Deluxe: How Luxury Lost Its Luster by Dana Thomas Page B
Authors: Dana Thomas
Tags: Social Science, Popular Culture
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unmatched and unyielding,” says Chanel Japan’s president Richard Collasse. “The Japanese have zero tolerance for flaws.”
He tells a story to illustrate point. Back in the 1980 s, when Collasse worked for another luxury brand, a Japanese woman brought a dress in and said it had a defect. Collasse looked and looked and finally saw a two-inch thread dangling from the hem. It was absolutely unacceptable to her. Collasse exchanged the dress, bowed repeatedly, and sent her a big bouquet of flowers. Then he decided to do a test. He took the dress to a French woman. She tried it on, liked it, saw the thread, and said, “I can cut it.” He took the dress to an American woman. She tried it on, liked it, and never saw the thread.
Vuitton’s Hata ran into the same thing. “During the first ten years, we have often found ourselves having to return products to Paris saying, ‘This level of quality is unacceptable in Japan,’” he recalls. “At first we had a very hard time being understood. If we returned a product because the fastener was attached the wrong way, they argued that we should sell it to a left-handed customer. If we complained that the stitches were not straight, they said it was because of the nature of hand stitching and that they could sell the products in Paris without a problem. On one occasion we returned all the products, saying, ‘Please sell these in Paris.’” Finally, in 1991 , Hata opened a Vuitton repair center in Japan; today, there are two.
L OUIS V UITTON’S expansion in Japan led the way; soon its competitors began to expand their presence there, too, selling in major department stores and opening boutiques in Tokyo’s Ginza shopping district and in Osaka. The timing couldn’t have been better. In the early and mid- 1980 s, the Japanese economy was soaring: it grew by 3.7 percent annually, and Japan’s postwar generation experienced a dramatic increase of disposable income. Some of the investments were dizzying: Mitsubishi forked out $ 1.4 billion for 80 percent of Rockefeller Center in New York in 1989 and 1990 ; Sony bought Columbia Pictures in 1989 for $ 3 . 4 billion; Matsushita electronics took over MCA, which included Universal Studios, in 1990 for $ 6.1 billion; Japanese businessman Ryoei Saito spent $ 82.5 million for Van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet in 1990 .
But the economic boom also created a new sociological phenomenon in Japan known in banking circles as Parasite Singles: unmarried university-educated women, ages twenty-five to thirty-four, who worked in good-paying jobs—as secretaries, teachers, executives—and lived with their parents. Their economic power was and still is impressive: analysts estimate that Parasite Singles account for nearly one-tenth of Japan’s population of 130 million. With few living expenses, Parasite Singles use their ample disposable income to shop. Their favorite items: luxury brand leather goods, preferably covered with logos. Indeed, 23 percent of all luxury brand sales in Japan today are leather goods such as wallets and handbags.
When they first emerged, Parasite Singles shopped like mad in Japan, driving luxury brands to expand their presence and stock there. Even after the bubble burst in the early 1990 s, and the Japanese economy plunged into a decade-long recession, Parasite Singles’ appetite for luxury brands did not wane. They were the only demographic group to increase spending during the 1990 s, and they became responsible for up to 80 percent of Japan’s consumer spending.
When they found they could buy more overseas with their strong yen, Parasite Singles embarked on international shopping trips, usually organized by charter companies, inciting brands to open stores in new markets and to add Japanese-speaking sales staff. One of Parasite Singles’ favorite destinations was Hawaii: it was close, it was beautiful, and the yen went far.
In the early 1980 s, Rolf Vogel, then president of Chanel in Japan, went to
He tells a story to illustrate point. Back in the 1980 s, when Collasse worked for another luxury brand, a Japanese woman brought a dress in and said it had a defect. Collasse looked and looked and finally saw a two-inch thread dangling from the hem. It was absolutely unacceptable to her. Collasse exchanged the dress, bowed repeatedly, and sent her a big bouquet of flowers. Then he decided to do a test. He took the dress to a French woman. She tried it on, liked it, saw the thread, and said, “I can cut it.” He took the dress to an American woman. She tried it on, liked it, and never saw the thread.
Vuitton’s Hata ran into the same thing. “During the first ten years, we have often found ourselves having to return products to Paris saying, ‘This level of quality is unacceptable in Japan,’” he recalls. “At first we had a very hard time being understood. If we returned a product because the fastener was attached the wrong way, they argued that we should sell it to a left-handed customer. If we complained that the stitches were not straight, they said it was because of the nature of hand stitching and that they could sell the products in Paris without a problem. On one occasion we returned all the products, saying, ‘Please sell these in Paris.’” Finally, in 1991 , Hata opened a Vuitton repair center in Japan; today, there are two.
L OUIS V UITTON’S expansion in Japan led the way; soon its competitors began to expand their presence there, too, selling in major department stores and opening boutiques in Tokyo’s Ginza shopping district and in Osaka. The timing couldn’t have been better. In the early and mid- 1980 s, the Japanese economy was soaring: it grew by 3.7 percent annually, and Japan’s postwar generation experienced a dramatic increase of disposable income. Some of the investments were dizzying: Mitsubishi forked out $ 1.4 billion for 80 percent of Rockefeller Center in New York in 1989 and 1990 ; Sony bought Columbia Pictures in 1989 for $ 3 . 4 billion; Matsushita electronics took over MCA, which included Universal Studios, in 1990 for $ 6.1 billion; Japanese businessman Ryoei Saito spent $ 82.5 million for Van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet in 1990 .
But the economic boom also created a new sociological phenomenon in Japan known in banking circles as Parasite Singles: unmarried university-educated women, ages twenty-five to thirty-four, who worked in good-paying jobs—as secretaries, teachers, executives—and lived with their parents. Their economic power was and still is impressive: analysts estimate that Parasite Singles account for nearly one-tenth of Japan’s population of 130 million. With few living expenses, Parasite Singles use their ample disposable income to shop. Their favorite items: luxury brand leather goods, preferably covered with logos. Indeed, 23 percent of all luxury brand sales in Japan today are leather goods such as wallets and handbags.
When they first emerged, Parasite Singles shopped like mad in Japan, driving luxury brands to expand their presence and stock there. Even after the bubble burst in the early 1990 s, and the Japanese economy plunged into a decade-long recession, Parasite Singles’ appetite for luxury brands did not wane. They were the only demographic group to increase spending during the 1990 s, and they became responsible for up to 80 percent of Japan’s consumer spending.
When they found they could buy more overseas with their strong yen, Parasite Singles embarked on international shopping trips, usually organized by charter companies, inciting brands to open stores in new markets and to add Japanese-speaking sales staff. One of Parasite Singles’ favorite destinations was Hawaii: it was close, it was beautiful, and the yen went far.
In the early 1980 s, Rolf Vogel, then president of Chanel in Japan, went to
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