Forever,” which crafted the marketing strategy for the global diamond cartel De Beers in the United States, persuaded American women to desire big diamond engagement rings, and men to buy one for them, by convincing them that these expensive bits of rock symbolized success. They gave big diamonds to movie stars and planted stories in magazines about how they symbolized their indestructible love. And they took out ads in elite magazines depicting paintings by Picasso, Derain, or Dalí to indicate that diamonds were in the same luxury class. “The substantial diamond gift can be made a more widely sought symbol of personal and family success—an expression of socio-economic achievement,” said an N. W. Ayer report from the 1950s. Today 84 percent of American brides get a diamond engagement ring, at an average cost of $3,100.
In 2008 Armin Heinrich, a software developer in Germany, created the ultimate Veblen good: he designed an application for the iPhone called I Am Rich. It did nothing but flash a glowing red gem on the screen. Its point was its expense: $999. Maybe stung by criticism over its banality, Apple removed it the day after its release. But before it could pull it, six people had bought it to prove that, indeed, they were.
A HISTORY OF PRICES
Value—what confers it, what it means—has captivated thinkers at least since ancient Greece. But the concept then was different from that of contemporary economics. For hundreds of years, the analysis of value began as a moral inquiry. Aristotle was sure things had a natural, just price—an inherent value that existed before any transaction was made. And justice was the province of God.
Throughout the Middle Ages, when the Catholic Church regulated virtually all corners of economic life in Europe, scholars understood value as a manifestation of divine justice. Inspired by Saint Matthew’s notion that one should do unto others only what one would have them do unto oneself, Thomas Aquinas stated that trade must convey equal benefits to both parties and condemned selling something for more than its “real” value.
In the thirteenth century, the Dominican friar Albertus Magnus posited that virtuous exchanges were those in which the goods that were transacted contained the same amount of work and other expenses. This idea was refined into the principle that the inherent value of goods was set by the work that went into them.
The Church gradually lost its grip on society as trade and private enterprise expanded throughout Europe. Religious dogma lost its appeal as an analytical tool. Still, the penchant to view prices through the lens of justice survived the development of capitalism, thriving well into the eighteenth century. Adam Smith and David Ricardo, the two foremost thinkers of the classical age of economics, struggled with the notion of inherent value, which they viewed as a function of the labor content of products, distinct from the market price set by the vagaries of supply and demand. Smith, for instance, argued that the labor value of products amounted to whatever it cost to feed, clothe, house, and educate workers to make them—with a little extra to allow them to reproduce.
But this line of argument got stuck. For one, it had no role for capital. Profits were an immoral aberration in a world in which the only value could come from a worker’s toil. Moreover, it didn’t seem to square with common sense. In Ricardo’s day critics were harsh on the labor theory of value. Some pointed out that the only thing that made aged wine more valuable than young wine was time in a cellar, not work. But before the idea could die, Karl Marx took it to what seemed like its logical conclusion. He used the labor theory of value as a basis for the proposition that capitalists used their leverage as the owners of machinery and other means of production to filch value from their workers.
A product, Marx maintained, is worth all the labor that went into making it,