Free to Shop — Or So It Seems

Albert Camus once pointed out that people in today’s world are constantly struggling to fully grasp and control their lives. Aside from rare moments of fulfillment, everything else feels incomplete. We’re constantly looking for meaning, yet our actions often lead to more confusion. They seem to slip away, only to resurface in unexpected ways — like the unreachable water that Tantalus longed to drink, which always disappears just as he’s about to touch it.

When we reflect on our own lives, we see this same disconnect. But when we look at other people’s lives, things seem different. From a distance, their existence appears clear and well-ordered — like a coherent story. Yet, this is an illusion. The distance between us and others, and the limited knowledge we have of them, blurs the reality. We only see what fits into a neat picture, and everything else fades away. In other words, we see other people’s lives as if they were works of art.

Seeing life this way creates a desire to shape our own lives similarly — to make them as meaningful, ordered, and controlled as the identities we imagine in others. This struggle for identity is really a fight to make sense of our existence. Identity is what we try to construct from the chaos of our everyday lives. It’s about creating a version of ourselves that fits into some kind of logical structure, even though our experiences often feel fragmented, random, and disconnected.

We crave harmony and consistency in our identity, but real life doesn’t give us that. Instead, we’re forced to deal with the constant flow of change and uncertainty, like trying to solidify lava as it cools and hardens, only for it to melt and change again. We try to hold on to things that give us the illusion of stability, even if those things don’t really fit together. This is what philosopher Deleuze and Guattari meant when they said that desire constantly pushes us to seek stability, but it can only offer us fragments of it.

Our identities seem stable only when we look at them from the outside. When we experience them from within, they feel fragile, vulnerable, and constantly in flux. We’re held together only by our fantasies and daydreams, which are a weak glue to hold us intact. But trying to use something stronger than fantasy, like an idealized notion of the self, feels wrong — like trying to make something permanent out of something that’s naturally unstable.

Fashion, as sociologist Efrat Tseelon points out, serves as a perfect metaphor for this struggle. It allows us to explore different identities without fully committing to them, providing just enough structure without making us feel trapped. Fashion lets us play with our image and our identity, much like the way fairy tales use the image of the princess’ magical attire to reveal her true self. But these identities are always temporary, constantly shifting, and can be discarded or redefined at will.

In our modern, consumer-driven world, we often see identity as something we can “shop for.” We think we have the freedom to choose who we are, to pick and discard identities like items from a store. But in reality, this supposed freedom is an illusion. The more we’re encouraged to buy and consume, the more our sense of individuality is shaped by what we can afford, by the products and trends we’re sold.

Take the example of a TV commercial showing women with different hair styles and colors, all proudly claiming their individuality. The ad is a perfect example of how consumerism promotes the idea of personal choice — yet the actual products being sold are identical. You gain “independence” by surrendering to a system that offers you predefined options.

The idea of identity in today’s world is deeply tied to consumerism, and the boundaries between freedom and dependence are blurry. We buy things to express our individuality, but in doing so, we’re also buying into a system that shapes us, not the other way around. This is the paradox of consumer culture: we believe we’re in control, but our choices are shaped by forces much larger than ourselves.

Movies, media, and advertising reinforce this view by showing us “ideal” lives that we then try to replicate. We’re told that the key to a successful identity is to live the life seen on TV or in the movies — a life that’s always idealized and filtered, never real. This constant bombardment of “ideal” images makes our own lives seem inadequate, unreal, and in need of transformation.

As Christopher Lasch suggests, we now live in a world where we are constantly reminded of our lack of self. The consumer culture has changed how we see ourselves and our identity. We are told that identity is something to be constantly upgraded, much like how products are marketed — new models, new seasons, always something better to buy.

The same principles apply to how we define ourselves in relation to others. Jeremy Seabrook has noted that the poor do not live in a world separate from the rich. They share the same consumer-driven world that constantly bombards everyone with the desire to choose, to buy, to “be different.” Yet the more we see others having the freedom to choose, the more we feel the emptiness of our own lives — constantly seeking something that always seems just out of reach.

In this “synopticon” society, where the many watch the few, there is no escape from the pressure of consumer choice. As we’re told to shop, look, and choose, we begin to feel like our worth is directly tied to the products we buy, and the identities we choose to craft from those products. But the reality is, this supposed freedom only reinforces our dependence on the very system we think we’re free from.

Ultimately, the freedom to shop for identity isn’t the same as true freedom. The choices may seem endless, but they often come with an underlying sense of uncertainty and dissatisfaction. The more choices we have, the more we’re aware that none of them will bring lasting fulfillment.

Perhaps this is what the old proverb means when it says, “It’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive.” The journey of choice and desire may be exhilarating, but the destination — the end of choice, the end of possibility — feels much more uncertain and frightening.

As Seabrook highlights, the contrast between the lives of the rich and the poor is stark. The poor live in a world constructed to benefit the rich, and their lack of resources only makes the shopping-mall fantasies feel more unattainable. In the end, the freedom to choose is a double-edged sword — it creates an endless cycle of desire that never truly satisfies.