing a natural world that defies boundaries and limitless imagination.

By embracing this, we challenge homogenised ideas of modernity, proving that tradition and contemporary expression can coexist dynamically. Triumphing over minimalist demands to look ‘clean’, this creative renaissance not only reclaims a visual language often misrepresented but also asserts the right to reimagine our futures through the lens of a decorated past. The return to maximalism is not merely a trend—it’s a quiet revolution against erasure and a celebration of diasporic resilience. This isn’t clutter, these are signs of life. Not only does someone live here; someone is alive here.