Is Seasonal Branding as We Know It Kaput?
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From the desk of the CEO
There was a time when brands followed the seasons. You knew what month it was by what you saw in your closet: canvas sneakers in spring, wool coats in fall, sunscreen in June, sleds in December. It was quaint, like a Norman Rockwell painting or an actual lunch break. These days, I’m not even sure what season I’m in. Probably because I have six pairs of Chuck Taylors and none of them are seasonal. I have a blue pair. Another’s black. Functionally indistinguishable. Existentially questionable. Did I need both? No. Did I want both? Sure. Do I remember why? Not a clue.
We live in an “always” economy now. Always open. Always shipping. Always summer somewhere. Always being reminded that someone, somewhere, has already bought what you’re still thinking about. Time zones don’t matter. Weather doesn’t matter. Even taste, increasingly, doesn’t matter—just scroll fast enough and you’ll believe anything looks good.
Globalization killed seasonality. Amazon buried it in a same-day delivery box.
Modern brands are no longer weekend flings or seasonal flirts. They’re omnipresent. All-purpose. All-weather. All-day. All-night. All-in. They go with you to the beach, the boardroom, the mountains, the minivan, the divorce hearing. Seasonality requires a pause—an intermission in the consumer opera. But there are no intermissions anymore. Just the next act. And the next cart.
Most of what we buy now isn’t about survival. It’s about performance. Not performance in the useful sense, like hiking boots that grip ice. Performance in the theatrical sense—costumes for the character you’re playing in that moment. I’m not walking into a coffee shop. I’m entering a scene. The wardrobe must reflect the narrative.
My six pairs of Chucks aren’t solving a problem. They’re solving an existential itch.
And that’s what we’re all scratching lately: feelings. Vibes. Some vague internal murmur that says, “If I buy this, maybe I’ll feel a little more like the person I meant to become.” That person, for the record, also owns six pairs of Chucks. Maybe seven.
Even the most utilitarian objects now come with personalities. Your razor has a mission statement. Your socks have political leanings. Your water bottle might be saving the rainforest, but at the very least, it’s matte-finished and emotionally available.
This isn’t necessarily bad. It’s just absurd. But then again, so is most of life.
In a world without seasons, branding isn’t about timing—it’s about meaning. And meaning, inconveniently, can’t be fast-tracked, flash-sold, or bundled. You have to believe it. Or at least pretend well enough that you forget you’re pretending.
So are all these things necessary? Not really. But are they indispensable to the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves?
Absolutely. For now.
And then we’ll buy new ones.
—
Michael Dean
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