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Avarice – It’s an acquisitive world—and they’re out to make you shop ’til you drop, says Rosie Mestel

PACO UNDERHILL is hard at work. He’s snapping pictures from this angle and
that angle and watching carefully as the animals mill about in their habitat.
Some day soon, he may be returning with assistants armed with clipboards, or to
rig the place with cameras, all to better chart the fascinating behaviours of
his chosen creatures.

It’s a Saturday afternoon in a crowded, Long Island shopping mall, and the
herd is out in force, ogling jewellery and stereos, lusting after designer jeans
and VCRs. To Underhill, a shopping anthropologist, this environment is as rich
and revealing as the Galápagos was to Darwin, or Gombe to Goodall. Some
people study shopping in labs, charting mood, behaviour or galvanic skin
response in simulated retail situations. Some forge whole careers out of penning
scholarly articles with titles like “Sun-Sign Astrology in Market Segmentation:
an Empirical Investigation” or “Consumer Promotion and Purchase Timing: The Case
of Cheese”. This is not Underhill’s way.

He, like Nobel laureate Konrad Lorenz before him, believes in studying animal
behaviour in the field. What’s more, he is a decidedly practical man who has
eschewed the ivory towers of academia for business, and he’s doing all right, by
the look of his clients: Calvin Klein, L’Oreal, Levi’s, Bloomingdale’s—the
list is long.

For nearly two decades, his New York firm, Envirosell, has been helping
retailers design their stores to coax shoppers’ natural avarice into full bloom.
Of course, most of us covet possessions, maybe because evolution primed us to
stock up on the dried meat, nuts and berries that would get us through the hard
times. Still, the retail business is tough these days. Just raising a customer’s
acquisitiveness-quotient by a notch or two could mean the difference between
making millions or going under.

Leopard-skin cuffs

Envirosell knows just how to boost that quotient, because Underhill has put
shoppers under the microscope. Examining that lime green cardigan, you probably
didn’t notice one of Underhill’s surveillance cameras, but later on at
Envirosell headquarters someone studied the footage and totted up how many times
you returned to caress the cardigan’s faux leopard-skin cuffs. Perhaps
you did see a shop assistant with a clipboard, but little did you suspect that
she was really one of Underhill’s operatives, scribbling down your
movements.

This afternoon, Underhill sends me shopping while he finishes a stint of
sleuthing in a brand new retail chain. Later, we reconnoitre for a saunter
through the mall, and he comments on items of interest.

The herd, he points out, is migrating along the right-hand side of the
concourse: shoppers shop the way they drive. Thus it makes sense, says
Underhill, for shops to angle their window displays especially in that
direction, so the oncoming stream can spot the wares ahead of time and start to
slow down. He tsk-tsks over one of his clients who failed to do this. “The
store,” he yells, running back a dozen paces, “really starts back here!” What a
waste.

Interestingly, even Brits who drive on the other side of the road will obey
what Underhill terms the rule of the “invariant right”—a tendency to veer
that way after entering a store (though the behaviour is slightly more
pronounced in a Yank). And Brits, Aussies, Yanks, you name it, we all need time
to slow down and adjust to new sights and sounds when we step through the door:
we’ll be about 5 metres in before we hit browsing speed. Don’t bother putting
pricey merchandise or eye-catching advertising in this “decompression zone”, as
Underhill terms it. No one will see it. Envirosell has recommended that displays
and signs be moved to the back edge of the decompression zone—and
immediately, customers’ interactions with them increased by 30 per cent.

There’s some exotic behaviour we didn’t spot today—what Underhill calls
the “butt-brush factor”. People, especially women, are apt to stop browsing if
anything rubs against their rear. Envirosell caught this on film in a big
department store, as shoppers perused men’s ties in a narrow aisle. When the tie
rack was moved to a wider aisle, the extra tie sales paid for Envirosell’s
services in a paltry six weeks.

“Do you know how many times a typical lipstick is touched before it’s
bought?” demands Underhill as we linger over a cosmetics counter. “Eight!” He
clearly doesn’t think that’s good enough. Underhill also knows that in many
stores half the shoppers will not even make it three quarters of the way to the
rear wall (which is why shops often put enticing, glittery wares back there) and
that women stay in shops longer than men—12 minutes 57 seconds versus 9
minutes 39 seconds, in one study Envirosell conducted.

Perhaps it’s that hunter-gatherer business again. Women, after all, were the
erstwhile gatherers. “A gatherer doesn’t mind looking—in fact she might
even enjoy looking,” says Underhill. One tactic, then, is to keep men
entertained, perhaps with a TV tuned to sport. Something else to bear in mind is
that the demographics are shifting. Men are becoming a potent shopping
force.

This means, says Underhill, that stores will have to find ways to make
shopping quicker and simpler. Fewer items. Fewer sizes. Nice, clear displays to
help Man see which Trousers go with Top. And with that challenge comes
opportunity, since fathers, Underhill’s surveillance shows, are far more easily
suckered by their kids for toys and treats than are mothers, and more apt to try
new brands.

What Underhill does may not seem like rocket science. It may even seem like
he’s documenting the obvious. But if so, the obvious goes unnoticed all too
often. Underhill used to stutter as a child and it was then, he says, that he
learned to quietly watch.

And here are some of the things he’s seen. Displays that take 12 seconds to
read, in places where people only linger for 3 seconds. CDs for kids stacked too
high for the kids to reach. Queues that totally block off access to the back
half of the shop—and the owners didn’t know why the items there weren’t
shifting. Check-out counters where shop assistants must do more deep knee-bends
in one hour than your average Olympic athlete in order to pack goods—no
wonder their tempers are frayed.

If Underhill has an axe to grind it’s with people who accuse him of
flagrantly invading people’s privacy. He just doesn’t see it. “Today, I can
easily find out how old you are, how much money you make, what your marital
status is, what your driving record is, where you hold credit, what you bought
your last house for—the list is endless,” he says. “Now you compare that
with putting a camera in a public place and just recording in a Zen-like way
everything that happens. The most incriminating thing I could get on you is you
scratching your butt in a public place.”

By the end of the day, Underhill has three rolls of film and a head-full of
suggestions for the owners of the shop he’s been watching. I, meanwhile, am
riding back to Manhattan with a chenille sweater, a velvet scarf, some “raisin”
eye shadow, some “sassafras” lipstick, a lip pencil, a plush toy and a large,
unwieldy paperweight. I don’t need any of it. What on earth possessed me? My nut
and berry-gathering ancestry? Hmm . . . seems as good an excuse as any.

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