Clutter little children

I almost wept during the week when I read an article in the London Independent about an architect called John Pawson.

Known in the trade as "the high priest of minimalism," he proved his worthiness of the title recently by winning the contract to design a monastery for Trappist monks in the Czech Republic.

In the process, the monks visited his home in Notting Hill and were impressed by its monastic quality, created by a mind "so rigorous about empty space that he thinks light switches disrupt its proportions". And indeed the article is accompanied by a photograph of the house, complete with the missing switches, in which the only objects of clutter are Mr Pawson and his wife.

It was a poignant piece because it reminded me that I once had a similar vision for my "living space" (as we minimalists call it). Not a high priest's vision, exactly - I'd have settled for being one of the altar boys - but a more modest version of Notting Hill, with the same clean lines, white walls, and natural light probing every corner of the house.

Then certain things happened to disrupt this vision. Specifically - I forget the exact sequence here - but my wife started having children. And now, instead of natural light, our 18-month-old daughter probes every corner of the house and, if she finds a clean line anywhere, smears jam on it. The situation has been exacerbated by a more recent addition to the family, so that my interior design plan now consists of arranging that, whenever either of them throws up, they're located over a wipeable surface.

Incredibly, the Pawsons have two children as well, but theirs sound like architectural features. "Caius, 14, and Benedict, 11, sleep in spaces the size of cells," the article says, cautioning us not to consider this as "deprivation". On the contrary, Pawson explains: "Emptiness allows us to see space as it is . . . preventing it from being corrupted, or hidden, by the incidental debris of the paraphernalia of everyday life." To emphasise this point, the article adds: "When the phone rings, his wife Catherine has to look for it in a cupboard."

Apart from the implication that the architect keeps putting the phone in different cupboards to confuse Mrs Pawson, you have to admire his thoroughness. He's obviously a man who leaves nothing to chance. And his idea of having children aged 14 and 11 is a masterstroke.

I have to sigh in despair sometimes when I watch my daughter taking the paraphernalia of our everyday life and turning it into incidental debris. Sometimes, for a moment, she'll stop shredding newspapers or hiding pieces of banana down the back of the couch, and sigh too, as if in sympathy. Except that she's thinking: "So much to do, so little time," as, with another sigh, she carries on.

We do have one thing in common with the Pawsons, thanks to her, which is that sometimes when the phone rings, we have to look for it in a cupboard. Also, we still have a few more-or-less white walls; although, when I heard the dreaded words "we must get Roisin some crayons - I think she wants to draw" the other night, I realised they wouldn't be white for long.

My wife says minimalism is a male thing, anyway, and she's probably right. I note that when Mr Pawson went to France to study the monks' ascetic lifestyle, Mrs Pawson "feared he might never return". And after only two months of having a second baby in the house - a boy, but so far not a minimalist (and definitely not a Trappist, either) - I think I understand what she means.

You know the so-called Irish "golden age"? When monks hand-copied books, and illuminated manuscripts and kept the beacon of learning lit in a Europe that was being overrun by Huns and Goths and beer-swilling English soccer fans? Well, I have a theory about how that all ended.

It wasn't the Vikings. It was the fact that the concept of celibacy took so long to catch on in Christian Ireland. As I understand it, the early monks lived with their families, and you can just imagine the effect on their work: "Look, Brother Ignatius, little Ignatius is trying to copy the Book of Kells on his sister!" This is how the round towers were built. The monks weren't fleeing Norsemen, they just needed to escape from the kids every now and again.

The Independent article makes no mention of cost in the Czech monastery project. Which is interesting, because it says the monks "sell nothing but the muesli they make so that they may live," and yet I imagine even a high priest of minimalism doesn't charge peanuts (or any other muesli ingredient).

If he is cheap, though, and he's looking for another challenge, I think I have a job for him. Not our whole house, obviously; just the study, which I'd like to have transformed into a cell-like space for one male adult, with cell-like padlocks on the door, and so on.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish this quickly. I could be wrong, but I think the Vikings are coming.

Frank McNally can be contacted at fmcnally@irish-times.ie