I recently visited Paris with my boyfriend. Throughout the trip, I found myself fixating on buying a gorgeous vintage souvenir. It didn’t matter what it was or whether I needed it. The important thing was that someone could ask, “Where did you get that?” and I could casually answer, “Oh, I bought it in Paris” as though I took trips like these all the time. I convinced myself that, by owning these things, I would cement myself as some affluent jet setter.
In reality, I was unemployed (of my own volition) and had spent most of my savings on the trip. Rather than enjoying the vacation, I was taking job interviews at odd hours. I was gallivanting through a gorgeous European city, sure, but I was also cripplingly anxious about the future. I didn’t want people to see my stress or insecurities or dwindling bank account; I wanted them to see a vintage leather jacket and use that to extrapolate some idea of who I was. More than just influencing others’ opinions, I hoped these objects would transform me into the person I hoped to become.
This is a tiny example of the ways that products govern our lives. They come to represent more than their utility and, in turn, we mistake the objects we own for identity. With every purchase, we (literally) buy into this idea that our personhood is reliant on products. We imbue them with meaning so that they become greater than the sum of their parts.
Billboards and commercials showcase a Dyson vacuum in a clean and tidy home, a lithe and beautiful (and ideally famous) model wearing Calvin Klein. These ads tell you that, by purchasing this item, you won’t just own a new item. You’ll own a new life. You’ll become a better you. Self-improvement is not an ongoing journey, but something you can purchase for $59 at Sephora. We call these items our “holy grail”. We say we can’t live without them (what rung of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs does the latest Shein fashion fall under?). We elevate their value and mistake them for necessity.
With so many products available, we are also forced to make decisions. Psychologist Barry Schwartz, author of The Paradox of Choice: Why More Is Less, stated in an interview: “Choices are about making us feel good, or about getting us to some other thing that we want. But there’s a third thing about choices that’s mostly been ignored, and that is that the choices we make are statements to the world about who we are.”
Items that serve essentially the same purpose can communicate drastically different things about someone. This New Yorker tote bag might signify that you’re an “intellectual”– or, at least, that you were the type of person to subscribe to the New Yorker at one point. A Birkin will show both exclusivity and immense wealth. But simply implying something does not mean it’s true. You can wear the tote bag having never read the magazine. You can carry a Birkin purse with a deficit in your checking account. But we buy into these brands and their products because we believe they will lead us to a better, more desirable life. It doesn’t matter if the impression we’re attempting to pass off is true or not. What matters is whether others believe it. What matters is whether we can convince ourselves.
Much of this is self-evident. The things we purchase and display to others— in the form of our homes, cars, and clothes— are methods of expressing ourselves. It’s implicit that we hope these items will influence how people view us. And I’m not saying it’s wrong to do this. But in purchasing these items, I wonder if we’re seeking shortcuts for developing the traits we hope to exhibit. I wonder if we overestimate how attainable or even desirable these traits really are. Wearing Glossier makeup won’t bless me with sharper cheekbones. And emulating “quiet luxury” via beige linen outfits won’t transform you into a billionaire (or provide the cognitive dissonance necessary to gain that level of wealth).
In some ways, we hope our purchases will grant us penance. Our zero-waste toilet paper, organic denim jeans, and ethically milled soap act as a stand-in for our morals. If I wear a Patagonia vest to my Meta job, maybe I can carbon-offset my company’s democracy-ruining platform. And I don’t fault anyone for wanting to alleviate that guilt (either consciously or subconsciously). We’re constantly forced to make moral sacrifices for the sake of survival. But this reliance turns morality into a sort of plutocracy: if I simply earn enough, I can buy my way into being the best, most upstanding citizen. This fallacy is transparent when it comes to donations. We applaud the uber-wealthy for donating massive sums to charities and nonprofits, rather than question the system that allowed them to earn billions with scant restriction.
I’ve certainly been guilty of this. I’ll thrift an old lamp (for which I have no space nor need) and justify it because it’s going into my home instead of a landfill. I’ll purchase “ethically-made” organic cotton tank tops to gain a sense of superiority and some semblance of control. Given the limited power we have, it makes sense to try to eke some sort of meaningfulness out of our lives. Even if those labels (“green”, “clean”, “sustainable”) are unregulated, amorphous terms that simply serve as savvy marketing. It’s nice to feel like you’re making a difference even when you’re not.
In a world where little is within our control, shopping offers a false sense of agency. In her novel Severance, Ling Ma writes, “The city was so big. It lulled you into thinking that there were so many options, but most of the options had to do with buying things: dinner entrées, cocktails, the cover charge to a nightclub”. With these endless choices, we’re deceived into believing we have power. We’re told that this is freedom. But the checkboxes of options have been decided by someone else and we’re simply ticking away.