A stroll through Sinsa last Friday revealed empty shops.
It felt weird.
There was once a time when a trip to Seoul mandated a visit to Sinsa-dong (신사동). The streets were filled with tourists, Seoulites and the occasional Porsche or Ferrari trying to minnow its way through the crowds.
Sinsa’s popularity spans several decades back to when my mom was still a college student. In her words, Sinsa was the place to shop. The streets were then lined with individually owned shops—small brands—that lured passerby with fascinating objects, leading them onto a trail of serendipity that snaked down the street and into alleyways. There was an element of surprise back then. An unexpectedness that was almost treasure hunt-like in spirit.
Sinsa retained its idiosyncratic charm throughout the years. Shoppers abounded and small shops flourished. A most peaceful kind of symbiosis transpired in the heart of Seoul’s urban jungle.
Then the big brands came.
Maybe it was someone in corporate reading an article on Seoul’s economic boom. Or maybe that junior on the marketing team who’s really into K-culture. Or the senior consultant at one of the big threes looking to wow her clients with a new lead on market expansion into Asia. Maybe it was all three of them altogether. Who knows. Somehow big brands learned about this utopian shopping district called Sinsa and decided they wanted a piece of it themselves.
Big brands descend upon Sinsa
Fast forward to 2016. Apple opens its first flagship in Korea in Sinsa. The opening of this store was portentous. People lined up to get beyond the glass walls and lay their hands on the brand’s latest lifestyle tech. Apple’s descent onto Seoul signified two things: 1) a change in attitude towards the South Korean market by big brands b) a shift within Sinsa’s brand topography.
While I’m not sure what indicator compelled Western companies to pull the trigger on Seoul, the resulting wave of incoming big brands forever altered Sinsa’s landscape. Apple’s debut was just the start. Albeit for the sake of clarity and historical accuracy I will note that some Western brands such as Zara, Abercrombie & Fitch, Polo Ralph Lauren and Mango were already in Sinsa before Apple. It’s worth noticing that with the exception of Polo Ralph Lauren, all the other brands fall within the category of fast fashion. So if I were to attribute one good change to Apple’s arrival, it would be that the brand elevated the level of Sinsa’s shopping roster (Zara and Abercrombie & Fitch are no longer in business at this time of writing). High end brands such as Diptyque and Aesop soon followed suit, manifesting themselves in buildings with stylish facades reflecting the brand’s ambience.
As with everything, there are two sides to the same coin. The negative effect the Apples, Diptyques and Aesops had on Sinsa is that the new brands diluted the neighborhood’s CVP (customer value proposition). If you’ve been with me from the start of Kosi Coso, you’ll know that CVP refers to a brand’s essence. It’s the first thing or image that pops into mind when you think of a brand, place or person. For Sinsa, that CVP was unexpectedness. This was upended though with the descent of the big brands.
Trends reside in surprise
Serendipity used to be one of the hallmarks of Sinsa. You could take a stroll down any street and find a shop or cafe that felt like a discovery. Nothing was baked into an automated algorithm yet. Expectations existed in only the most abstract of forms—emotions. Brand experience wasn’t predictable in this era. Each of the many shops dotting Sinsa’s streets offered a unique experience that couldn’t be stamped out cookie cutter style. This idiosyncrasy, in tandem with Sinsa’s serendipitous design, gave rise to the birth of new trends.
Trends are, in essence, new lifestyle propositions
Trends are, in essence, new lifestyle propositions. Skinny jeans give way to comfort. Fake fur displaces real fur. Plogging is the litmus test for conscientious millennials. Like so, trends contour our lives, demarcating the areas of cultural “dos” and “don’ts” in lines always on the cusp of evolving. Sinsa’s irreverence towards a standardized “norm”—so often manifested by big corporates—gave small brands the freedom and the space to manifest their offerings through different forms and price points. Such diversity enabled unexpected propositions to emerge.
A trend becomes a trend because it startles, challenges, and excites people into a state of enlightenment. An epiphany is at the start of every trend. A realization that another mode of living, somewhat at odds from the one we are used to but nonetheless enticing, is possible—we just never knew it. Brands exist to deliver this epiphany. To awaken us from our stupor and remind us that we don’t know everything. That there are still things to discover. As such, Sinsa’s small brands served to catalyze and widen the aperture of Seoulites.
One brand I like to tout in this context is OUR Bakery, one of my favorite cafes in Seoul. While the brand was launched in Sinsa two years after Apple’s arrival (so in 2018), it’s highly likely that CNP Food—the company behind OUR—chose this neighborhood for its legacy in serendipity. And they chose well. OUR perfectly exemplifies the trendy spirit Sinsa was once so well known for. The brand re-examines and questions the role a cafe should play in our lives. Do we go to cafes simply for some coffee and bread? Or do we seek out cafes for a quiet escape? OUR insinuates through its laidback hip-jazz music, olive green chairs, mahogany tables, and “Dirty Chocolate” pastries that cafes should be a liminal space where you can be yourself while also channeling other versions yourself. So meta, so unexpected.
Vibes and tribes
Let’s forward back to the present. Sinsa in 2022 is now a ghost of its former self. Even after we factor in the fact that Sinsa was hit pretty hard by Covid-19, the neighborhood has been irreversibly damaged. And while some may attribute Sinsa’s demise to the pandemic, I argue that it’s also partially due to Sinsa’s conversion to mainstream brands.
The problem with big brands is that they’re too predictable. They’re consistent in both their presence and the way in which they present themselves to customers. Perhaps this offers solace to some when traveling abroad or when crossing a foreign neighborhood. But in all other contexts, such familiarity translates into boringness. There’s nothing trendy about predictability. It’s the unexpected, the new, the revelatory that has the power to spark change in people.
It’s the unexpected, the new, the revelatory that has the power to spark change in people.
Thus, Sinsa’s gradual descent into mainstream prompted two unfortunate cyclical loops that further compounded each other. One, the growing presence of big brands attracted other similar players. Two, shoppers disillusioned by Sinsa’s mainstream vibe lost their incentive to shop there—why bother going out to Sinsa when you can access the same brands much more easily at Shinsegae or Hyundai department stores?
In short, Sinsa lost its identity. Unexpectedness transformed into predictability. The neighborhood’s CVP has all but been dismantled but it has yet to rebuild itself. Seoulites and tourists are now flocking instead to Hannam-dong (한남동) and Seongsu-dong (성수동) where elements of surprise reside in the rugged urban fabric of each neighborhood. This isn’t to say that I’m completely pessimistic about Sinsa. The neighborhood still has a chance of resuscitating, provided it—or someone—devises a new spatial CVP that shocks people to the point of inspiration.