We ring in the New Year as a time for metamorphic change. Often, this is driven by pre-packaged identities that we can consume our way into. I am purchasing a grey pleated wool skirt and a button-down shirt to signal that I am in the era of my career. Perhaps new running shoes, flattering leggings, and a sleek water bottle to signify it’s the era of my health. I am looking outward into the world, whether on my phone or in shop windows, thinking, “This is where I find my new identity.” This is where I will unlock what I am meant to be next.
Consumption acts as the misguided vehicle to my better self. The piles of potential identities have begun to grow–knit scarves, high heels, bright yarn, tacky trousers have started to line my shelves, shoe racks, and wardrobe. Each purchase is impulsive, without thought, with no connection–looked at once or twice in a charity shop or online, then rarely returned to again for days, even months. They are my failed relationships. They are my sterile one-night stands.
During my master’s program, I came across the essay “Marx’s Coat” by English professor Peter Stallybrass. In this work, the author delves into how material objects, especially clothes, can gain autonomy and exert a form of control over us. Karl Marx’s relationship with his jacket serves as a prime example, undergoing a dynamic cycle of being pawned for money to provide for himself and his family, then repurchased as it was necessary to wear for access to the libraries where he pursued his vocation as a political writer. It became a tug-of-war dance between a renowned philosophical father and his jacket. As this struggle unfolds, the abstract value of the jacket begins to oscillate, not confined solely to its use value (worn to the library) or exchange value (sold for food) but expanding to a third type of symbolic value—one of ritualistic practice. A ceremony of buying, selling, pawning, and repurposing begins. The jacket takes on a double meaning, acting as a gateway key, an adversary, a debt.
For Marx, his jacket transformed into much more than just a garment; it became a living, breathing entity, demanding respect, and serving as a guardian to cerebral stimulation and basic necessities of life. This prompts a reconsideration of the concept of possession and consumption between object and subject, questioning who controls whom–or who owns whom. As Stallybrass states, “objects can talk and take part in social contracts; they can own us in the same way we own them,” emerging as personified beings.
Yet, scattered throughout society is a belittled interpretation of materialism. Sometimes, when I call up a friend and peer into the background of the video call, I see great piles of clothes and books sprawled across the floor. It’s the New Year, it’s spring cleaning, it’s two in the morning—the great purge has begun. Their voices sing the same song–that the excess items need to go, either binned or donated, for them to truly be reborn into a better, cleaner, purer self.
An intensely emotional and oppositional relationship between us and our possessions has begun. Perhaps because we are loving items incorrectly. Or perhaps because we hate them for failing to change us into something we like. Regardless, we continue to overlook the fact that material items have the power to shape our experiences, access, and sense of self for the better. However, this phenomenon of great transformation doesn’t occur through grand purges. It happens through repetitive dedication—returning to an item again and again until it is worn down into something else entirely. We love to romanticize the idea that chance encounters with strangers can evolve us into a more enlightened self. But I don’t think this is true. I’ve experienced more deaths and rebirths on five-minute phone calls with my sisters than I can count. I don’t think I can say this about any stranger. It’s the things that know us which change us. Yet, we live in a market taught to prioritize the new and uninitiate rather than the warn down and familiar.
Across social movements, academic discourse, and feminist liberation, the notion of ‘objectification’—to be treated as an object and thus considered lesser—refers to power differentials at their most poignant form. Yet, can something with so much authority over us (objects) truly be beneath us? This argument urges us to untangle ourselves from the semantics of the term “objectification” and instead focus on the morphology of the term. Isn’t it peculiar that the verb “objectified” sits so closely, visually speaking, to the noun “object?” We have the potential to learn so many lessons from objects, and doesn’t any good teacher deserve respect? In his concluding words, Stallybrass writes:
“It has become a cliché to say we should not treat people as things. But it is a cliché that misses the point. What have we done to things to harbour such contempt for them? And who can afford such contempt? Why are prisoners stripped of their clothes, if not to strip them of themselves?”
As my friends and I enter our mid-twenties, we welcome new narratives over drinks and dinner, on coffee dates, and in group chat messages. We want better, nicer, longer lasting belongings. “Timelessness” has entered the chat. Perhaps this is a rite of passage to all young adults. Let’s call it asset culture. The desire to buy something and have it dynamically work for us, not against us. An asset, as described by the Oxford Dictionary is “regarded as having value and [being] available to meet debts, commitments, or legacies.” It is not static, and it certainly, if well taken care of, does not depreciate. Here, I’m thinking of the importance of buying clothes and jewellery–chunky sweaters, bags, belts, pants or shoes, that grow with me, instead of swiftly becoming a chore. I don’t want to look into the future of my trousers and see an errand to run to the nearest donation centre because they’ve unravelled before my eyes.
For today’s generation, thrift stores or charity shops have become distinguished for being eco-conscious oases. They represent new frontiers that demand a slow-burn experience, requiring time and energy to discover rewarding items. Here, the uniqueness of each item catalyses individuality. The unknown history of the item zips open an opportunity for storytelling and daydreaming about the article’s past experiences. Where has the item been? What has it seen? Who has worn it before? We assign a particular fantasy to an item, which we step into when we put it on. Although these objects are inanimate, they are not without spirit or personality. It’s no coincidence that during Marx’s time, tailors referred to the wrinkles in the elbow of a jacket as ‘memories.’
I can’t stop thinking about how objects hold me. How they alter the way I carry myself in a new room. Or hug me when surrounded by strangers. Clothes keep teaching me valuable lessons of tenderness and repair–of repetition, and the importance of returning to things that are worthy of love. This is not to encourage anxiety or hyper-attachment to our belongings. Things are made, then worn down, then discarded. Things are also adored, brought around and then lost. Life goes on. It’s not the ending of the object we need to focus on, but the thread’s potential to span decades.
With this, can we reconsider our relationship with how we consume, wear, attend to, and treat objects—as well as how we manufacture them? We have crafted a fragmented reality, one in which the perception of objects is deemed insignificant, and material relationships considered crude. However, picture yourself sitting in a room of your own, surrounded only by thoughtful, cared-for, curated items that generate a sense of intimacy and identity. Each with a red string tied back to your heart. Each item known and cared for, like a friend who hugs back when picked up or put on.
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Brynn Valentine is a London-based writer and trends forecaster with a background in Social Anthropology. Their previous work has been featured in Aeon, Psyche, and Dazed Media, offering insights into both cultural trends and the human psyche. They also write regularly on Substack, where their newsletter ‘@GoodValentine’ dives into cultural criticism, fashion, and abstract explorations of memory and modernity.
