Why Do We Wear Logos?
Exploring the psychology of brands and consumers
My favorite sweatshirt in middle school was a baby blue hoodie with a monkey in the center, with the words stamped in white vinyl: “Aeropostale 1987”.
It looked something like this:
I remain perplexed as to the marketing department’s thoughts about this monkey and would love to pick the brain of whomever signed off on it. But the specifics of this one monkey logo is not the point.
The psychology of branding is.
I’m not sure if I knew at twelve years old that to wear Aeropostale indicated something. I’m almost certain it did not indicate any modicum of coolness. But it certainly indicated that you weren’t quite as rich as someone wearing a shirt with a crane*, or better yet a moose**, or goodness that alligator***.
On the other hand, the monkey may have suggested that you were rich enough to be a mall rat, rather than buying clothes at big-box stores like Target (which, incidentally is where the logo-less anorak jacket I’ve been wearing for four years is from, and almost the entirety of my children’s wardrobe [thanks Cat and Jack!]).
To a certain extent it’s almost difficult to avoid some logo or another, from head (the side of your glasses frames) to toe (the side of your sneakers). But while sporting a logo is sometimes the price to pay for comfort, like the word HOKA on those giant sneakers, many times it’s a conscious choice in conveying class status.
Let’s use the example of a leather bag or belt. Such an item of course has intrinsic value in terms of the material and the craftsmanship, its quality, or perhaps the uniqueness of the design. But the logo on it doesn’t; the value of a logo is entirely theoretical.
The value a handbag with overlapping, mirrored Cs, for example, or a belt with overlapping, non-mirrored Gs is its ability to convey a message: “I have enough disposable income to spend on this.”
This is the idea behind conspicuous consumption.
How to quantify that value is a bit like asking if a tree makes a sound falling in a forest–does the value of a Chanel bag exist if no one is there to see it? The impact of it, the messaging, comes from it being perceived; the purpose is not in owning the bag, but in others knowing that you own it.
The emblazoning of a logo is also a necessary part of a brand’s marketing. Cs, Gs, and Vs are branded onto items, but they really are branded onto you. You as the carrier of the brand give an air of exclusivity. But within the same class you also indicate potential attainability. You inspire others around you to desire–and attempt to attain–the same aura.
The relationship between the brand and its wearer is symbiotic: they use you to influence, and you use them to have influence.
It’s a race to the top (or is it the bottom?) for a short while until suddenly everyone you know has the same luxury good (like, say, a chevron bag with three letters on the fold), which then makes it feel not-so-luxurious anymore, and the fad then fades into oblivion.
And then it’s onto the next: a more exclusive item makes the circuit, the Veblen effect occurs (where a high-priced good actually drives up demand rather than the typical economic law of driving down demand), and it too moves through the same life cycle—exclusivity, ubiquity, obsolescence.
Now here’s where it gets interesting: a study in Frontiers Psychology found that in each of their experiments designed to make study participants feel more uncertain (and thereby anxious), they were more likely to show a propensity to engage in conspicuous consumption. The “why” is harder to pinpoint, but the study’s discussion posits this: purchasing higher-end brands is an exercise in controlling self-image, and the need to maintain a certain image is generally an anxious need (basically, people with higher anxiety across the board are more likely to be specifically anxious about what others think of them).
Whatever the motivations of the wearer, Morgan Housel has an interesting take in his book, “The Psychology of Money” about the perceiver. He writes that the assumption of wealth is a misperception by the perceiver, because wealth is what you don’t see.
While one almost certainly has to be rich to own, for example, a $100,000 car, Housel claims that the only data point the perceiver truly has is that the driver of the car is now $100,000 poorer (or $100,000 more in debt) than they were before they owned it. (Housel doesn’t consider leases, though, which might be another possibility).
Despite this very rational and factual assessment, most people simply don’t perceive exclusive items this way. If they did, there wouldn’t be a nearly $2 trillion-dollar industry (yes, trillion with a t—and some estimates even say $3 or $4 trillion) on counterfeit goods.
So while some people who can’t afford absurdly expensive things might react to absurdly expensive things with snark or sour grapes, and others might react with thinking their owners are financially unwise, still others are just trying to have those absurdly expensive things too, and send the same message (just without the hefty price tag).
Let me end where I began: that darn Aeropostale sweatshirt. I can’t remember if it said “Property of”—I sure hope not. But I think it did (unfortunately). And while that phrase isn’t so common on clothes today (except my husband’s scrubs—those definitely still mark their territory), it reminds me of the original use of branding: marking property. Usually sheep, or once upon a time, slaves.
The metaphor is apt here: modern-day branding does kind of make us sheep. And we are all slaves to something. Slaves to our desires, slaves to trends or to fashion. But in the social media era, where what we wore to a party sixteen months ago can live ad infinitum, perhaps what we are most enslaved by is how we feel we are perceived.
Great article and points. I think at the end of the day it’s all about belonging. At the root of it, many people are trying to answer the question: "Where do I fit? And how do I show others that I do?" Logos and luxury serve as shorthand for that answer, even if it’s subconscious.
But what if we flipped the script? What if instead of signaling who we want others to think we are, we began asking ourselves: "Who am I without the signals?" Not just the signals coming from the material things, but the curated images, the captioned identities, the subtle performances we offer up online, etc. In a way, such branding makes us strangers to our own authenticity, where identity becomes borrowed instead of built. Maybe the real rebellion today isn’t minimalism in fashion, but minimalism in self-presentation: being okay with not being seen, or even better, being truly known... first by yourself, then by the few who matter.
Many great points, I also wonder if the same concepts apply to the new growing trend of “quiet luxury” where certain items may not have a logo and “ just the people who know, know.” Could quiet luxury wearers also want their items to be seen by people who would recognize them?