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© Anna Haifisch / Highsnobiety
Quiet luxury was supposed to simplify getting dressed. Instead, it gave us a whole new thing to obsess over.
Author Mary H.K. Choi — whose new novel, Pool House, comes out next week — takes us from an afternoon in SoHo (derogatory) watching quarter-zip boys dream of Rolexes to the emotional spiral that is late-night scrolling on The Real Real to the uncomfortable realization that even the most beautiful clothes can’t save us from ourselves. “Quiet luxury is inside me,” she writes. “It will not detonate like a spore. Rather, it will continue to leech its influence like contaminants into groundwater forever and ever long after I’m dead. Quiet luxury is microplastics.”
Somewhere between Choi’s first true “luxury” purchase (“a swift bloodletting”) and her pursuit of a perfect cashmere sweater, we learn the complicated truth: that the clothes that matter most never announce themselves when we buy them. Their value becomes clear years later after they’ve quietly joined the stories that make up our lives.
Read the rest of Choi’s dazzling essay here.
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