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Why Britain is in love with John Lewis
[FONT=Geneva,Arial,sans-serif]Jess Cartner-Morley
Tuesday January 24, 2006
The Guardian
[/FONT]Not long ago, a painfully hip American style website rang and asked me, as a London fashion editor, for a quote about my favourite shop in London. I think I told them it was Dover Street Market, which, for the uninitiated, is a high-concept, fashion-as-art emporium in Mayfair packed with deconstructed limited-edition cross-brand-synergy utility-meets-vintage pieces, inspired by Japanese animation and hand-buried in cedar chippings over the summer solstice for a bespoke distressed finish. You know the sort of thing.
This was a total lie. I was just thrown into a panic by the Manhattan drawl of this other journalist who, you could tell, was some Chloe Sevigny lookalike hipster babe, so I tried to think of somewhere that made me sound cool. I know, I know: I'm pathetic. Dover Street is marvellous, if you like that sort of thing, but no way is it closest to my heart. That dubious honour does not go even to Harvey Nichols or Selfridges; even Topshop is pipped at the post. There is only one store for me, and that is John Lewis.
Yesterday I made the happy discovery that I am far from alone in this predilection. A consumer satisfaction study by Verdict found that John Lewis is the nation's favourite store, praised for value for money, range of products, and well-informed staff.
It might seem baffling how such an untitillating store could inspire such affection. But that is the point. John Lewis is the antidote to the Zara-fied shopping world of near-disposable clothing. Whereas in Zara you are duped into unwise purchases by the prospect that since that dress probably won't be in stock next week, you had better buy it now, even if you don't like it that much, John Lewis nurtures shoppers who do a "recce" (and call it a recce) before making a purchase.
After a Zara or Topshop spree, John Lewis is an oasis of refreshing wholesomeness. This is a world of explicit rationalism, where shop assistants know where things are and people spend their free time on actual hobbies - tapestry, for goodness' sake - rather than frittering their life away in changing rooms. John Lewis is shopping without the guilt. On my last trip there I bought photo albums; child's swimming armbands; mothballs; a meat thermometer; Egyptian cotton pillow cases; church candles; fine-knit wool tights. I spent quite a lot of money, come to think of it, but so sensibly, that, I'm sure, it didn't actually count as spending, although admittedly I have not checked this against my bank statement. And, of course, I bought buttons, because I always do when I'm there; for that half-hour, I truly believe that one day I will replace all the missing buttons in my wardrobe. Too much cross-brand-shopping utility-meets-vintage shopping, I guess: I'm seduced by a fantasy of being sensible.
[FONT=Geneva,Arial,sans-serif]Jess Cartner-Morley
Tuesday January 24, 2006
The Guardian
[/FONT]Not long ago, a painfully hip American style website rang and asked me, as a London fashion editor, for a quote about my favourite shop in London. I think I told them it was Dover Street Market, which, for the uninitiated, is a high-concept, fashion-as-art emporium in Mayfair packed with deconstructed limited-edition cross-brand-synergy utility-meets-vintage pieces, inspired by Japanese animation and hand-buried in cedar chippings over the summer solstice for a bespoke distressed finish. You know the sort of thing.
This was a total lie. I was just thrown into a panic by the Manhattan drawl of this other journalist who, you could tell, was some Chloe Sevigny lookalike hipster babe, so I tried to think of somewhere that made me sound cool. I know, I know: I'm pathetic. Dover Street is marvellous, if you like that sort of thing, but no way is it closest to my heart. That dubious honour does not go even to Harvey Nichols or Selfridges; even Topshop is pipped at the post. There is only one store for me, and that is John Lewis.
Yesterday I made the happy discovery that I am far from alone in this predilection. A consumer satisfaction study by Verdict found that John Lewis is the nation's favourite store, praised for value for money, range of products, and well-informed staff.
It might seem baffling how such an untitillating store could inspire such affection. But that is the point. John Lewis is the antidote to the Zara-fied shopping world of near-disposable clothing. Whereas in Zara you are duped into unwise purchases by the prospect that since that dress probably won't be in stock next week, you had better buy it now, even if you don't like it that much, John Lewis nurtures shoppers who do a "recce" (and call it a recce) before making a purchase.
After a Zara or Topshop spree, John Lewis is an oasis of refreshing wholesomeness. This is a world of explicit rationalism, where shop assistants know where things are and people spend their free time on actual hobbies - tapestry, for goodness' sake - rather than frittering their life away in changing rooms. John Lewis is shopping without the guilt. On my last trip there I bought photo albums; child's swimming armbands; mothballs; a meat thermometer; Egyptian cotton pillow cases; church candles; fine-knit wool tights. I spent quite a lot of money, come to think of it, but so sensibly, that, I'm sure, it didn't actually count as spending, although admittedly I have not checked this against my bank statement. And, of course, I bought buttons, because I always do when I'm there; for that half-hour, I truly believe that one day I will replace all the missing buttons in my wardrobe. Too much cross-brand-shopping utility-meets-vintage shopping, I guess: I'm seduced by a fantasy of being sensible.
