Selling Values by the Cup

Face it, your love affair with Starbucks has never been about the coffee. You like the plush armchairs, the mood lighting, the cerebral clientele; they all beckon you to sit down and ponder. While you wait in line, you can browse CD compilations of Ella Fitzgerald and John Lennon, courtesy of the company’s in-house record label. Local art often adorns the walls. Instructive signs remind you of the indigent farmers built into the price premium.

If you just wanted a cup of Java, Dunkin’ Donuts would surely suffice.

No, you are buying a membership into a discriminating community of imbibers. A styrofoam cup from Dunkin’ Donuts screams proletariat, whereas a paper one from Starbucks announces to the world that you value the finer things in life—in this case, single origin, shade-grown coffee beans. Coffee, for you, is more than a crude caffeine boost.

Conspicuous consumption is nothing new to America; consumers have long sought status in material things. But companies like Starbucks are doing something different. It has adopted the persona of a “lifestyle brand,” a term marketing gurus coined to describe brands that embody a group’s aspirations. This trend has been replicated across corporate America with great success. Every company offers aspirations incarnate.

Apple embraced this trend in a self-consciously ironic way. Its popular commercials pit a creative twenty-something (Mac) against a dumpy, unimaginative middle-aged man (PC). Their interactions constantly conclude that the Mac laptop fits an urbane, exciting lifestyle—though with a reassuring wink to consumers, so as to not presume that the ad actually sells you. But the message is clear: Personality is an extension of where you swipe your credit card.

This newfound power has inspired companies to transform the most mundane of activities—shopping—into a time of spectacle and excitement. Whole Foods is the innovator in this field, stocking voluptuous produce that would shame the most diligent of horticulturalist. Photos of ruddy farmers reassure you of the authenticity of the product you are buying.

Patagonia and North Face showcase expedition weight parkas to urban dwellers in carefully restored buildings that exude a rustic sensibility. REI, an outdoor clothing company based out of Seattle, has a simulated rain chamber to test its wares.

On one level, these attempts at gentrifying consumption are a welcome change from the austere functionalism that pervades much of commercial America: stores resembling brightly lit warehouses, with identical aisles piled high with flimsy merchandise from Asia. Customers breeze through and pile things in their cavernous baskets. Shopping is stripped down to its essence: exchange.

This new trend, however, encourages customers to take their time while shopping, to relax in an aesthetically pleasing environment. Taking one’s time is part of what these lifestyles brands are selling. You’re a yacht-loving preppy at Polo Ralph Lauren, and a carefree California surfer at Hollister.

But brands don’t sell lifestyles only; they sell values as well. A bag from Whole Foods suggests one cares for the environment, a Mac shows that one prizes creativity and self-expression. These accessories are the secular equivalents of a crucifix or yarmulke.

Of course, most consumers would downplay the significance of such purchases. The idea that there is some connection between their inner most beliefs and a brand, they might say, is laughable.

But if consumers are really so savvy, and can see through the smoke and mirrors, why are these marketing strategies so successful?

Lifestyle branding is a predictable response to the restlessness of upper-middle class America. They no longer want the same soulless products, but things that reflect their individuality. Companies clamor to convert people to their brand by dangling alluring lifestyles to shoppers. It is not true believer that they target—it’s the dabbler.

Take, for example, a consumer who is already committed to global redistributive justice: he will undoubtedly buy fair trade products—in addition to voting for leftist candidates and donating to Oxfam. Such purchases are a natural extension of his beliefs. Purveyors of eco-products do not need to convince him.

Next, consider a well-meaning yet largely apathetic, consumer who miraculously discovers his deep feelings for the poor after reading the “fair trade” pamphlet at his local supermarket. He is somewhat uncertain about how a fixed price benefits Guatemalan farmers, but congratulates himself anyway on his newfound moral strength.

It is the latter type of individual that advertisers are targeting—sincere yet malleable. Infusing value-laden messages into their products appeals to his desire for authenticity. Yet it runs the risk of exaggeration: He may overestimate the impact of such choices.

The danger lies in a type of moral outsourcing, where we can buy off our nagging consciences at the store. The market is a perfect arena for affirming one’s values, yet a poor one for finding those values. If American Apparel convinced me of the importance of labor unions, you might question the depth of my conviction. This is because values must be forged outside of the marketplace—in the university, one’s local community, or one’s own mind.

It is reassuring that companies are responding to shoppers’ scruples. Though faddish and flat, lifestyle branding need not be condemned. We can continue to shop for whatever quasi-moral brand reflects our values, without imbuing the experience with undue significance. We wouldn’t want to mistake the checkout line for the road to virtue.

Will Johnston ’08 is a social studies concentrator in Adams House. His column appears on alternate Wednesdays.