Traditionally, luxury was considered to be the height of seriousness. The lofty price points seemed to necessitate a sober mien and a clear head. There’s nothing funny about spending serious amounts of cash on something that strictly speaking you could easily live without. So for many years, I didn’t think that humor had any place in the luxury milieu. But then I had a little epiphany.
I bought a pair of the new Valentino Garavani flats on my last trip to Boston, and I wore them for the first time a couple of weekends ago. They are super-cute, black with a crisis-cross ankle strap and silver metal grommet details. The man who sold them to me at their store on Newberry Street raved about them as an upgrade to the Rock Stud flats that I already own in multiple colors. “These are so much more comfortable than the old version,” he assured me as he lovingly put them in their red box.
Does anyone remember when a drop-dead gorgeous, “you-had-me-at-hello” pair of designer shoes cost $250? Seriously, you young ones, I am not exaggerating. In our lifetime, one used to be able to buy an incredibly stylish Italian-made pair of leather shoes at Bergdorf’s or Barney’s for less than $300.
Like any great relationship, our feelings about our favorite luxury brands usually start out in a blaze of passion, excitement and positive feelings. The first time I could afford a pair of Manolo Blanik shoes, I was almost as giddy as I was the day I met my best friend in college. The shoes were black patent leather high-heeled pumps, and they were so much fun, and so chic, that they made me feel that I was my best “me” whenever I put them on. Yes, shoe love can run deep.
The received wisdom du jour in the marketing community is the power of story-telling. I’ve been to numerous conferences, seen TED talks, and been repeatedly reminded over the past year that a brand must have an authentic story, that there must be a narrative arc, and that without a story, a brand is doomed.
