So, I’ve been ruminating about why we, as consumers, lust after big names (with big pricetags) so much.  And I’ve realized a few things.

First, there’s a whole lifestyle associated with wearing designer clothing.  Actually, there’s a few.  Maybe for you it’s the successful New York businesswoman who owns a flat in Manhattan.  Maybe it’s the classy Frenchwoman who works at some style magazine.  Maybe it’s the designers’ style crush/muse who has done seemingly nothing for fashion attention except be pretty.

There are not only lifestyles associated with designer clothes, but places, too.  Paris, London, New York, LA, Milano.  We crave these glamorous lifestyles, and hope that with these clothes, we can have them.

Also, there’s a certain liberation that comes with putting together your own wardrobe out of expensive pieces, then mixing them up and being able to say that everything you’re wearing to your date is designer (even the lingerie, although you might not mention this to your date).  Even though the majority of people on the street won’t stop you and ask you what percentage of your outfit that day is acceptable to the fashion world, that doesn’t matter, because you know.  You know that you spent a shitload of money on that bag, so automatically, you’re a better, classier person.

Another reason why we crave designer stuff is fashion magazines.  They play a big role in what we wear, or what we want to wear.  All the photo shoots and five-page spreads dedicated to a certain detail or material ignite our desire.  If a model poses just so, with a certain expression (or lack thereof) on his/her face, we want what s/he is wearing.  Because they look so good, or so mysterious, or so chic, or so perfect in that article of clothing, so will we (or so we hope).  Models are also a big part of this “designer culture”, and they are indeed paid to fuel it.  Their beauty and camera-intuition sells us easily, and that, my friends, in a nutshell, is why we are willing to pay two thousand three hundred and eighty-one dollars for a fucking handbag.