On the Collapse of the Mall
How strange to be reading Zola’s “The Ladies’ Paradise” and pass by one of the old malls, now half shut up and little more than a breeding ground for petty crimes! Baudu is the future, and Mouret fallen! Who could have believed it? And who can explain this phenomenon, which seemed almost overnight to render these mammoth constructions, these Titanics of consumerism, near useless? The internet, naturally, played its role—yet there are still plenty who like to enjoy their retail therapy in person, just as many prefer a print book. Yet I think I can riddle out at least one component of the mall’s ruin.
The temptation of the old department stores was all in the illusion that you were getting quality goods cheaply. There is a kind of glamour in the proposition, however false it may ultimately prove to be, it creates a picture of intimacy between the shopkeeper and the shopper, a story that they are in on a secret together. This illusion must extend to the building and its facade—it must be sumptuous, modern, full of light, and quite beautiful. The old department stores in Chicago may have changed their wares, but the facades remain, and they will bear me out—there is nothing cheap about them, their construction must have required a fortune, and hardly a small one. Here is another discount. The middle class housewife may enjoy, for a time, the luxurious surroundings usually reserved for the truly rich. A bargain in all directions! This was the irresistible temptation whose shadow I can recall working even on my infant brain in the old Marshall Fields on State Street.
Yet there is no glamour in getting cheap goods cheaply. Here, I believe, we can uncover one aspect of the downfall—the shopkeeper became too complacent in the inherent strength of his illusion. The shopping malls of my youth can hardly have been inexpensive to construct—yet they looked cheap, and seemed never able to escape a patina of grime. The lack of windows was another fatal stroke. Soft natural light had to be substituted with white fluorescents, more suited to a warehouse than a place for human beings, and which invariably brought on headache. The very atmosphere was quite enough to foster conflict in even the most agreeable of parties, and I can hardly recall a visit which did not end in someone’s exhibiting bad temper, or in an outright quarrel.
Then we come to the quality of the actual goods—and if that was not as poor as Zara’s or Shein’s of today, it was quite poor enough. There cannot be a ‘deal’ on a badly made polyester shirt. It will never be priced low enough to reflect its inherent worth; and therefore, no matter how little you spend, it will always feel like too much. When, after two washes, the $20 shirt begins to fray at the seams and pill, you will know you have been duped, completing the unfavorable impression.
In short, rather than slyly poking fun at the shopper behind her back, the shopkeeper began to laugh in her face—and even the most timid of creatures will be hard pressed to endure such treatment for long.
