Consumption in the time of COVID-19

“For Sale”, 2012, Barbara Kruger for The New York Times

This week while scanning Instagram, I saw an “op-art” piece in The New York Times from artist Barbara Kruger in her signature high-impact font stating “A CORPSE IS NOT A CUSTOMER” — a profound statement against the “Re-open” movement. Unable to find the image on the Times’ web site, I did come across the 2012 “op-art” piece above from Kruger and I began to think about the larger themes of her work as it ties to consumerism, consumption, and coronavirus.

Alongside the media coverage of the pandemic, there’s a predictable number of “think pieces” dedicated to the ideas around how this event will alter society and its behaviors. Specific to the fashion world, I’ve read pieces from Cam Wolf, Michael Williams, and Eugene Rabkin (also here and here).

Each writer has their own predictions of how our purchasing choices could evolve. Whether you’re bearish or bullish, it certainly feels that something must change — I’m just really only certain in my uncertainty. While it’s worrisome for someone like me who works in this industry, I’m trying not to dwell on it more than I have to at the moment. 

Instead, I’m focusing inward as I’ve ample free time to think a lot lately about my own consumption habits when it comes to clothing (and everything else). When you spend nearly every waking hour of every day at home, you tend to see the things you own with more intensity and frequency. 

One of the few things I’ve enjoyed about this self-imposed quarantine is being able to wear items in my closet that I don’t wear very often. Because I typically work six days a week and wear the same thing almost every day (white dress shirt, dress pants, change into suit and loafers at work), I don’t wear most of my experimental and “fashion” clothing. But over the past month I’ve made it a personal mission to wear it all daily at home. 

While these past few weeks have been a fun mental exercise every morning to throw together fits, it’s made me think about how rarely I wear most of the clothing I’ve bought. If I’m being honest, most only gets worn less than a handful of times a year. And yet, I still see pieces I want to add to the wardrobe. 

Part of the reason is that it’s never been easier to be a consumer of clothing. And it’s never been easier for a clothing company to find a customer for their brand’s niche. A cornucopia of concepts exists to pick from while you explore Instagram. Frankly, it’s pretty exciting if you’re into trying new styles. 

But all of this consumption in the time of COVID-19 has me thinking, “What’s the point of all this clothing if I never even leave my apartment?” The obvious response is that, “Someday this will be over and you’ll wear it while you do stuff again,” however, the argument doesn’t hold up to the scrutiny that most of it just sat in the closets and drawers beforehand. 

The real question is why did I buy all these things in the first place? I think a part of me liked to imagine scenarios where I would wear the clothing more than I actually did wear them. For instance, I love the concept of resort wear, yet I cannot stand visiting beaches or excessive humidity. Plus I look terrible in shorts. So, why do I have five rayon aloha shirts in my closet? Maybe I thought buying the clothing was a way to push me toward the experiences I wanted to have. Or maybe I’m easily bored and crave the experience of trying something totally new. The end result remains the same: overconsumption.

Whenever “normal” does return, I’ve got a list of places I want to visit, friends I want to see, and food I want to eat. I really do believe a post-COVID-19 world will be a boom time for the experience economy. I think people will want to party and make up for lost time. Even if we go into an economic recession (or worse, depression), there will be a desire to do affordable social activities. Sitting on our sofas has taught us all that infinite isolation and chill isn’t a source of happiness. 

What I do know is that a closet of full of cool clothing isn’t a source of happiness. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve enjoyed wearing funky corduroy pants and vintage military pieces. But as much as Marie Kondo wants us to keep items that “spark joy,” the materialness of things can’t compare to the simple pleasures of being able to roam freely and bond with others. Your favorite band tee doesn’t feel the same as seeing their live show. 

I’ve got more than enough clothes for when I’m finally liberated from home. There’s a whole closet of experiences waiting to be consumed.