2006-03-12

Barney's in Boston

So, with Filene's gasping its last breaths, effectively ushering out the era of the local department store, Boston now has a Barney's.

The self-proclaimed purveyors of "taste, luxury and humor" have set up shop in Copley Place, which over the past couple of years has slowly sloughed off any stores that are decidedly "low-end" (Claire's, The Limited, Gymboree, Bath & Body Works) in favor of the upscale (Jimmy Choo, Kenneth Cole). And now, we have Barney's, which one wag has described as the "engagement ring" which will purportedly wed Boston once and for all to new luxury retail.

I will admit, chickens, to being a complete fashion hag in some respects. In the last few years I myself have been shedding the last vestiges of my "cute" former self in favor of cultivating a personal style. I have learned, for example, that dark jeans with a slight flare look much, much better on my roundish frame than do cutoff jeans. I have learned not to purchase stained garments just because they're "vintage." I have become a shoe whore. I have stopped buying cheap cosmetics.

And I feel horribly guilty about the whole thing. Conspicuous consumption, I mean.

I have very mixed feelings about Barney's. I went in today as a spectator, which is just as well, because Barney's is very much set up to be gawked at. It is a two-story monument to material lust. Barney's, as opposed to its chief competition at the Copley, the venerable Neiman Marcus (coined "Needless Markup"), would have you believe that they are edgy-yet-tasteful. And indeed, what I saw as I perused its racks was very, very interesting-yet-wearable. Ivory, black and navy blue are THE colors this spring, chickens, if Barney's is an indicator. Thumbs-up, also, to the fact that Barney's will happily sell you a size 12. At Karen Millen, by way of contrast, I was actually treated with smug pity for wearing a 10.

But my God, what you have to shell out for a blouse at Barney's. It's all so beautiful, so perfectly laid-out, and staffed by people who seem genuinely happy to see you, even if you're wearing last season's Bandolino paired with Jones New York. A gentleman actually asked me if I wanted him to open up one of the jewelry cases so that I might closely inspect the pieces, as if he ACTUALLY BELIEVED that I, in my aforementioned sub par togs, could even afford the CLASP on one of those necklaces. I wanted to say, "Oh, God bless you, honey; I know you've been trained to ask any slob that comes in here, but you know: really now. Now really. LOOK AT MY HANDBAG."

And there's a fucking FIREPLACE in the middle of the shoe department. Yes.

I wandered through the place in an absolute stupor, fueled by the most pernicious want yet knowing full well that I was driving around on four bald tires.

I managed to sneak out without the team of hip, cheerful associates bidding me farewell, and promptly went and bought an ivory sweater on the markdown rack at Express (and don't think that their days aren't numbered) for 9 dollars.

lisamcc at 3:40 p.m.

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