Taste as currency, commodity, and pins

The subject of taste is one that's been rattling around in my head for a long while now, and even though I'm not close to ready to give it the treatment it deserves (there are so many philosophers I read in grad school and have subsequently forgotten that would apply!), the rise of Pinterest means that I can no longer delay addressing the topic at least in a rough manner. It's a cultural phenomenon calling out for analysis (indeed, I'm sure there have been and will be more than one paper on it at the PCA/ACA conference). So here, off the top of my head, are some thoughts on taste in general and Pinterest in particular. Bear with me. 

Since at least the rise of the middle-class, the concept of taste has been central to creating and maintaining social hierarchies. It is no surprise then that in an age of unmatched, internet-driven consumer proliferation, an age in which objects threaten to utterly overwhelm us, taste has become both currency and commodity.  

People who cull the depths of the web for nuggets that can be strung together into something like a unified narrative are valued, often more so than the creators of the individual nuggets themselves. And their value increases in some incalculable ratio to the ever expanding web. Theirs is a currency our story-loving minds crave when confronted with the near infinite range of choices we can access online. That currency buys us time,  peace of mind, reassurance, and pleasure.

Taste as currency explains the existence and popularity of countless blogs that simply link to other people's products  or posts, seemingly without adding any value to the original because, of course, the value is in the selection: it's in the unified whole of a coordinated living room created from dozens of globally-made products sold by as many retailers with just the right touch of Etsy DIY flavor, and it's in the perfect summer backyard party meal composed of recipes, ingredients, and place settings snatched from all corners of the web. But interior designers and chefs, you say, have been with us for centuries. True, but Pinterest's "My Style" boards have not.

That My Style is a default board for all new Pinterest users--as is the choice to follow various "Tastemakers"--speaks to the extent to which taste is a commodity, not just a currency, in American culture today. Its value is intrinsic, not merely exchange-based. Why else should the average Joe (or Jane, when it comes to Pinterest) have an interest in developing and broadcasting her style? Perhaps the better question is why Pinterest would be designed to imply that every user should have such an interest? It is because that user's style--her ability to make human a collection of commercial objects--is not only the logic behind the site but also the engine that creates both social and economic capital in the electronic age. Even Google's search algorithm is based on human-curated links to websites. 

When I started Pinning (and yes, I Pin!) at first it felt odd to share images that  I otherwise would have saved for my own private reference. It felt a bit like yelling out loud snippets of daydreams I had previously only whispered to myself and loved ones. I also felt like I was engaging in patterns of conspicuous consumption without ever purchasing a Veblen good. In fact, Pinterest has the power to turn objects in the most private of spaces--a bedroom or a bathroom--into a Veblen good. The publicly broadcasted taste of a Pinner knows no spatial or relationship-based boundaries. All consumption is visible. Glass houses all around.

The site also neatly encapsulates the homogenizing nature of the web and what appears to be the urge against such homogenization, the DIY movement. I have a friend who prides herself on a fancy dessert she makes from the most low-brow mass-produced ingredients that exist, purchased from her favorite big-box store. The thing that gives snooty value to the dessert is the creativity with which it is presented (and it's a trick she shares with only a select few, whom she swears to secrecy). On Pinterest, the value of that dish--that creativity--would be swapped out for the value of curation. The genius of the recipe is not worth much if everyone else has access to that genius too. The value instead becomes about selecting that recipe and pairing it with the right dishes and decor. We may all have access to the same things, but we're only defined by the combinations we choose to consume, or Pin. 

And make no mistake--Pinning is consumption in all the ways that matter to us as social beings. Anyone can inherit a lot of money and spend it. But only those worthy of admiration can spend it well. And, in fact, the actual spending part of spending well isn't even necessary--just the taste required to do so and the public record of that taste. The fact that at least a segment of an object's Repinning history is preserved on the site speaks to the importance of giving credit not just to the originator of an idea or item but also to the "original" curator. In fact, if it weren't for copyright laws, I have little doubt that the original creator would be cut out completely (rather than just monetarily).

In some ways, Pinterest represents a Marxian nightmare, with the consumer ultimately the only thing worth consuming.  In this context, the popularity of DIY Pins are nothing more than a feeble attempt to resist the inevitable tsunami of sameness. Pinterest becomes not unlike a factory that mass produces (or at least is theoretically capable of mass producing) that which used to be exclusively individual and private--DIY projects, or the creative ways humans manipulate objects around them to get them to function in manners not intended by their creators. By becoming one of thousands to follow step-by-step instructions for how to turn an IKEA magazine file into a corner shelf-charging station (yes, I plan to do this tomorrow), I become an (unpaid!) cog in the factory wheel myself.

And on that note, I think I'll go do some Pinning. But you'll notice that My Style board is still blank. That's one space too fraught for me to touch for now.