At the Chanel boutique in Bushwick, Brooklyn, black-and-white tweed skirts hang near gold lamé gowns. Classic black-toed beige pumps are on display on a glass platform lit from below. A quilted leather handbag with a gleaming gold clasp is also on view, perfectly paired with a rabbit fur coat.
Alas, this shop is not open to the public. That’s because it’s just two feet long by two feet tall, and it’s inside the apartment of a man named Phillip Nuveen.
Mr. Nuveen, 27, is a designer who works almost exclusively in miniature, often making minute versions of the most sought after luxury goods. Each item is made by hand or with the help of a 3D printer. He has designed little Hermès bags, Eames chairs and Louis Vuitton steamer trunks that Barbie most likely would be only too happy to have Ken carry for her.
“I love fashion and style, so my miniature world has become a very chic one,” he said.
Kate Ünver’s aesthetic is far darker than Mr. Nuveen’s. But it’s just as tiny. Ms. Ünver, 29, is a collector of tiny objects that may decorate a dollhouse, or at least the spooky place next door. She is the proud custodian of a 2-inch bull skull, an itty-bitty motorcycle and a freckle-size pair of antique scissors that actually work. “I’ve seen mini pistols that fire,” said Ms. Ünver, the founder of Dailymini, a website devoted to all things diminutive. Eensy switchblades that actually pop out. Nearly microscopic marbles. An electric chair that fits in the palm of your hand. Like so many “miniacs,” as some of the collectors and artisans call themselves, she came to the modern mini movement by way of a childhood love of dollhouses.
Apparently, it really is a small world, and it’s getting progressively smaller, thanks to young artists working in 1:12 scale, which is the traditional ratio for miniatures, dollhouses and dioramas. Instead of dreamy young schoolgirls adorning pint-size Victorian mansions, today’s miniaturists are creating perfect parallel universes in the vein of the Thorne Miniature Rooms on permanent exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago.
Type in “miniature” on Etsy, the online marketplace for handcrafted items, and some 400,000 items appear, from wee cereal boxes to dime-size waffles. A large part of the allure comes from a defining influence of the D.I.Y. movement, an embrace of tactile crafts as an antidote to digital living. Many miniac artists create their work by hand. Others sometimes rely on modern tools like laser cutters and 3D printers. “Miniatures of all kinds are huge among young adults, who are rethinking dollhouse,” said Darren Scala, the owner of D. Thomas Fine Miniatures, in Hastings-on-Hudson, N.Y., and a trustee of the International Guild of Miniature Artisans. “It’s about a return to the physical, being able to touch and handle and actually play with something tactile.”
Mackenzie McAlpin, 36, is a sculptor who makes microscopic replicas of people’s pets from polymer clay. “This art form is not necessarily easy on the body,” she said. “Your eyes go and your back starts hurting.”
For some miniacs, there is a voyeuristic appeal commingled with the universal desire to inhabit and experience multiple environments at the same time. “It’s a way to explore worlds you can’t explore, and tiny fake worlds are easier to make, and less destructive, than secret real ones,” said Louise Krasniewicz, an adjunct professor of anthropology at the University of Pennsylvania. “We spend a tremendous amount of time in fantasy worlds: watching TV, reading books, playing videos. Miniatures provide a way to practice things that we can’t practice in reality.”
Dr. Krasniewicz has built her own diminutive creations, most notably a perfect replica of the set of the Alfred Hitchcock classic film “Rear Window.” It comes complete with windows depicting each apartment and its inhabitants. “The things people are most curious about are other people and their lives,” she said. “We’re all interested in doing fieldwork in other people’s worlds.”
Some may think artisans focused on minis reflect an older demographic. “For a very long time, miniaturists have had this very ‘Grandpa in the basement working on model railroad’ vibe to it, or ‘Grandma with her dollhouse,’” said Thomas Doyle, 39, an artist who works exclusively with contemporary miniatures.
“But the miniature is most certainly a growing trend in contemporary art. I’ve seen a lot recently. We are at a point where contemporary art is becoming so diversified. What I’m interested in coincides with our current society, and especially now that we’re living in this age of anxiety. Every age probably says that, but things that are small remind us of our childhood, a very ordered world.”
It’s no coincidence that the mini movement is having a moment during a time of political uncertainty and international turmoil. While many of the artists are attracted to the creative process, “there’s also a level of control that’s appealing,” said Nicole Cooley, who teaches creative writing at Queens College, City University of New York. Ms. Cooley is writing a book on mini-ism and has 25 dollhouses in her Glen Ridge, N.J., home.
A miniature universe can also provide a psychological respite. A year and a half ago, Ali Alamedy and his family were driven out of Iraq by the Islamic State. Mr. Alamedy, 33, has been making miniature worlds since he first bought a computer at 16. With the help of 3D software, a piece of balsa wood and a hobby knife, he constructed his first miniature farm scene. “I weathered it with coffee, and there I discovered my love to rust and age wood and urban scenes,” said Mr. Alamedy, who lives a few hours outside of Istanbul.
Since then, he has used household items like aluminum foil, plastic rods, paper clips and foam boards to build scenes from places he has never been: a French cafe, an English bookstore, a New York alleyway. (Mr. Scala, the shop proprietor, himself a miniaturist, is planning to introduce Mr. Alamedy and his work to the United States market this year.)
“Reading lots of stories and books in my childhood inspired me to build the scenes from those stories,” Mr. Alamedy said. “Later on, it became an escape from reality to places I would love to travel to, but I can’t.”
There are emotional and therapeutic benefits, too, some of the artists say. Amanda Speva, 30, a Chicago-based filmmaker who is making a documentary on miniatures, recalls her friend having built a diorama depicting a happy time in her life: the early days of her childhood before her parents divorced. “There’s a big theme of fantasy, of living out something you can’t have in real life,” she said. “It’s about capturing a moment in time that you want to remember.”
For Mr. Nuveen, the Chanel-boutique creator, a foray into the world of miniatures grew out of necessity; he had no other way to show off his talents. In college, he studied graphic design, but he dreamed of being an architect. He wanted potential clients to see his work, but he couldn’t reach them in his Bushwick flat, on the fifth floor of a walk-up.
Then it hit him: “I could build something tiny, post it online, and viewers would have no idea the scale,” he said. “I can show an idea for an interior, and I don’t have to do it in a real-life human scale. I can make it miniature, and no one knows the difference.”
Mr. Nuveen also operates a two-foot-tall art gallery to help gain exposure for some of his artist friends. “They’ll send me images of their painting or drawing,” he said. “I’ll print them, frame them, hang them in the model and photograph them. It looks like a real-life exhibition, big art, little gallery.”
