THE VERY rich and the very poor have a lot in common, according to the acerbic social critic Paul Fussell. Both wear shabby, rumpled clothes; eat Spartan meals; rarely carry cash; have lots of leisure time; and are largely invisible to the public - the former because they value privacy and the latter because they have no voice or influence. Perhaps this hidden affinity between the aristocracy and the destitute explains the culture’s current flirtation with poverty chic.
The September issue of the high-fashion W magazine featured a spread of waif-thin supermodels lying on bare mattresses or park benches with clothes made out of designer shopping bags. Anyone who’s seen a homeless person in a rain poncho made out of a plastic garbage bag knows the look. The photos are horribly compelling; one cannot look away, as with a car crash.
Competing for the prize of worst fashion faux pas, Ralph Lauren’s spring 2010 collection pretties up the Dust Bowl, showing tattered denim overalls that seem covered in a fine patina of dirt. Program notes said the idea was to celebrate the country’s “resilient spirit,’’ but it only seems to romanticize Depression-era starvation and despair. (Women’s Wear Daily called the collection “the Grapes of Ralph.’’ OK, that’s funny.)
Meanwhile, the American Girl doll company has a new model, Gwen, who is homeless. Like all American Girl dolls she comes with a story, which involves an absent father and stints living with her mother in a shelter and their car. None of the proceeds from the sale of the dolls will go to charities for the homeless, though the company does hope Gwen will raise awareness of the 1.5 million homeless children in America. The cost for this teachable moment? $95.
Not precisely in the same vein but close, the luxury pen company Montblanc is marketing a special edition Gandhi pen, to commemorate the 140th anniversary of the revered spiritual leader’s birth. Each pen comes with a book of Gandhi’s sayings and a long piece of golden thread that can be wrapped around the pen, representing Gandhi’s promotion of home-spun cotton cloth, a symbol of India’s nonviolent resistance to British rule.
The price of a single pen, honoring an ascetic who abjured material possessions, is $24,763. Note to Montblanc: This isn’t what was meant by the pen being mightier than the sword.
Montblanc will donate some of its proceeds to two charities in India. American Girl also says it regularly works with philanthropic causes. But that’s beside the point. These products aren’t created for charity - if they were, 100 percent of the proceeds would be donated. They are primarily intended to make a profit, and making a profit off someone else’s misery is . . . uncharitable.
Even when they do increase awareness, these products reduce hunger or homelessness to abstractions. Sad to say, homelessness isn’t some remote crisis - like a tsunami or war - that requires an arm’s-length contribution to offer relief. There are quite enough real homeless people living right in our midst to be “aware’’ of without having to buy some over-earnest fashion statement.
Here’s a better idea: take the $95 and let your daughter research and choose a local homeless shelter she would like to donate it to. Or volunteer in a soup kitchen. Use a Bic pen to write a check directly to a group promoting nonviolence or an international relief organization.
It’s not as if every pink-ribbon sneaker or Live Strong bracelet or “Green is the New Black’’ water bottle is a corporate scam. If you’re going to buy sneakers anyway, why not have the manufacturer kick in a few percentages to breast cancer research? But exploiting poverty - or consumer guilt over poverty - as a gimmick to market ever more high-status stuff isn’t a solution; it’s the problem.
Renée Loth’s column appears regularly in the Globe. 
