I used to think maximalism was just about throwing more stuff on the walls until something stuck.
Then I spent an afternoon at the Met staring at Caravaggio’s “The Calling of Saint Matthew”—that ridiculous shaft of light cutting through the darkness, the way every fold in the fabric seemed to scream for attention, the sheer theatrical excess of it all—and something clicked. Baroque art wasn’t subtle. It was never meant to be. The 17th-century masters like Rubens, Bernini, and Artemisia Gentileschi built entire careers on sensory overload: gold leaf everywhere, dramatic shadows (they called it chiaroscuro, which sounds fancier than “really dark corners next to really bright spots”), swirling compositions that made you dizzy if you looked too long. These artists were working for churches and royalty who wanted visitors to feel small, overwhelmed, maybe a little spiritually manipulated.
Turns out, that’s exactly what modern maximalist designers are channeling. The excess is the point. Jonathan Adler once said something about how minimalism felt like “a beige straightjacket,” and honestly, I get it.
When Ornament Stopped Being a Crime Against Good Taste
For decades, we worshipped at the altar of “less is more.” Modernism told us that decoration was dishonest, that clean lines and empty space equaled moral superiority—which, when you think about it, is a weird thing to believe about furniture. But somewhere around 2015, Instagram feeds started exploding with velvet sofas in jewel tones, gallery walls that climbed to the ceiling, patterned wallpaper layered over patterned rugs. Maximalism came roaring back, and it brought Baroque’s greatest hits with it: asymmetry, movement, that packed-to-the-gills abundance.
Designers like Kelly Wearstler and Martin Brudnizki aren’t just piling on decorative elements randomly. They’re using the same compositional tricks Baroque painters deployed—creating focal points through contrast, guiding the eye through visual rhythm, balancing chaos with structure. Wearstler’s interiors feel like walking into a Rubens painting, all that saturated color and tactile richness. She’s said she thinks about “layers of history,” which is very Baroque if you consider how those artists layered Christian symbolism over classical mythology over contemporary politics.
The Theatrical Gesture That Never Really Left Us
Baroque art was theater. Literally—set designers for opera borrowed from painters, painters staged their compositions like plays. Bernini’s sculptures looked like they might start moving any second. That sense of arrested motion, of drama frozen mid-gesture, shows up constantly in maximalist interiors. A chandelier that looks like it’s exploding. Furniture arranged not for conversation but for impact. Mirrors positioned to multiply the visual noise.
Wait—maybe that’s why maximalism photographs so well? The same qualities that made Baroque paintings effective from church pews (legibility through exaggeration, emotional immediacy, that “more is more” philosophy) translate perfectly to Instagram’s endless scroll.
Curves, Swirls, and the Rejection of Straight Lines
One thing you notice immediately in Baroque architecture: everything curves. Borromini’s churches in Rome have walls that seem to breathe, convex and concave surfaces playing against each other. Straight lines were for boring people. Contemporary maximalist spaces embrace this—rounded sofas, arched doorways, furniture with cabriole legs that would’ve looked at home in Versailles. There’s a tactile, almost sensual quality to these curves that flat modernist planes never acheived. The eye doesn’t know where to rest, so it keeps moving, which keeps you engaged.
I guess it makes sense that this aesthetic resurged during pandemic lockdowns, when people were stuck staring at their walls for months. Beige minimalism started feeling less like serenity and more like sensory deprivation.
Why Maximalism Isn’t Just Baroque Cosplay
Here’s the thing: contemporary maximalists aren’t trying to recreate 17th-century palaces, even if they’re borrowing the visual language. The newer stuff tends to mix eras and references promiscuously—a Baroque mirror next to midcentury chairs next to contemporary art. It’s more eclectic, more personal, less concerned with historical accuracy. Baroque art was about power and religious authority; maximalist design is often about individual expression and rejecting the homogeneity of mass-produced minimalism. Different motivations, similar aesthetics.
But both share an underlying belief: that beauty doesn’t have to whisper. That sometimes, probably, the right amount of decoration is “almost too much.” That empty space isn’t inherently virtuous and visual abundance isn’t inherently vulgar.
The Emotional Architecture of Overstimulation
Scientists who study perception have found that environments with higher visual complexity—more patterns, more colors, more objects—can actually increase emotional engagement, though they can also cause fatigue if overdone. Baroque churches knew this intuitively: they wanted you emotionally overwhelmed, susceptible to transcendent experience (or at least to donating more money). Maximalist designers today might not be aiming for religious conversion, but they’re definitely after emotional impact.
There’s something almost confrontational about both approaches. They refuse the viewer’s comfort, demand attention, insist on reaction. You can’t be neutral about a Caravaggio or a Wearstler interior. Maybe that’s refreshing in an age when so much design—from tech interfaces to hotel lobbies—aims for frictionless blandness. The mess is intentional. The excess is the statement.
