underconsumed & totally devoured
decay is proof of life
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All I’ve ever wanted was to have a beautiful life; a life that when viewed from above would be considered artful. As I exist, I hope any mundane moment could be captured in a painting. Obsessed with image, with the aesthetics of living, I’ve lost touch with my greatest gift—the knowledge that beauty is simultaneously an innate and intentional act. When the hedonist abandons their pursuit of pleasure for pleasure’s sake, their life becomes full of suffering made gorgeous.
When I became an adult in July, I suddenly had no excuse for the destruction I've caused in the pursuit of pleasure, in the pursuit of beauty. I’ve filled every void with my visions of Eden—clothing, desserts, trips, clothing, experiential dining, more clothing. Suddenly, I’m tired of the fabrication of life and beauty, craving a contentment that can only happen naturally, as a result of contemplation, and comes and goes just as fleetingly as we can fixate on it.
Clothing, fashion, the ritual of getting dressed, the decoration of my physical vessel have always felt like a freedom to change. Like the moon, I never feel the same from one phase to the next. Instead of honoring this part of life as an artform, it’s been a way to shield myself from the constancy of my own identity. The illusion of always looking new, like I never have before, helped ease some of the suffering—nothing to tie me back to the person I was when I wore that dress everyone else had; no proof that I’m just like other girls. Reckless consumption to match a reckless existence.
In the echo chamber of my Internet, where I subscribe to sermons on conscious consumption, fashion history, and personal style discourse, a trend that defies the superficiality of trends is evangelizing the masses: "underconsumption core." The algorithm brought me a video of someone’s eyeshadow palette, so deeply loved that the metal backing peeked through on every shade. I’m fixated on the decay of this palette; it clearly fulfilled a profound need, these eyeshadow colors an authentic expression that, used repeatedly, allowed its wearer to reveal a face she truly sees and knows. How meaningful this palette became to this girl, in a world overwhelmed by endless novelty and insatiable materialism. This devotion to a thing, its complete usage, reveals a kind of beauty in commitment and imperfection—where true value is found in the deeply loved.
Roger Scrunton, in his book Beauty: A Very Short Introduction, describes “minimal beauties” as the beauties of everyday life. He writes, “You want the table, the room or the website to look right, and looking right matters in the way that beauty generally matters—not by pleasing the eye only, but by conveying meanings and values which have weight for you and which you are consciously putting on display.”
When the sun goes down and my room is warmly lit by three unmatched lamps, I can’t help but feel charmed. When I sit to watch a family of ducks in the Hudson braving rough storm waves, beauty is gifted to me. When I tear a hole in my favorite ruana, the handwoven one I bought in the mountains of Antioquia, I know I have loved it deeply. The tear proves that beauty is born from meaningful use, beauty made attainable through engagement, and beauty shaped by the hands of life. I can’t help but see the beauty in a decayed object; decay is proof of life.
The hedonist's philosophy was distorted by the capitalist belief that pleasure could be bought in endless quantities, and beauty was lost in the translation of glut. I want to rethink my relationship with my clothing and belongings, which are vital tools in the curation of my identity, as a true form of hedonism—finding pleasure in immersing myself fully in my possessions until there’s nothing left but to embrace the essence of what remains.
When Mary-Kate Olsen was asked about her infamous mint green Balenciaga bag—the one so worn that it became shapeless and stained with wine and pen ink—she told W in 2006, “It explains my life.” I won’t say Mary-Kate is the best example of devotion or truly immersing oneself in possessions—she literally bought an apartment in the West Village and never lived in it—but the bag and her quote, separate from her persona, embody what I wish all my clothing and belongings to be: reflections of my life and beautiful because of it.
I’m disillusioned by undevoured consumption—the romanticism, fantasy, and narrative play that I am so skilled at creating have been exploited to mimic devotion to aesthetics and taste without genuinely embodying it. I’ve forgotten how beautiful the imperfections that life breeds can be, and I desperately want the magic of my outlook back. Yes, underconsumption core emerges from recession, trend cycles, and economic shifts, but it is also a reaction to the growing disgust with manufactured excess. It’s not revolutionary to avoid consumption, but it is profound to choose to see the beauty in the natural way that living and fully engaging with our belongings breeds authenticity and depth. I will keep in my pursuit of love, beauty, and pleasure, now with the realization that it cannot exist, especially not in fashion, without commitment.