I recently finished reading Land of Desire by William Leach, a thought-provoking history of the rise of consumer capitalism from the late 1800s to around 1930. In it, Leach traces the growing dominance of corporations in influencing markets and culture in America, and the subsequent effects they have had on consumer desire, institutions of higher education, and, ultimately, governmental ideology in relation to the business community.

In the end, Leach concludes that this "cult of the new," though enabling us to acquire more goods more cheaply, has eroded our sense of community responsibility, created an endless desire for goods and services, and brought to power self-interested corporations that, ultimately, may pave the way for the downfall of our country. "Today, as in the period following the 1929 crash, the economy and the culture are once again under seige," Leach writes. "Thus huge overbuilding and overspeculation have propelled countless corporations to lay off thousands of workers and to consolidate their managements--all necessary for economic 'health' but also caused by the managers themselves in their reckless quest for profits and disregard for others" (389). It is a strong and compelling portrayal of a variegated culture turned homogenous, selfish, and shallow under the influence of its growing corporations.

So, if nothing else, this book made me feel a bit guilty for my garage sailing binge this morning. I just finished a month of double shifts and hard work, and I finally had a weekend morning to myself, which turned out to be a good one for local garage sales. I couldn't resist. Today I brought home a "new" Ikea lamp, 6 books (including "Kon Tiki: The Thor Hierdahl Expedition," a 2003 collection of statistical data about Hispanic Americans, "The Aztecs of Mexico," self-proclaimed "fullest authoritative account of the people of Mexico before Columbus" written in 1944 by G. C. Vaillant, and an illustrated history of the Irish potato famine), a VHS copy of the classic film noir "Double Indemnity," a vest for my 1774 First Mate costume, two 3 ring binders, and, for Carla, a "Tranquil Escapes" Toning Ball (purchased, unopened, for $2, a $26 savings!).

But it did make me wonder if the "cult of the new" has a trickle down effect. Old to the sellers, but new to me, right? Fundamentally, is there really any difference here?
I am having doubts. Maybe, in the end, I prefer as much or more than the most dedicated department store shoppers to live in a world of forever changing new things and experiences. Though I'm reactionary to the world of color, light and sound of the American shopping mall, I'm afraid that there is a rough and ready, down and dirty aesthetic that turns me into the same kind of consumer.

And I'm consuming the same kinds of goods--just further down the food chain. These are still products made by the capitalist machine, in far away places, I imagine, by anonymous, underpaid workers. Does my buying these products implicate me in the cycle? If I buy an old thing, does this make the seller feel less guilty about buying a replacement new thing? Is it my responsibility to consider this possibility?

My girlfriend was delighted with her Tranquil Escapes Toning Ball. Whenever we visit her parents' house, she makes a point of bouncing around on her mother's, so I couldn't very well ignore the dusty, unopened box amongst the dregs of this woman's garage sale. The object already existed, no one else was going to buy it, and she immediately opened, inflated, and bounced upon it (grinning) the minute it came through our door. As a utilitarian deed, I feel like it was the right thing for me to do.
But certainly neither my girlfriend nor I need a Tranquil Escapes toning ball, even if it is kind of fun.

And it was this impulse to buy luxury items, Leach maintains, that enabled the "Land of Desire" to develop as it did. He describes the early days of window displays in department stores and how they quickly proved their worth in the selling of goods. Consumers developed lines of credit to buy more than they could afford, and the departments stores did very well in promoting this arrangement. The industry for making fancy displays grew apace, using the talents of many fine artists to create elaborate "facades of colors, glass, and light" (39). So long as the salesmen could produce new looks, fashions, or feelings, they believed that people would buy goods, even if they didn't need them. The past 80 years has proven them right.

This morning it was the purchase, and its brief, associated feeling of pleasure, that drove my behavior, not a sense of need. What makes this Desire ominous, Leach warns, is that it puts the creation of culture, and thus lifestyle choices, city development, relationships among citizens, historical memory, and public policy, disproportionately in the hands of sellers. It is in the interest of sellers to make buyers, and so, Leach maintains, they promote a culture that commonly measures material standard of living as the benchmark for career success and moral right.

In this value system, the stuff I can buy and the things I can do, not the friendships I cultivate or the roots I feel to a place, determine how good my life is. It's pretty obvious that this attitude that has seeped beyond the bounds of commerce, and that, Leach argues, makes it both powerful and dangerous. "Whoever has the power to project a vision of the good life and make it prevail has the most decisive power of all," Leach writes in the opening sentence of his book (xiii). "American consumer capitalism produced a culture almost violently hostile to the past and tradition, a future-oriented culture of desire that confused the good life with goods" (xiii).

Sadly, it's hard for me to really conceive what it would mean to recapture the good life from goods, if my purchases do indicate that I've lost it in the first place. Can the Tranquil Escapes toning ball have a place in my good life? If not, what can? If I am happy with relationships I have to my family and community, if I perform acts of charity and find satisfaction in my profession, then am I living a good, good life, even if I purchase new goods? Or does this still promote the cult of the new to an unsustainable and unhealthy extent? For the self-righteous and/or self-conscious, to what extent should goods enter the equation of the good life? Must we strive for monastic poverty and spirituality to reclaim the fullness of past ages of humanity (if their lives were fuller)? What makes a life good?

Leach finds a tasteful quotation to end his book, a statement that rings true like an old and wise parable:
"As historian of religion Joseph Harountunian said, 'The good is not in 'goods.' The good is in justice, mercy, and peace. It is in consistency and integrity, in living according to truth and right. It inheres in men and not in things. It is other than the goodness of goods and without it goods are not good" (390).

(Above: The Tranquil Escapes Toning Ball