I don’t wear big logos. Not because I can’t afford them…although 5k for a Moncler jacket isn’t going to happen. And not because I don’t appreciate beautiful clothes. I simply don’t want to walk around advertising somebody else’s company. Why should I pay a ridiculous amount of money for the privilege of turning my chest into a billboard? At least, that’s the explanation I give myself.

The less flattering version?

I want people to know I’m above that shit. To be recognized as someone who doesn’t need a recognizable brand to establish his worth. Someone who appreciates the craftsmanship, the materials, the subtleties. Someone who knows better. Which, when you think about it, makes me exactly the kind of person I’m trying not to be. I’m still signalling. I’ve just chosen a different frequency.

Perhaps that’s the most ridiculous thing about status. Even refusing to participate is a way of participating.

The millionaire in sweatpants.

I spend a fair amount of time sitting in coffee shops in wealthier neighbourhoods. Partly because I like coffee. Partly because I enjoy people watching. You can learn a surprising amount by paying attention to what people wear. Or at least, you can learn a surprising amount about the assumptions you make.

Someone walks in dressed impeccably. Designer handbag. Expensive watch. Perfectly coordinated outfit. Every detail announcing that considerable thought, and probably considerable money, went into getting dressed that morning.

Then someone else walks in wearing a sweatshirt that looks older than their children, sweatpants and shoes that should have been thrown out two years ago.

And I catch myself thinking the second person is probably wealthier. Why? Because somewhere along the way, we’ve convinced ourselves that genuinely wealthy people don’t need to look wealthy. That the person who has nothing to prove must have already won. That’s an extraordinary assumption to make about someone buying a cappuccino. The person in the expensive clothes might be a billionaire. The person in sweatpants might have twelve dollars in their account and no home to return to (though why are they getting coffee?).

I have absolutely no idea.

But the fact that I instinctively assign greater status to the person who appears indifferent to it tells me something. Not necessarily about them. About me. Because indifference has become its own kind of luxury. And we’re getting remarkably good at recognizing it.

The expensive art of looking poor.

There is an entire market built around looking like you haven’t spent much money:

• The plain T-shirt that costs several hundred dollars

• The jacket without a logo that costs more than a decent used car

• The minimalist watch whose significance is recognizable only to someone who already owns one

• The carefully distressed furniture

• The deliberately unremarkable shoes

Nothing screams luxury quite like making sure only other wealthy people can recognize it. It’s almost beautiful in its absurdity.

The old version of luxury said, Look what I can afford. The new version says, If you know, you know.

And if you don’t know? Well, that’s rather the point.

Of course, some expensive things are genuinely better made. Good materials cost money. Skilled labour costs money. Craftsmanship matters. But let’s not pretend every four-figure sweater is a triumph of textile engineering. Sometimes you’re paying for the privilege of appearing uninterested in the very thing you’ve spent a fortune acquiring. And the people who recognize it get to enjoy a quiet little moment of mutual superiority.

Nobody has to say anything. They know. You know. The waiter probably doesn’t.

Perfect.

Money can buy the suit. Not the pedigree.

I met a very wealthy man in finance recently. He also plays polo. Which, admittedly, is already a fairly impressive combination of words if you’re trying to establish someone’s position in society. I expected we might talk about markets, investments, technology, the economy. The usual subjects you’d associate with someone who spends his professional life around considerable amounts of money. Instead, we talked about belts. And shoes. And expensive suits. More specifically, the art of wearing an extraordinarily expensive suit with a pair of worn-down, beaten-up shit-kickers.

Not because you can’t afford better shoes. Because you absolutely can. That’s the whole fucking point.

The suit says you have money. The boots suggest you’ve never really had to think about it. And apparently, combining the two communicates something that an expensive suit and immaculate shoes never could. Not merely wealth. Something closer to pedigree. The suggestion that money has been around long enough in your world that you no longer need to treat it with reverence. That your expensive clothes are just clothes. That your battered boots have a history. That you belong to a social world where looking slightly careless is more convincing than looking immaculate.

It’s a remarkably sophisticated bit of theatre. And the strangest part wasn’t even the clothes. It was the conversation.

Here was someone with enormous financial resources, explaining the subtleties of appearing as though financial resources were the least interesting thing about him. We weren’t discussing how to make money. We were discussing how to signal that making money was no longer the point. And I found that fascinating. Because there’s a difference between being rich and being perceived as belonging to a world where wealth is simply assumed.

The first can be communicated with an expensive purchase. The second requires a particular kind of cultural fluency:

• Knowing which rules to follow

• Knowing which rules to break

• Knowing that polished shoes might communicate ambition, while the right battered boots communicate an almost hereditary indifference to appearances

Of course, none of this proves someone comes from generational wealth. You can buy the boots, learn the codes, and perform the whole thing. But that’s precisely what makes it interesting.

Even the appearance of not giving a shit has rules. And those rules become especially powerful when they’re invisible to the people outside the room.

The polo player wasn’t necessarily trying to impress me. We were having an interesting conversation about clothing and social codes. But I couldn’t help noticing how naturally he understood a language that most people wouldn’t even realize was being spoken. And the more interesting question is why I found it so compelling. Because perhaps I wasn’t just learning something about his world. Perhaps I was enjoying the feeling of being let in on it.

Everybody wants to be different. Together.

The philosopher Hanno Sauer has explored the ways class and status operate beyond simple economic wealth. Money can be accumulated. Status is trickier. It depends on recognition. On comparison. On knowing where you stand in relation to everyone else.

And as soon as a particular symbol becomes too common, people start looking for another one.

• The logo loses its exclusivity

• The exclusive brand becomes recognizable

• The obscure designer becomes popular

• The neighbourhood becomes desirable

• The underground artist becomes successful

And suddenly everyone who claimed to love the thing starts looking for something else. Because apparently appreciating something isn’t enough. We have to appreciate something that distinguishes us from other people. And the more we insist on being individuals, the more predictable we become.

I don’t wear that brand.
I don’t drive that car.
I don’t listen to mainstream music.
I don’t follow trends.
I’m not like those people.

Congratulations.

You’ve successfully joined a group of people whose entire identity revolves around not being like another group of people.

Very original.

The funny thing is that this isn’t limited to wealth. It happens in music, food, architecture, art, politics, fashion and almost every cultural space where people can establish some form of superiority through preference. We don’t just want to like things. We want to be the kind of people who like those things.

There’s a difference.

The creative industry is full of this shit.

Walk into a design conference. Adobe MAX is a prime example if you tune into the live stream like I sometimes do. Just look around.

Black trousers. Interesting glasses. Unusually expensive sneakers. Japanese denim. Oversized silhouettes. A carefully restrained colour palette. Everybody looks like they put absolutely no effort into looking exactly like everyone else. And these are the people whose livelihoods depend on originality.

I say this as someone who belongs to that world. I’ve spent years around designers, art directors, architects, photographers and creative directors.

We pride ourselves on being able to recognize quality.
We know the references.
We understand the history.
We can identify the typeface, the chair, the architect, the photographer, the obscure Japanese manufacturer.
We know when something is trying too hard.
And we are absolutely insufferable about it.

The creative industry has turned taste into a professional qualification. Which makes sense, to a point. Our job is to make judgements. But somewhere along the way, we’ve started confusing good judgement with good character.

As though understanding Swiss typography makes you a more sophisticated human being. As though owning the right furniture means you’ve developed a deeper appreciation of life. Or recognizing a Dieter Rams design makes you inherently more interesting than someone who bought their stereo at Walmart. It doesn’t. It means you know something about design. That’s it.

And sometimes I wonder how much energy we spend developing genuine expertise, and how much we spend demonstrating that expertise to each other. Because those are two very different activities.

It’s a banana. Calm down.

Nothing exposes the absurdity of cultural status quite like contemporary art. Take Maurizio Cattelan’s Comedian. A banana duct-taped to a wall.

That’s it.

One of the most widely discussed artworks of recent years is a piece of fruit attached to a wall with tape. And of course, the explanations are fascinating. It’s about value. Consumption. Authorship. The art market. The history of conceptual art. The relationship between ordinary objects and institutional recognition. All legitimate subjects.

But let’s acknowledge something else. A banana taped to a wall is also fucking funny.

And the fact that an artwork like this can command enormous sums of money while provoking elaborate intellectual explanations is part of what makes it so effective. The person who walks into the gallery and laughs isn’t necessarily an idiot. They may have understood the absurdity immediately. Meanwhile, someone standing beside them might spend twenty minutes explaining why laughing is an insufficiently sophisticated response.

And there it is. The hierarchy.

One person sees a banana.
Another sees a cultural reference.
One person is amused.
Another is intellectually stimulated.

And somehow we’ve created a system where the second response is more respectable than the first. Why? Because it requires knowledge? Because it demonstrates education? Because it suggests access to a particular cultural world?

The French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu had a name for the advantages that come from these forms of knowledge and familiarity. Cultural capital. An understanding of things that carries value within particular social environments.

And the art world is positively overflowing with it. Not just because art can be intellectually demanding. But because understanding art can become a performance in itself.

Do you recognize the reference?
Do you know the movement?
Have you read the theory?
Can you explain why something that appears ridiculous is actually profoundly important?

And, most importantly: Do you know enough to make someone else feel like they don’t belong?

That’s where the whole thing starts to smell. Not when art is difficult. Not when it challenges expectations. But when the ability to understand it becomes a social weapon.

The museum gift shop knows exactly who you are.

There’s another delicious contradiction in all of this. The same institutions that celebrate challenging conventional ideas are remarkably good at selling conventional status symbols.

Visit a contemporary art museum. Spend an hour looking at work that questions capitalism, consumerism and material culture. Then walk through the gift shop.

Designer objects.
Limited-edition prints.
Beautifully produced monographs.
Expensive stationery.
Tote bags announcing that you visited a culturally significant institution.

You can literally purchase evidence of your sophisticated relationship with the critique of consumerism. Wonderful.

And yes, I buy those things too. I like beautiful books. I like thoughtfully designed objects. I enjoy supporting cultural institutions. But I also recognize that part of the appeal can be what these objects communicate.

The book on the shelf isn’t just a book. It’s evidence of an interest. The exhibition catalogue isn’t merely a record. It’s a cultural credential. The obscure photography monograph left conspicuously on the coffee table tells visitors something about the person who lives there.

And sometimes I suspect we’ve become more interested in being recognized as culturally curious than in actually being curious. We collect evidence of our taste. Then arrange it beautifully.

Good taste is becoming suspiciously easy to purchase.

This is where things get even more interesting. There was a time when developing a particular aesthetic required considerable effort. You had to discover things. Travel. Visit galleries. Read books. Meet people. Learn the history. Understand the materials. Develop a visual vocabulary.

Now you can purchase an entire personality online.

Mid-century modern living room.
Japanese minimalism.
Scandinavian restraint.
Vintage Americana.
Quiet luxury.
Brutalist architecture.

Whatever cultural identity you’d like to inhabit, someone has conveniently assembled a shopping list. You can buy the chair. Buy the lamp. Buy the clothes. Buy the books. Follow the right accounts. And suddenly you look like someone who has spent twenty years developing impeccable taste.

Perhaps you have. Perhaps you just have a credit card and a Pinterest account. The results can look remarkably similar.

And artificial intelligence is accelerating this even further. You can generate images that imitate entire visual movements without understanding any of them. Produce something that looks editorial. Something that looks architectural. Something that looks like a carefully considered piece of contemporary design. The appearance of cultural sophistication has never been easier to manufacture.

Which raises an uncomfortable question for people like me. If the visual language of taste becomes available to everyone, what exactly are we selling? Judgement? Understanding? Experience? Or simply access to an aesthetic that hasn’t become mainstream yet?

The answer matters. Because if creative expertise is reduced to making things look like things that sophisticated people already admire, we’re not contributing much. We’re just moving status symbols around.

We don’t actually hate bad taste. We hate the wrong people having taste.

Here’s a thought I find particularly uncomfortable. Sometimes we dismiss something because it’s poorly made. Fair enough. But sometimes we dismiss something because it’s become too popular.

The restaurant everyone suddenly loves.
The design trend that made its way into suburban homes.
The furniture reproduction that became affordable.
The artist whose work started appearing in hotel lobbies.
The fashion label that went from obscure to ubiquitous.

At what point did the thing itself become worse? Or did we simply stop feeling special for recognizing it?

It’s a question worth asking. Especially in creative industries where discovering something before everyone else can feel like an achievement. We love finding the unknown photographer. The forgotten designer. The independent fashion label. The strange little gallery. Then we tell everyone how wonderful they are.

And when everyone agrees? We get bored. Find something else. Something less accessible. Something that restores the distance between us and the people who apparently don’t know any better.

It’s not always conscious. But it’s difficult to deny that cultural exclusivity can be part of the pleasure. And we should probably be a little more suspicious of ourselves when our appreciation disappears the moment something becomes popular.

Maybe the thing didn’t get worse. Maybe we just lost our ability to feel superior for liking it.

The most pretentious person in the coffee shop might be me.

Here’s the uncomfortable conclusion. I notice all of this because I participate in it.

I care about materials. I care about photography. I care about typography, architecture, furniture and craftsmanship. I have opinions about watches, clothing, cars, books and the things people choose to surround themselves with. I can walk into a room and make a dozen little judgements before I’ve even ordered a coffee.

Too much branding.
Wrong furniture.
Terrible typography.
Cheap lighting.
Trying too hard.

And sometimes I’m right. A lot of things really are poorly considered. Some products are genuinely better made than others. Some creative work contains more thought, skill and originality. That’s not the problem.

The problem is the quiet satisfaction that comes from knowing. The temptation to confuse expertise with superiority. To assume that because I can recognize something someone else can’t, I’ve somehow achieved a higher level of understanding. Maybe I have, in that particular subject. But that doesn’t make me a better person.

And perhaps the next time I’m sitting in a wealthy neighbourhood watching someone in a luxury outfit walk past somebody in sweatpants, I should remember that I know absolutely nothing about either of them.

I don’t know what they earn.
I don’t know what they’ve accomplished.
I don’t know what matters to them.
I don’t know whether they care about status at all.

I’m just sitting there inventing stories about strangers. And congratulating myself for being perceptive. Which is a fairly pretentious thing to do while drinking a café mocha.

Fifty shades of black.

Lately, my own wardrobe is almost embarrassingly predictable. Black. Black on black. And when I’m feeling particularly adventurous, navy.

I like keeping things simple. I don’t particularly enjoy standing in front of a wardrobe wondering which colours go together, whether something matches, or what kind of statement I’m making that day. I’d rather eliminate most of those decisions. And I genuinely like the way it looks.

When everything is black, the differences become more interesting. The texture of wool against cotton. The subtle sheen of a particular fabric. The weight of a jacket. The way something falls across the shoulders. The difference between a faded black and a deep, almost architectural black. The details start doing the work that colour and branding would otherwise do.

There’s something satisfying about that. It’s quiet. Considered. Predictable, perhaps. And entirely comfortable.

But here’s where I have to be careful. Because I could quite easily turn that explanation into a little speech about the superiority of restraint.

How I don’t need colour.
How I appreciate materials.
How my wardrobe reflects some deeper understanding of design.
How I’ve somehow transcended the vulgarity of visible branding.

And before you know it, I’m doing precisely what I’ve spent the last few thousand words making fun of. I’ve turned wearing black into a fucking philosophy.

Perhaps I just like black. Perhaps I like the simplicity. Perhaps having fewer decisions to make leaves more room for things I actually care about.

And perhaps, somewhere underneath all that, I still enjoy the possibility that somebody might recognize the subtle differences I’ve chosen so carefully. That the right person might notice the material. The cut. The restraint. The absence of anything trying too hard.

Which brings me back to the problem. I’m not free of status signalling. I’ve just made mine considerably harder to see.

And maybe that’s fine. As long as I can admit it.

Maybe just like what you fucking like.

I don’t think the answer is to abandon taste. I don’t believe everything is equally good, equally beautiful or equally worthwhile. Knowledge matters. Craftsmanship matters. History matters. Understanding why something exists can make it infinitely more rewarding to experience.

But perhaps we could stop using that understanding to rank the people around us.

• You can appreciate an expensive watch without assuming the person wearing a cheap one lacks sophistication.

• You can understand conceptual art without treating someone who laughs at a banana like an uncultured idiot.

• You can admire a beautifully designed chair while admitting that the one from IKEA might be more comfortable.

• You can wear an obscure Japanese label without needing anyone to recognize it.

• And you can wear a massive designer logo if you genuinely love the thing.

Who gives a shit?

The question isn’t whether your taste is good. It’s whether you’re enjoying something for what it is, or for what you hope other people will think of you for enjoying it. And I suspect that distinction is more difficult to make than any of us would like. Especially those of us who have built careers around knowing the difference.

I’m not going to start wearing enormous logos or brightly coloured suits to prove I’ve liberated myself from some imaginary hierarchy. I’ll probably keep wearing black. But perhaps I can stop pretending that the choices I make are somehow more enlightened than the choices other people make.

Because the person wearing a giant luxury logo might genuinely love it. The person wearing a battered pair of boots with an expensive suit might simply find them comfortable. And the person wearing black from head to toe might just be a designer who doesn’t want to think about what to wear in the morning.

Or perhaps we’re all trying to tell each other something.

Turns out I’m not above the game. I’ve just convinced myself I’m better at playing it.