Milan Fashion Week is just the latest installment of fascination for me with the world of fashion and luxury. Last year, I decided that fashion was an area of interest I had let lay dormant for too long, and from my first Han Kjobenhavn purchase, I began a journey into style like I had never undertaken before. Apps like Ssense and Farfetch, previously only known to me from Facebook ads, became daily staples. I subscribed to Vogue. I got press credentials and attended Pitti Immagine Uomo. And I’m just getting started.
One of the major stories of the 21st century is income inequality: a story that played out starkly in 2022-2023 when luxury has a “blockbuster year” while food insecurity trends upward and the price of eggs makes egg farmers go viral on Tiktok. Of all the times to get into luxury, doing so while 1 in 4 Black families are food insecure seems like a puzzling move for someone who professes so much love for G-d to make.
So why luxury, and why now?
As a consumer, I’ve never associated luxury with ostentatious displays of wealth for other people to see. On the contrary, very few people in my social circles historically have been very fashion-conscious: wearing a Balmain shirt would undoubtedly have led to me explaining who Pierre Balmain was, who Olivier Rousteing is, why they’re so expensive, or any number of other factors. Unless it’s a brand ubiquitous in American culture (Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Fendi, Prada), most people I hang around are probably not following it, unless it’s particularly news-worthy (Balenciaga).
I consider the phrase “I like nice things” to be a bit triggering. I had an ex who would look down on many things I would bring home, preferring a higher class model/manufacturer, for the reasoning of “I like nice things”. I associate the phrase with being bougie, or with elitist snobbery at worst. Princess Kate Middleton is out here killing it in $40 Zara outfits; I’m not going to go to a luxury boutique just because it’s a “nice thing”. On the contrary, I’ve seen Dolce & Gabbana sweaters that were roughly as durable as dryer lint – and the price of Chanel seems to be inversely correlated with quality. A Balenciaga coffee cup is luxury, sterling silver from Walmart isn’t.
Rather than a function of raw appearance to others, to me, luxury items are pats on the back. Reminders that I “did good” with my career and life choices. Little ways of reinforcing to myself that I’m on the right track.
Yes, luxury items are displays of wealth, but they’re displays of wealth to me, and reminders of far less productive avenues of what could have been. They also serve as reminders of people I’ve struggled with and been oppressed by: many of the stories of income inequality are stories of homophobes struggling to raise families. I stroke my fur collar as I scroll through posts of homophobes happy to have made money on a real estate deal — money which wouldn’t be enough to buy the polo shirt I’m looking at.
It’s not “I’m better than everyone”, it’s “I’m better than those homophobic motherf**kers“; it’s not “everyone look at me” it’s “hot damn, would you look at yourself?”. The Saint Laurent tells me I did a good thing by working all those extra hours back in the day learning object-oriented programming on the job. The Louis Vuitton is for those months where “work is the only thing I’ve got” was my mantra. The Burberry is the extra prize for math contests in elementary school, the Dolce & Gabbana is the recompense for childhood weekends spent at Johns Hopkins University or learning Latin (shoutout to my mom for finding CTY, if only free classes could be made available to every bright underprivileged child).
The outfit is more than just a statement, the outfit is a reward. A reward for showing up year after year to job after job. A reward for hours of effort, hours of tears, hours of often painful experiences that brought me to where I am. Every look in the mirror becomes a source of pride in accomplishment.
This is my way of reminding myself that my way too, has value, and has rewards, in this world. My way is also valid. I’m not on your timeline, running down your checklist of things I should amass. I’m doing things my way, and I’m going to make sure I’m looking damn good while doing so. Even giving charity, as lofty and Divine as it is, wouldn’t have led to feelings like this.
Hustle culture has given me more than just anxiety and depression – it’s given me a kickass set of memories, a bunch of passport stamps and a hell of a wardrobe.
Luxury items also serve as a little internal “f**k you” to countless people who’ve insulted my appearance over the years, to exes who insulted me during our relationships, to people who’ve said “you’d look so good if you would just…”. I’m accenting a beauty they could never even see, becoming more than they ever knew on a relationship level.
All of this is accomplished every time I click “buy”. Yes, a Celine jacket could cost me 2 months salary. Yes, a Gucci polo means rearranging my budget for the month. But which is more important — to like the person looking back at me in the mirror, or to like that person’s bill payment history?
Luxury purchases are very subjective. My reasons may not be anyone else’s, but they’ll get me back on Mr. Porter every time.
