Feeding the Void

From the velvet chains of the sumptuary laws of medieval Europe, to Edward Bernays' psychologically incisive PR engineering of consent, and into the seduction of modern luxury brands, the silky smooth plundering of identity through status has long been harvested.

The threads of that enticement have woven themselves, cleverly and sumptuously, into the neglected and fractured hearts of the well-heeled. Perhaps not quite for the nobility, who are often blinded by the inheritance of pride. But for today's self-made merchant, the UHNWI: refined, accomplished, but with a gnawing ache, stirring in the crook of their beleaguered soul.

What festers beneath the quiet luxury is the same ancient hunger, hijacked time and again by those wearing deliciously lustrous apparel, ready to profit. The need to belong, to be respected within one's social status, to create meaning from description. To stave off the fear that it was all for nothing.

The sticking plasters of this carefully manufactured emptiness are the exquisitely maleficent business of feeding the void.

To illustrate the concept of the void, we might draw upon Heidegger's thrownness, Sartre's nothingness, or Frankl's existential vacuum, and for those who wish to do so, then by all means, wallow in the cyclonic world of intellectual masturbation and self-validation. I'm sure you are right — it is imperative after all.

But for those rare few who can see through the veil, the void is something simpler. It is the gut-twisting sense that you are far removed from yourself. You are, in fact, alienated from your own being.

It is the nagging, tense, residual awareness that, despite the accolades, the victories, the respectful nods from your acquired friends and polished colleagues… it just doesn't feel complete.

So, you go around again. One more project. One more watch. One more retreat. One more woman.

Executive coaching from earnest, well-meaning suits. Wellness in the Swiss Alps. Ayahuasca in the jungle. It's all so transformative, so enduring.

Except it just isn't.

"I think I learned exactly how the fall of man occurred in the Garden of Eden. Adam and Eve were in the Garden of Eden, and Adam said one day, 'Wow, Eve, here we are. One with nature, one with God, we'll never age, we'll never die, and all our dreams come true the instant we have 'em.' And Eve said, 'Yeah… it's just not enough, is it?'"

— Bill Hicks

And no amount of Macallan 25, or whatever your favourite synthetic poison may be, can quell it for long.

The suffering is real, but it cannot be spoken of. Because a successful man is not supposed to feel empty. Not with everything at his feet. And if he did speak up, who would he turn to? His friends? Most of them wouldn't understand, or worse, wouldn't listen.

A counsellor? Perhaps. But even that often feels like just another expense, another sticking plaster. One more attempt to outsource a problem buried deep in the marrow.

He's trapped, not by failure but by the aspartame taste of arrival. Worse off than the poor man who still believes, still strives, still moves in compliant rhythm, chasing freedom, diamonds and the rarified, exclusive air of the promised land — exclusive, elusive, and ultimately silent.

One plays the game, follows the plan. Blends, nods, gives up the time and ascends. And then finally arrives, only to realise that this was the wrong mountain.

That is the quiet wound. The ache that cannot be admitted. And that is why the business of feeding the void continues to thrive. It is the quietly screaming wound. A root-festering ache that seemingly cannot be cured. But perhaps, for now, it can be soothed.

And here is the waiting crowd of ingratiating, beautifully packaged, hyper-seductive peddlers of elegance and refinement, ready to satisfy your desire with quiet confidence and curated grace.

I'm certainly not against this type of exquisite seduction. There's nothing quite like wearing a beautifully crafted suit, the kind made by dedicated tailors, disciplined in the ballet of thread and needle, weaving a living masterpiece.

But it's not the aesthetic that grips me. The real beauty comes from the connection to the men who made it. To their focus, their patience, their unseen discipline. That's meaning. Not the reflection in the mirror, but the touch of their craft in the seams.

Of course, luxury is not all an illusion, it has its benefits too. A series of experiments (Nelissen & Meijers, 2011) found that people wearing luxury threads were more likely to receive time, money, and even higher hourly wages than those in standard attire.

The exquisite timepiece, the flowing lines of a car, the strokes of a master painter, sculptor, the artisan of the aroma maker — these can all be appreciated for their incredible human qualities, but like any art in the modern world, it soon gets wrapped in a sheath of extra ribbed pleasure sprayed with an appropriate dose of anti-life serum.

One must beware the cyclonic vortex cleverly designed to pull you in, pull you off and lubricate the perpetual machine. The next product, the next experience, will promise lasting fulfilment, but it never quite reaches.

I'm not here to dissect the full library of human biases, heuristics, and unconscious levers that seduce, reason, and pierce the bullseye of the heart and mind. Instead, I will draw just one arrow from the quiver of the many: the subtle interplay of ad framing and semantic priming as Kim et al. demonstrated in 2018.

Take aim at a man. Now steer him to write a few words on a simple topic whilst surgically gleaning how he sees the world. Then show him a luxury ad which appears to be just a wristwatch and a phrase. He is moved into an unconscious acceptance, the symbol carries the echo of his synthetic identity. This is semantic priming. Thought meets desire, and is steered. The very clever Rolex ad reads: "Class is Forever". But this is not about time or class. It's about the anchoring of the self, conferred by the clever architects of the game.

This leverage is an exquisite skill, beautiful in its architecture, designed by cunning minds who understand the concept and business of desire. And of course we humans inherently believe we are sensible, rational, decision-making individuals with full autonomy. This is the beauty of the architecture: the prisoners become the jailers, complicit in the production of a sterile IV bag dripping droplets of desire, each measured hit of status, binding them to the synthetic vein, chasing the endless drug of the pursuit of happiness.

This "opulomania," as Jan Gerber, CEO of Paracelsus Recovery, terms it, is no accident. It is a coping mechanism for despair and disconnection. The industry doesn't just allow it. It profits from it.

"But what of it", you say. "Why not just leave me alone and let me play my round of golf, buy the damn watch, jet off to Moscow and bury the ache in the smooth, firm flesh of a young courtesan and wash down the shallowness with a glass of Beluga Epicure?"

A man now cossets a diamond, transfixed by its lustre, sparkle and value. Another trophy for display. And yet he never sees, never knows or understands that the greatest jewel of all sits comfortably on display inside the human skull of an infant, witnessing the awe of every instant miracle. Lighting the world with a gaping welcome. A body and mind in flight, soaring, swooping, gliding and breathing in the colour-soaked vistas and the very fuel of life. Igniting the veins and soul with its radiating energy. One that will soon be forgotten, replaced by the conditioned striving and the drip drip promise of synthetic diamonds.

The rules of this game are valid but for a game that seeks only to reward itself. What a man truly needs, is to live by a different set of rules. Known only by the very few. Whispered and passed on to those that are ready. Those who sense there's something deeper.