Opinion: The news about Smith & Caughey’s is tragic. The historic 144-year-old retailer is set to close its doors next year after a proposal was presented to staff this week. Heartbreaking for the wonderful 250 employees who stand to lose their jobs, for the loss of a Kiwi icon and an industry in a tidal wave of change.
Yet the truth is that Smith & Caughey’s always felt like out of another era, like smoking on planes or, well, smoking anywhere. It is a beautiful place full of beautiful things. A relic of refinement and genteelness among a consumer landscape dominated by dropshipping and Instagram affiliates. I’d tip my hat at it — not that I wear hats, although if I did, I’d probably find one at Smith & Caughey’s.
But let’s face it, its aspirational persona has arguably grown frequently more unachievable as the wealth gap widens on the streets of New Zealand. It was a welcome reprieve from the heaving malls of Westfield, but walking inside as a slouching teen felt like a giant spotlight beamed upon my skull: Am I rich enough? Skinny enough? Respectable enough?
Even years later, as a magazine editor, I still felt out of sorts there. Attendants would pester or ignore me, and I couldn’t decide which I hated more, my awkwardness like a balloon batting down the aisles, knocking cashmere socks off their stands. It just wasn’t fun. And what is luxury shopping if not that?
When the news broke, there were a lot of fingers to point to its collapse: the pandemic, cost-of-living crisis, the demise of the high street (Queen St, in particular, has endured its fair share of problems), the rise of malls, the further rise of online shopping.
It’s not just Smith & Caughey’s that is suffering: Invercargill’s H&J Smith and Wellington’s Kirkcaldie & Stains have closed in recent years and overseas giants like John Lewis and Macy’s are contracting in size. Luxury shoppers are still spending but prefer the heavily branded labels of Gucci and Prada or the exclusive boutiques that are spotted on the backs of New York it-girls.
While perhaps not wholly intended, department stores can feel elitist and exclusionary by nature, although arguably their history is more nuanced than that. Department stores such as Selfridges in the UK gave women (albeit white and middle-class) a safe place to meet and congregate outside the home, as well as some economic power in their spending.
These stores were the gateway to women frequenting public transport, banks and bars. Our consumer dollar bought small, important victories of political capital – or at least that’s what I tell myself when I try on several pairs of shoes.
For now, it’s best to avoid finger-pointing and instead celebrate the joys of Smith & Caughey’s while it’s still with us – the Christmas cheer it gives our city, the beautiful clothes and homewares it immerses us in, the staff who give such excellence service day in, day out.
So, here’s a tip: take the lift to the top floor of the Queen St building. You’ll find yourself in the children’s section, a wonderous place, where giant stuffed toy tigers and giraffes balance precariously on historic windowpanes.
The building seems impossibly ancient, the toys curated and whimsical. For a moment, it invokes the sort of wonder that department stores would conjure as a child, from movies like Home Alone, where there was nothing more magical than a shop window, all lit up on a wintery day. How a new dress could make you spin, or a new lipstick make you smile. And then you head down into the rush of the darkened shop floor, out the door, and the moment is fleeting, forgotten.
