Is 'Sensory Empathy' the Future of Sustainability in Fashion?

I think the answer is yes.

This essay initially appeared in the May 2022 issue of FASHION Canada.

I have a secret: sometimes I talk to my clothes. I haven’t arrived at the point where
they talk back—yet—but I do like to conceive of my wardrobe as a series of vivified objects with their own pulsating energy. Like a cluster of black linen mushrooms, they may not have a central nervous system but they are very much alive. I can tell you the exact origin and provenance of each item as if it were a precious work of art, and I am aware of the circumstance under which it was acquired. (My oversized grey mohair cardigan? Etsy circa 2011, when I was going through my Kurt Cobain phase. My Prada bag? A wild splurge from Vestiaire Collective as a treat for landing my dream job as a fashion editor.) By keeping up with necessary mending and other repairs, I try to actively treat my clothing with the same respect I would another human being. In short, my clothes are my friends.

This might sound like the musings of someone who has gone too deep into a weird internet wormhole and ended up convinced that crystals can heal cancer, but I promise it isn’t. Rather, it’s a way of mitigating my habitual conspicuous consumption. While it’s relatively common knowledge that fashion is wreaking havoc on the environment and action needs to be taken, sustainable-fashion experts have yet to find a way to actually make the prospect of consuming less sound appealing—until now.

To combat my desire to acquire, I practise something called “sensory empathy,” which helps me see my posses- sions as more than just objects. Originating in the field of clinical therapy, sensory empathy is rooted in the Freudian concept that analysts can pick up on the unconscious com- munications of their patients through body language and other means. It appears most prominently in an obscure academic article published in 2006 in The International Journal of Psychoanalysis and was later adopted by the late Steven Skov Holt, a professor of industrial design at California College of the Arts in San Francisco, to describe the experience of pouring one’s personality into an object.

When removed from the world of reclining couches and applied to clothing, sensory empathy becomes a useful tool for developing a deep emotional investment in the clothing we own. It represents a radical mindset shift that elevates what we wear from the realm of rote practicality to that of a dynamic relationship rich with com- passion and appreciation. Rather than being mere garments, items of clothing become companions, helpmates and accomplices.

“The clothes we wear are a highly potent means of communication about who we are and who we are not,” says Lynda Grose, a professor of fashion design at California College of the Arts. Grose, who spearheaded Esprit’s “ecollection” in the early ‘90s —the first international sustainable fashion line from a mainstream retailer during that time—notes that sensory empathy can be glimpsed in the faded creases of a well-loved pair of jeans or the patina of your dad’s old leather jacket.

The concept of forming human relationships with clothing might sound too woo-woo to ever cross into the mainstream, but Mara Holt Skov, an associate professor of industrial design at California College of the Arts (and Steven’s wife), outlines the popularity of Marie Kondo as “proof of concept” that people are willing to form emotional relationships with inanimate objects. All it takes is a little creativity.

Sensory empathy is not far from the concept of “emotional durability”—a term coined by Jonathan Chapman, a design professor at Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, Pa. According to Chapman, products are “existential mirrors” that reflect our deepest dreams and desires. We unconsciously place personality traits on objects and discard them when the narrative no longer suits us, whether they’re worn out or not. out or not. He proposes emotional durability as a way to prolong the lifespan of a garment and imagines a world in which “humans and objects coexist, living out epic tales of adoration, love and, above all, empathy.” Ideally, looking at a piece of clothing should feel like seeing a reflection. When I gaze upon my closet full of turtlenecks, long skirts and buttoned ankle boots, I see someone who is elegant, stately and a little bit old-fashioned.

Of course, the uniqueness of lived experiences makes it difficult to guarantee that an object will be emotionally durable—just like with human relationships, we can’t govern who will fall in love and when. We can, however, create conditions in which those things are more likely to happen.

According to Grose, people tend to have far greater attachments to designer clothes and investment purchases— acquisitions that require forethought and planning rather than a quick, thoughtless decision. After all, it makes sense that a person would be loath to let go of their prized ’90s-era Yohji Yamamoto compared to an ill-fitting fast-fashion impulse buy. Bespoke clothing, too, tends to live longer in people’s wardrobes because it has been crafted to meet their specific measurements. Ultimately, the clothing items that have their own narrative that we can place ourselves in or adjacent to are the ones we are most likely to form a relationship with—and therefore are the pieces that are the most worthy of acquiring and saving.

While sensory empathy and its cousin emotional durability might help us make more thoughtful purchases, Grose is quick to point out that they only address the consumer side of the equation. Even Patagonia, a retailer that represents the gold standard of suit- ability and transparency, admitted in its 2019 B Corp report that while it is on track to attain its goal of becoming a carbon neutral company, its carbon footprint continues to increase due to its growth in sales.

“On a deep level, when people buy new things, it’s to feel refreshed,” says Grose. But if we’re able to see ourselves in everything we buy, there’s a good chance we’ll feel that desire for refreshment less and less. Through relating to what we wear, we can create meaningful relationships with objects that will lead to more thoughtful consumption patterns.

The next time you’re thinking about making a new clothing purchase, ask yourself: “Does it have meaning? Does it help articulate my personality or identity in a unique way? Is it something I will identify with for a long time?” If so, then go ahead. Otherwise, it’s probably best left on the proverbial shelf.