Meaning in a Materialistic Culture

Consumerism doesn’t prevent us finding a deeper value in objects

Yachts: only a true aristocrat could enjoy one unselfconsciously.

In his book The Language of Things, design writer Deyan Sudjic offers an image of consumer society that has haunted me ever since I read it. Recalling the way animals are fattened for the production of delicacies, Sudjic says we consumers are “like geese force fed grain until their livers explode.” Except, whereas “geese panic at the approach of the man with a metal funnel ready to be rammed forcibly down their throats,” we “fight for a turn at the trough,” ready to be stuffed with a “never-ending deluge of objects.”

The analogy is exceptionally nightmarish, but it expresses a familiar sentiment. Since consumerism boomed in America after the Second World War, and later spread to affluent societies around the world, our insatiable desire for material possessions has been a source of moral anguish. Much of this boils down to a simple equation, the same one implied by Sudjic’s image of desperate indulgence: the more fixated we are with buying and having things, the less able we are to lead fulfilling lives.

That equation was central to the 1960s counterculture movements. In 1979, it was eloquently stated by US president Jimmy Carter in his famous “malaise” speech. America, said Carter, had begun “to worship self-indulgence and consumption,” only to discover “that owning things and consuming things does not satisfy our longing for meaning.” Or take Guardian columnist George Monbiot’s response to rich kids on Instagram: “Worldly ambition, material aspiration, perpetual growth: these are a formula for mass unhappiness.” This way of thinking is captured by the word “materialistic,” the very meaning of which implies a tension between reverence for worldly things and more rewarding ideals.

I don’t need to underscore the truth of these observations. Anyone who doubts that the consumer ethic hijacks our search for contentment can simply observe the pattern of his or her own desires. How often it is that our efforts to be recognised, to express who we want to be, or simply to escape anxiety, end in a purchase.

And yet, this critique can be indulgent in its own way. It is often infused with a barely-concealed disgust at the sheer quantity of stuff a consumer society wallows in. This excess is vulgar, profane, grotesque, and as Sudjic’s metaphor about the force-fed duck implies, akin to an uncontrolled appetite. A different moral impulse seems to be at work here: the age-old fear that the spirit will be corrupted by the pleasures of the flesh, with its corresponding temptation to withdraw into a self-righteous asceticism.

This points to a wider problem. Assuming that our material culture is irredeemably superficial or decadent can become a self-fulfilling judgment. If we only see commodities as products of a hideous economic system, we will limit our ability to find any deeper value in them. Our relationship to the world of things will become as shallow and transactional as the “materialistic” one we disdain. And ultimately, we will fail to understand the real power of consumerism.

Most people acknowledge there are certain objects which contribute to a meaningful existence rather than eroding it. Religious artefacts, artworks and items of sentimental value are obvious examples. We cordon these things off with the notion of pricelessness: their worth is of a different kind to that of a commodity, even if they can be bought and sold. Not all objects can aspire to this special status, which is usually related to uniqueness or significance accrued over time. This does not mean, however, that more mundane things cannot share some of the qualities through which priceless objects enrich our lives.

Imagine I am looking at your shoes. They are a very nice pair of shoes: wonderfully designed, well made, full of character. I am admiring the texture of the leather, the profile of the heel. More than that, I feel these shoes capture certain ideals I admire and want to emulate. Were I to buy a pair, they would bring me satisfaction for a long time. 

Such feelings are analogous to those inspired by art. They signal design at its best: the striving of ordinary objects to be truly beautiful, even profound. Yes, my desire for your shoes probably involves all sorts of social forces too: a lifetime of exposure to advertising, a desire to be viewed a certain way by others, the notion that I can change myself simply by possessing something. But none of this diminishes my belief that there is something almost priceless about these objects, which it just so happens I can buy.

You might say it is not really materialistic to want something out of a deep appreciation for its aesthetic qualities; the real issue is treating possessions as indicative of our worth as people. In that case, what matters is not so much that we consume but why we consume. And this distinction yields a quite different picture of consumer culture as a whole.

There are plenty of people, after all, who love expensive watches and cars not because they are expensive, but because they are great works of design. The same could be true of yachts, though you would have to be a true aristocrat to enjoy one without any regard for the symbolism of such an artefact. Within the churn of fashion cycles, there are consumers who buy things because they regard them as beautiful, useful, and genuinely inspirational, and who actually value them less once popularity has made their commodity status impossible to ignore. It’s a cheap point, but you have to wonder how many critics of materialism have a compulsive book buying habit.

None of this is to deny that there is a kind of spiritual crisis endemic to consumer societies. We only need to look at their latest development, the perpetual binging of media from screens, to be reminded again of that animal with a funnel rammed down its throat. But we’ll never understand the consumer condition if we don’t acknowledge the satisfaction material things can bring.

The person who owns fifty pairs of designer trainers, or who queues overnight to buy the latest iPhone, may well be getting a great deal of meaning from these objects, and this does not rule out a rich spiritual life. Consumerism is fuelled, to a significant degree, by an ability to produce things that seem to transcend it.