Conventionally famous people are magnets for large social-media followings, which makes them the natural heirs to the internet-influence throne. Stars used to rely on third parties such as movie studios and record labels to connect them with their adoring publics and the cash flow they bring. Now everyone—famous or not—can find an audience in their iPhone, and anyone with an audience can be a merchant. Apparently even Marie Kondo.

Sometimes this very modern phenomenon works out fine. A supermodel’s culinary skills might have been a hard sell under the old rubric of frame, but Chrissy Teigen’s cookbooks are best sellers. Rihanna’s Fenty Beauty makeup line quickly became the industry standard-bearer because of its enormous range of foundation shades. Dr. Dre’s Beats by Dre brand made high-end headphones a Millennial status symbol practically overnight. If done carefully, these ventures help stars extend their career beyond the confines of their initial, more traditional fame, which can be quick and brutal.

Often, though, celebrity commerce is a reminder that many famous people are acutely embarrassing, and it’s weird that American culture grants them so much power. Jeremy Renner’s bespoke social network for his most ardent fans went down in a blaze of internet-troll glory earlier this year. Jennifer Lawrence, apparently unsatisfied by all of her starring movie roles, partnered with Amazon to monetize her wedding registry and sell travel plug-adapters and food processors. Kardashian, despite being pretty good at selling things, had to change the name of her shapewear line after an ill-advised attempt to trademark the word kimono.

Where Kondo’s new store will land on the continuum of celebrity-commerce success likely depends on how well she smooths over the logical gaps between telling people to rid themselves of useless possessions and selling people home decor. “My tidying method isn’t about getting rid of things—it’s about heightening your sensitivity to what brings you joy,” Kondo said in a statement that accompanied the KonMari store’s launch. “Once you’ve completed your tidying, there is room to welcome meaningful objects, people and experiences into your life.” (Kondo’s representatives declined to provide further comment.)

This is a defensive play. Kondo found broad success in America because she sold a system of belief based on joy—one that encouraged people to reexamine their personal relationships with the stuff they already owned, rather than continuing to buy more and more. Her method was still a sales pitch, but at least it acknowledged what a lot of people have come to suspect: No matter how much stuff you order off the internet, the next purchase isn’t going to be what finally makes everything better.

Now, in the press release, Kondo promises that she touched all the products in her shop to ensure that they brought her joy. Instead of focusing on reflection, fans are being asked to defer to her personal taste—the same value proposition provided by any other celebrity-backed store or product line. It seems Kondo has learned what many other famous people have already realized. Most entertainers’ creativity and skill are only profitable for a little while. Even many very talented people have only a couple of ideas good enough to hold people’s attention. But in America, at least, you can sell people $180 cheese knives and a $200 tea container made of hardy Japanese elm in a bid to fill up their houses in perpetuity.