There was a time when luxury was largely about access. The right handbag was difficult to find. The hotel everyone wanted to visit had a waiting list. A designer collection arrived in stores months after it appeared on a runway. Unless you worked in fashion or bought the September issues religiously, you probably weren’t studying it before then. Now access is everywhere. By breakfast, I can know what happened on a runway in New York, Paris, or Milan. I can see what an actress wore to dinner the night before, find the lipstick someone used backstage and buy a handbag from a designer I discovered fifteen minutes earlier without leaving my kitchen. I love much of this. I make my living, in part, because of it. But I’ve also started to wonder whether having access to everything has made access itself considerably less luxurious. Increasingly, the real luxury is knowing what to ignore.
We Have More Taste Makers Than Ever
An extraordinary amount of influence comes at us every day. Fashion editors, stylists, celebrities, creators, algorithms, friends, brands, and strangers are all making recommendations. Some are wonderful. Some are paid. Some are genuinely enthusiastic. Some have discovered that enthusiasm converts rather well. The result is that we’re constantly being told that something is worth wanting.
This season’s shoe. The handbag everyone suddenly owns. The treatment that will change our skin. The restaurant we apparently need to book before everyone else discovers it, although everyone else appears to have discovered it already. None of this is inherently bad. Discovery is one of the pleasures of fashion and luxury. I still love finding something beautiful that I didn’t know existed the day before. What has changed for me is the threshold. I don’t want something simply because I’ve seen it repeatedly. In fact, repetition can sometimes have the opposite effect. The more insistently I’m told that I need something, the more interested I become in deciding whether I actually do. That small pause may be one of the most useful luxuries we have left.
Access Stops Being Interesting When Everything Is Available
Through my editorial work, I am fortunate to see a lot of products. Brands introduce me to clothing, jewelry, handbags, beauty products, and other things they hope I consider for coverage. It is one of the genuinely fun parts of what I do. It has also made me more selective. Seeing more doesn’t necessarily make you want more. Sometimes it teaches you how much you don’t need. When you’ve looked at enough handbags, you start noticing construction rather than logos. When you’ve tried enough beauty products, a beautiful package becomes less persuasive if what’s inside doesn’t earn its place on the bathroom counter. When you’ve seen enough clothing, you become less interested in whether something is technically fashionable and more interested in whether you’d still want to wear it after the trend report disappears.
I’ve received products I use constantly. Those are the interesting ones. They make their way into my bathroom, my handbag, my closet, or my photographs because I genuinely like them. Others simply aren’t for me. The distinction matters. Taste isn’t demonstrated by liking everything. It’s demonstrated by choosing.
The Most Interesting Wardrobes Aren’t Built From Trends
Fashion makes this particularly obvious. I can appreciate an extraordinary runway collection without wanting to wear most of it. I can understand why a particular silhouette matters without deciding that it belongs in my closet. I can admire something on another woman and know immediately that I would never feel like myself in it. That doesn’t make fashion less interesting. It makes personal style more interesting. The wardrobes I find most compelling rarely look as though someone replaced their entire identity when a new season arrived. There is continuity. A certain trouser keeps appearing. The proportions change slightly. A beloved bag gets worn again instead of disappearing after one photograph. Something new enters the mix because it belongs there, not because an algorithm has declared that everyone should own it by Thursday. This is probably why I find myself increasingly interested in editing rather than accumulating. A beautiful wide-leg trouser can be enough. So can an exceptional coat, a dress that moves beautifully, or a handbag you carry for years. The point isn’t minimalism. I’m not particularly interested in turning restraint into another competitive lifestyle. The point is discernment.
Luxury Has Always Included the Ability to Say No
We tend to talk about luxury in terms of acquisition. What can you buy? Where can you go? What can you access? But another version gets far less attention: the ability to decline. Not every invitation has to be accepted. Not every trend needs to be tried. Not every new launch requires an opinion. Not every object that enters your field of vision needs to become part of your life. There is a particular confidence in saying, “It’s beautiful. It’s just not for me.” That may sound obvious, but it runs counter to much of the machinery surrounding modern consumption. Digital culture is extraordinarily good at collapsing the distance between seeing something and owning it. A few taps and the decision has been made before you’ve had much opportunity to decide whether there was a decision worth making.
Luxury, in that environment, may be creating the distance again. Looking twice. Waiting. Leaving something in the cart. Trying it on and putting it back. Buying the expensive thing because you love it, not because it is expensive. Buying the inexpensive thing for exactly the same reason.
Taste Requires a Little Resistance
I’ve come to think that developing taste requires being willing to disappoint the people trying to influence you. That includes me, by the way. If I write about a handbag I love and you hate it, don’t buy the handbag. If a stylist says a particular silhouette is essential this season and you know you’ll never wear it, it isn’t essential to you. If everyone suddenly decides burgundy is over and you’ve spent years loving burgundy, keep wearing it. The goal shouldn’t be to become impervious to influence. That would be terribly boring. Other people introduce us to artists, designers, books, places, ideas, and objects we might never have found on our own. The interesting part is what happens after the introduction. Do you want it because someone told you to want it? Or did someone simply help you recognize something you already had the capacity to love? Those are very different things.
Perhaps the Ultimate Luxury Is Knowing Yourself
The older I get, the less interested I am in making every preference defensible. Sometimes I like the bag because I like the bag. Sometimes I prefer the hotel with the beautiful lobby. Sometimes I want the ridiculous shoes. Sometimes the thing everyone is talking about leaves me completely cold. There doesn’t need to be a coherent philosophy behind it all. And perhaps that’s where luxury becomes personal again.
We have spent the last decade making almost everything discoverable, shoppable, and shareable. That’s enormously convenient. It can also make desire feel strangely standardized. The antidote isn’t buying less for the sake of buying less, nor is it spending more in pursuit of exclusivity. It’s becoming harder to persuade. See everything. Be curious. Try things. Change your mind. Let someone with wonderful taste introduce you to something unexpected. Then make your own decision. Because in a culture built to influence us constantly, knowing what you actually like may be one of the few things that still can’t be bought for you.
