Occasionally I think it might be nice to live in the fictional world depicted within the J-Crew catalog. Long days at the beach, an autumn visit to New York wearing an authentic Navy pea coat. New England, the Hamptons. And an occasional trip to Paris accompanied by the sort of buttery brown leather luggage I have never seen on a conveyor belt in my world. Then the Sundance catalog arrives—which looks even better, in a way—it makes me realize how boring and predictable Crewland would be. Sundance is full of dusty roads (though not too dusty) and the rugged (but not overly so) West, beautiful (not too beautiful), slightly artsy women dressed in perfect layers enjoying a quick break outdoors after a morning in the studio. And I imagine that Robert Redford would be there, too. We would sit on the veranda in reproduction vintage furniture, enjoy a Pabst Blue Ribbon from a retro cooler, and discuss the aesthetics of Airstream trailers in the late afternoon sun.
The subtle yet elaborate narrative staging that exists in catalogs like these is quite different than those on the lower end, where story gives way to generic photography and a dense product display. It is even further away from the high end, where narrative essentially disappears in favor of white space and models that function as mere human clothes hangers. To be effective, the method calls for a precise balance of photography, props, and scenarios that provide just enough visual information to create an emotional connection with the reader—who participates in the completion of the story by filling in the gaps between one image and the next.
Looking at a new J-Crew catalog, there is a highly contrived sense of self-awareness apparent in the photographs themselves—with elements of the photography setup (lighting stands, backdrops, etc.) featured as prominent components of each scenario. This adds a secondary layer to the narrative, and serves as an odd confirmation that the world depicted here has been manufactured, while simultaneously inviting us back stage and giving us insider status—which is maybe what we really want anyway.
Of course, using photography equipment as props is nothing new. I recently received a Boden catalog that depicts two young girls on the cover holding a vintage camera (perhaps a Kodak Retina from the 1950s), as if stopping to take a few snapshots while on summer holiday. It’s a lovely camera—with a well-preserved brown leather case to protect its flawless chrome exterior. Except that it’s the sort of camera that—in today’s digital world—belongs more to a group of obscure enthusiasts than a pair of pre-teens who wouldn’t have any idea how to load the film let alone upload the negatives to Flickr. Yet, a more “real” prop like a compact digital camera would ruin the story—calling too much attention to itself, eliminating the desired aura of nostalgia and immediately moving fiction that much closer to reality.
And who wants that?