Pop-Up Frenzy: Why We’re Still Lining Up for the Hype
The appeal of pop-ups evades me. In the past month alone, I have been to eight—because I have enough time on my hands to indulge in an investigation of why they exist. Why do the lines remain endless? Why do we still go? The questions persist, and what follows is a feeble attempt at answering them.
During New York Fashion Week, Prada parked a mint-green caravan in Soho and handed out monogrammed bouquets and perfume samples to a syndicate of the commendable patient. Gimaguas, a brand of Spanish origin, set up shop on London’s Greek Street for nearly two weeks in mid-October. More recently, Hermès, MaxMara, and Jacquemus have all taken to the streets of London to distribute scalding beverages to Londoners in Zone 1. Whilst complimentary coffee or tea is inviting to anyone braving the inclement weather that plagues the city, the hours spent waiting in line to receive them are conducive to hypothermia.
More Hunger Games than Harrods , these pop-ups seem to be a test of endurance rather than a treat. Yet, despite a society whose cynicism has been exacerbated by Twitter and anti-consumerist sentiment, they remain wholly successful.
The Rhode pop-up included an in-person store, but the line to access it spanned several hours, with people arriving as early as four in the morning to secure entry. Whilst a physical Rhode shopping experience is not possible outside of the United States, a Twitter user rightfully pointed out that most people would have to pay the equivalent of Rhode’s shipping fee just to visit the Belgravia location—without even being guaranteed a glimpse of the entrance. Even reaching the point in line where you were presented with a token to exchange for coffee was impossible for most.
In theory, the joys of in-person shopping—and the desire to try a product before spending £18 on lip balm—cannot be discounted. In practice, however, most people were warned that surviving the queue would take the better part of an entire day, if at all successful. From mocking the London promoters who desperately try to attract university-aged girls (where are they when an event is actually difficult to enter?) to posting double-speed videos of the endless line with comical sounds, TikTok ensured no one mistook participation for entry.
The question poses itself: why not allow people to book slots to shop? Likely for the same reasons some restaurants omit reservations entirely. Additionally, many shoppers were probably there for the photo-op rather than the products.
At its core, the ephemerality of pop-ups is a way to generate demand. Gimaguas cleverly restricts in-person shopping entirely to pop-ups. It is easy to think twice about spending several hundred pounds on a bag, but this brand leaves little room for hesitation, as in-person shopping is only possible within the briefest of windows. For the many who are saving up to splurge during the holiday season, this is entirely inefficient—they may revert to ordering online or abstain from purchasing altogether. However, for those searching for something unique in an age defined by accessibility, attraction is often contingent upon absence. Though not discounting the weight of Hailey Bieber’s name, the fact remains: Gimaguas succeeded in creating demand by recognizing that a single weekend in London is simply not enough.
So, why do we still go? For some, it’s simply the prospect of participating in the action. I remember a pedestrian during New York Fashion Week, outside a Prada pop-up a few weeks ago, telling me that taking photographs of the mint-green caravan was the closest she could see herself getting to the glamour. Someone else recently remarked that pop-ups are among the last free activities left in London’s consumerist wasteland that still contain some "sparkle." For many, a purchase from Max Mara is an indulgence, so the free pop-up tote bag serves as a reminder that someday, they might afford a leather one. Chatting with a friend in line feels as productive—or unproductive—as scrolling through TikTok or texting for hours, with the bonus of fresh air. Though justifiably gauche, there is a certain excitement in holding a disposable cup in the shade 93 orange, stamped with Hermès or carrying a bouquet of flowers wrapped in Prada-monogrammed tissue paper. This resonates with the ambitious twenty-something struggling to pay exorbitant rent in a metropolis or the college student who saved up for a weekend trip away from campus. In the case of Jacquemus, the "tea ceremony" (to use their words) was a way to celebrate the opening of their London store—an exciting prospect for anyone who has followed his rise in high fashion over the past few years.
Conceptually, a pop-up is a wonderfully anti-consumerist way to imbue the streets with some excitement. However, the Instagram factor both attracts the masses and undercuts the capacity to romanticise. I couldn’t help but shake my head at a woman I overheard suggesting they ban photography at pop-ups—as though the advertising budget were being used to spread joy rather than the word (or picture, as it were).
Though our dependency on curated digital selves is decidedly uncomfortable, an online presence is often the first face we present to the world. Ironically, the self-proclaimed influencers with no concept of time, place or personal space are both the marketing team’s opium and the common man’s repellent.
Digital spaces present a paradox of ephemerality: on one hand, fifteen minutes of fame has been reduced to a fifteen-second TikTok. On the other, a digital footprint lasts forever. Similarly, one lives in a city to take advantage of its busyness, but its permanence often provokes complacency. Knowing that anything and everything is just a tube stop away becomes the most comforting excuse to stay home.
Commercial spheres collide in a globalised world—though financial barriers hinder consumption, physical access is mostly possible. With everything today being constantly available, pop-ups present themselves as opportunities like concerts or parties do. The bonus of free goods, coupled with the brevity of their availability, entices people to leave their homes at a time when a screen can entertain for hours. Knowing that places will always be there when you want them—especially in a metropolis like London—further stirs the attendee.
Maybe, pop-ups are a marginal attempt to console oneself after paying exorbitant London rent. Perhaps, the attraction lies in seizing the moment and taking advantage of the perpetual happenings that hover over big cities. Conceivably, their success hinges on a culture where people would attend the opening of an envelope—provided the seal matched the colour scheme of their Instagram feed.
Written by Amayra Seth a GLITCH Magazine Contributor