Consumption History Fun

In civilizations of the ancient Mediterranean, sumptuary legislation prohibited possession of certain prized objects. Silk and, most famously, Tyrian purple (seen here) were forbidden to all but the most socially elite. Not only did these objects become indicators of social class, but in the various forms of apology for sumptuary legislation these luxurious objects were often cast as actually dangerous to societies should they get out of the hands of their trusted, elite guardians. Strands of argument like this are certainly with us today in those who would blame the global economic crises on American "subprime" mortgage-holders living beyond their means - - acquiring luxurious McMansions to the detriment of their personal and our national credit.

Now, as social historians of the last three decades have argued, these hoary arguments begin to change in tone some time ca. 1600-1750. Rather than just endlessly condemning the desire of the poor to acquire coffee, lumps of sugar, cotton buskins, and other early modern "bling," philosophically-inclined observers like David Hume began to see this desire for material goods as an important engine of industriousness. Instead of being satiated into indulgence by the taste of expensive cognac or by a whiff of sweet, sweet ambergris (which we will call early modern Europe's Chanel No. 5 equivalent), a scullery maid would work harder so that she could afford to buy such items for herself. More radically, in the then-scandalous assessment Bernard Mandeville, a life of vice was actually much more socially-beneficial than abstemious self-restraint. It created jobs in pubs, restaurants, cake-shops, etc. to fulfill sensuous desires and jobs in repairing their damages (so a physician like Mandeville knew only too well).



As Berkeley professor of history and economics Jan de Vries (above) argued for us yesterday in an informal and thoroughly enjoyable session with his colleague John Styles, these elite commendations of consumption are importantly instructive of what was actually happening in northwestern Europe from ca. 1650 onward. That is, inventories reveal that the numbers of material goods in early modern households begin to expand dramatically from then. De Vries' argument is that people were working harder to acquire ever-more "comfortable" goods from the market and were making items for their own households less. Store-bought bread and commercial ale replaced oatmeal gruel and homebrew, as the European populace lived in environments increasingly filled with "breakable" (that is, more fashionable, intentionally less permanent) items.



Now, at its most ambitious, the aim of this historiography has been to re-interpret familiar stories about the Industrial Revolution. In these arguments, the Industrial Revolution is not the cause, but the effect, of this earlier "consumer revolution." As scholars like John Styles argue in his new book, the wide-spread desire for printed cotton dresses or pins—not simply the technological ability to produce them—drove the cotton gin, Arkwright's mills, and other icons of the Industrial Revolution.

Styles' book and his discussion yesterday focused specifically on cloth and clothing, explaining how the desire and actual acquisition of fashionable dress went far down the social ladder in Britain in the years prior to the classic Industrial Revolution. One of the most interesting arguments he set out a refutation of the frequently-cited claim that British textile manufacturers were really set into motion to produce cotton goods because of the increasing threat of cotton imports from India. By studying criminal records of thefts of commodities and probate inventories, Styles claims, there is simply no evidence that these Indian imports were actually making any important inroads into British markets. What is much more important about Indian cottons, he claims, is that they could readily mimic the visual appearance of the woven silk fabrics that were highly prized in early eighteenth century Britain. So, although a scullery maid could never afford a Spitafields silk dress worn by a duchess, she could afford one made of cotton that looked somewhat similar, cost twenty times less, and—crucially—was washable.

One of the most interesting aspects of Styles' talk was how his work and the broader consumption historiography had been received by British Marxist historiography. As is not terribly surprising, powerful British historians like E.P. Thompson (author of "The Making of the English Working Class") saw the desire for fashionable commodities as so many instruments by which capitalist interests alienated the working classes and colonized their imaginations for hegemonic purpose. Interestingly, Styles argued that the kinds of public festivals like May Day that Thompson had celebrated as moments for working-class solidarity were also occasions for display of consumer finery; working class heroes would show up for their big days out dressed in their highly fashionable garb. In other words, rather than being an occasion to repudiate enslavement of capitalist classes, industrially-produced commodities were part of the event.

It should certainly be acknowledged that much of this consumption historiography was begun in Thatcher-era Britain and Reagan's America, and has been seen as a capitulation of good old left-leaning social history to the market. As signaled by Styles' fascinating comments on India, though, one of its undoubtedly positive features has been its understanding of seemingly-North Atlantic phenomena like the Industrial Revolution in complex global perspective. Studies of Wedgwood china cannot now ignore the Indian tea that went into into the cups, the Jamaican sugar that sweetened it, or the Chinese designs that inspired and gave name to it.