The Colour of Wealth

Art by Aminah Shahbaz

“Money talks, wealth whispers,” they yell at their screens.

The old money aesthetic doesn’t exist. If an individual is a part of the group we categorize as “old money,” their personal aesthetic may be an old money aesthetic, but this is purely by proximity to said money; thus, the old money aesthetic does not exist, and has been serving as a replacement for the public’s generalized view of old money fashion. The rickety construction of this aesthetic can be argued as solace for those who cannot hope to be part of the old-money community, simply because they were not born into it. Yet the careful carving out of the aesthetic has its stray lines, leading one to wonder what truly defines this aesthetic and how accurate it is in its imitation.

Is it the beiges or the shades of oscillating grey, from black to white? Is it the lack of apparent “garishness” by way of omitting patterns, glossy or shimmering finishes, and supposedly polyester? Or does all this simply belie the sinister edges of each smooth-surfaced lie?

Personally, I would go as far as to say that the ultra-rich have never, and will never, be truly minimalist. Within glass walls and on marbled floors lies the core of maximalism, and I propose this idea: being a maximalist is an inherent trait that emerges when a person gains wealth. The idea of “quiet luxury” is imposed on the public by the rich as a way to make their lifestyle look accessible. The simplistic glamour of this style overlays and covers the real origins and indicators of wealth: textiles and crafts of colonized countries around the world.

Imported goods as a fascination, and a subsequent reason for marked-up prices, is understandable. Yet, the Western world’s engagement with global textiles, especially Asian textiles, catapults straight towards the acts of exploitation and stealing. Fun fact: the English word loot, essentially meaning to steal, is stolen from Hindi/Urdu. I say stolen because loot means the same thing in both languages, and has the same (Roman) spelling and pronunciation.

According to Palgrave Macmillan Limited, “in any discussion of the popularity of Asian textiles in early modern France, inevitably there will be a reference to Molière’s Le bourgeois gentilhomme of 1670, in which the eponymous hero, Monsieur Jourdain, proudly shows off his new dressing gown in indienne, having been informed by his tailor that ‘all people of quality wore this in the mornings’” (2016).

True Asian textiles have long been an indicator of quality and, perhaps more importantly, style. Yet herein resides the contradiction: the textile that is fashionable on a white body will not find the same appreciation on a brown body. As non-white people wear their own textiles, they are humanized by an unwilling white society as wearers of richness rather than invisible hands crafting such a richness. Moreover, the richness becomes stale, a relic of a stagnant past, by way of its donning by an “uncivilized” people. The meaning is simple, implying that makers are not worthy to be takers.

So, where does the old money aesthetic fit in all of this? I pose an answer: the creation of the old money aesthetic is a simple way to hide classist, racist, and misogynistic ideals under a docile concept. The path to being old money, according to the aesthetic’s key traits, is to blend in, and thus the implication is that old money looks require whiteness presented through easily imitable fabrics. Neutral coloured fabrics are hard to qualitatively distinguish from afar, and are cheaper due to a lack of expensive dyes, such as indigo. Minimalism as a whole is easy to imitate, and, as I will concede, the ultra-rich certainly aren’t walking around in glaringly expensive-looking clothes; that chasers of the old money aesthetic flock to quiet luxury as a boon for their fiscally hurt egos isn’t all that surprising.

This forced proximity to old money is strained further because followers of the old-money aesthetic lack the means to blend in up close; the secret of the rich’s restaurants, favourite shops, and best vacations are all well-kept. We can say that those of us with a honed sense of fashion can maybe determine the classification of certain textiles; we can muse upon it, marvel at the cuts and details. What we cannot do, however, is access the details beyond surface level: whether or not the textile is pure or a blend, the exact origin of the cloth, the thread count, the quality of the stitching, etc. In this way, we are forever the onlookers, never the spectacles themselves.

The old money aesthetic is an effort to gain a promised American life—one that is easily vowed and just as easily broken. Purveyors of old money knowledge on social media platforms often refuse to poke holes in their bubble, instead opting to attempt to close even the tiniest smudges of distance between themselves and the wealthy elite. Yet, by mocking so-called ostentatious colours and “garish” patterns, old money fanatics only come off as culturally insensitive and open only to the idea of whiteness in positions of privilege.