DAN HO likes to get rid of things. For the past eight years he has committed himself to a project of aggressive divestment, letting go of houses, sofas, refectory tables, electric mixers, Georg Jensen silverware and a collection of ceramics. Earlier this year, a failed marriage behind him, Mr. Ho, 40, decided to reduce the sum of his possessions and eventually winnowed them down to about 55. Motivated neither by debt nor by environmentalism but simply by a compulsion to unburden himself, he moved from a 1,200-square-foot house in Portland, Me., to a rented apartment one-quarter the size in Greenwich Village, where he now lives with two roommates (one of them a retired judge who sells purses), 47 items of clothing and a backpack, suitcase, television, computer, bath towel, single set of sheets, toothbrush and bottle of witch hazel.
As an emerging prophet of household governance, Mr. Ho is a happy man who would be made happier still if affluent Americans, obsessed with their wine fridges and upholstery swatches, would simply adopt his vision of chic parsimony. To this end, he has developed a practicum in the form of a new book, “Rescue From Domestic Perfection” (Bulfinch), and a television program on the Discovery Health channel, “The Dan Ho Show,” which made its debut with a special on Tuesday (to be repeated on Sunday) and will appear regularly beginning in January. On the show, he will talk people out of needless redecorating and into setting their tables with newspaper.
“When people say they want red walls, do they really want red walls?” Mr. Ho asked rhetorically over coffee one afternoon recently. “Do they really want red walls, or do they want impact? Chances are, what they really want is recognition and what they’re really, really looking for is recognition from themselves.”
Mr. Ho delivers his message in Vreelandesque aphorism. “Perfection is a cheap caricature of style,” he writes. “Candles don’t set a mood, people do.” The index to his book contains an entry headed “Myths, enslaving.” One of them, he thinks, is the idea that you should always be ready for drop-in guests. “No, you shouldn’t,” he counters, “unless you’re running a bed-and-breakfast.”
At the core of his philosophy is the belief that our relentless attention to renovation and reorganizing, to building and rebuilding, distracts us from the more demanding work of becoming better partners, caretakers and friends. Style, in Mr. Ho’s view, is unstudied, capricious. Specifically, it is a rubber ducky placed on a plain wooden table, a loop of twine hanging from a bathroom sink instead of a conventional toilet paper dispenser. It is the good sense not to replace chipped heirloom china with something flawless and new, and the wisdom never to waste countless hours building a trellis when a plant displayed in an old sausage tin, or whimsically in a child’s sand pail, will do.
“What I hate is our whole culture of trade-ups-manship,” Mr. Ho said. “No one ever seems to be happy in the house they actually buy. You visit someone’s new place and you say, ‘wow, this is great,’ and inevitably they’ll say ‘well, it’s O.K. for now.’ And that drives me absolutely crazy. We abide by all of these prescriptions that are essentially visual, ‘you build a dream kitchen and the soul of your house is established.’ Well, no, it isn’t.”
Mr. Ho received his first traumatic lesson in detachment when he was 9 and his family home in a seaside village in Guam was destroyed in a typhoon that meteorologists named Pamela. “We had gone down into the basement and battened down the hatches,” Mr. Ho recalled. “We were shaking for eight hours, it was like being under a train track, and then when it was over we walked out and up to the sky.”
For the next few months, Mr. Ho, his parents and his siblings lived in tents until a sturdier house made of concrete was completed.
When he reached college age, Mr. Ho’s parents sent him to Chicago to study at Roosevelt University. At 25, he married a local chef, Jenny Smith, and a few years later the couple moved to the resort town of Lakeside, Mich., where they successfully ran a restaurant together. They built a big house in the Prairie School style, and Mr. Ho grew afflicted with the desire to add on and acquire. He collected tools; he traveled abroad to buy furniture.
“You build a house, then you put in a pool,” he said. “Then you need a peony garden. Then you watch ‘Martha Stewart’ and you realize a peony garden needs a fence. Then you think, ‘I should also have a rose garden, too, and if I’m going to have a rose garden, I have to have 30 varieties.’ I once bought a $3,600 cedar tree because, you know, I needed something for the corner to create a transition from the oak tree to the anemone because the sedum on the brick walk just wasn’t going to cut it. People think like that, and I did.”
And then, abruptly, he didn’t. One evening in 1998, while checking the stability of a ceiling fan in the restaurant, he suffered a seizure and slipped out of consciousness for 20 minutes. “The background went black and these white blades were taunting me with a kind of resolved madness,” Mr. Ho said. After a series of tests, doctors found nothing wrong with him, but the experience sent Mr. Ho into a depression, one result of which was the decision to live a less-encumbered existence. He and his wife sold the Michigan house and much of what was in it. He kept, for instance, only one of his six sofas. In Maine, where they had enjoyed vacationing, he would write and his wife would make rugs.
Mr. Ho first tried to bring his anti-consumerist ideas into focus through stand-up comedy. It was then that he changed his name from Dan Drilon to Dan Ho, because Ho, he felt, just sounded funnier. He hoped to have a radio program, but that didn’t happen, so in 2003 he started a witty, sporadically published magazine called Rescue, which he funded himself.
He filled it with thoughts on food (slice open a baguette and stick a chocolate bar in it), cleaning tips (pass a paint brush over your computer keyboard every now and then) and folksy admonitions: “If you have enough sheets, towels and blankets to warrant an entire closet I can guarantee that you’ve missed some really good opportunities to do something else.”
IN Portland, he was considered an eccentric. “When I met him, my first impression was that he was utterly certifiable,” said Monica Wendel, a friend who worked with Mr. Ho on the magazine until he folded it to work on his book and television projects. “Everybody says be yourself, be fearless, but I’d never met anyone who actually lived that way.”
Mr. Ho’s big mop of hair remains his only excess, although most of the time he keeps it tightly tied back. While living in Maine during most of the past five years, he shed himself not only of many purchases, but of much of his own weight — 120 pounds. One aspect of the “Dan Ho Show” will have him preaching fitness.
What he disavows is inauthentic simplicity. From his perspective, no one should go out and buy drawer dividers to better organize their socks; they should have fewer socks and throw them in a drawer with enough room to distinguish the black ones from the navy ones.
Mr. Ho’s elevation of restraint is cheeky and moralizing at the same time. He calls to mind the preeminent Victorian Isabella Beeton, whose popular book of household management held in high regard Samuel Johnson’s idea that frugality is the parent of liberty.
Since he moved to New York in February, after his divorce and with virtually nothing, Mr. Ho has indeed felt free, he said. But eventually, he will look for an apartment of his own and perhaps buy a few pots. And maybe even, he said, a sofa.