The Romans were by no means the last civilization to exploit the power of the hot springs. In the 18th century, Bath Spa became a fashionable destination – an English Monte Carlo. The Strangers’ Assistant and Guide to Bath, published in 1773, speaks of ‘the Hot Springs, their several Qualities and Impregnations, the Disorders to which they are adapted and some Cautions respecting their Use... Also, an account of the Public Amusements there’. The latter included a full programme of balls and dances as well as several cafés serving spring water. The grandest – The Pump Rooms, adjacent to the Great Bath – can still be visited. The guide mentions that the waters offered relief from gout, bowel disorders, bilious colic, jaundice and the horrifying-sounding ‘wasting of the flesh... generally called a nervous atrophy’. It does not take a physician to summarize these disorders as afflictions of the rich, idle and overfed, which explains the appeal of Bath to Georgian luxury nomads.
The city continued to vaunt the waters’ health-giving qualities well into the 20th century – until, suddenly, it could no longer do so. In 1979, a girl contracted amoebic meningitis after swallowing some of the source water while swimming in the baths. She died five days later. Tests confirmed that the water contained a bug called Naegleria fowlerii and the baths were closed.
Inevitably, the demands of heritage marketing and the sense that the city was sitting on an untapped goldmine meant that attention eventually turned back to the hot springs. As the infectious organism had been discovered in only one of the water sources, it was felt that with careful design and frequent testing this neglected tourist attraction could be reactivated. In the 1990s, plans were drawn up for a modernized and safe bathing complex. The city authorities applied for a grant from the Millennium Commission, which was funded by the National Lottery and designed to support heritage projects. Originally scheduled to open in 2002, the project hit a number of obstacles, ranging from technical and construction problems to political wrangling and even vandalism. Thermae Bath Spa finally opened in August 2006, having cost £45 million – more than £32 million over-budget.
The centrepiece of the complex is the New Royal Bath, a contemporary glass and stone cube designed by the architect Sir Nicholas Grimshaw. By far its most attractive feature is the naturally heated rooftop pool, in which one can relax while admiring the city’s honey-coloured Georgian buildings and the distant Cotswold Hills. The building is linked to the restored Cross Bath, a round structure that would have been familiar to 18th-century bathers. Prices range from the £70 ‘Entrée’ two-hour spa package to the £250 ‘Ultimate Thermae’ full-day session, which includes a pedicure and a ‘Luxury Caviar Facial’. This is accessible luxury, then, whose marketing plays less on exclusivity and more on the benefits of taking time out from the rigours of daily life. ‘Bathe in the warm, natural, mineral-rich waters and choose from a range of spa treatments designed to ease the body and soothe the mind,’ coos its website (www.themaebathspa.com).
The potential health benefits of visiting a spa are merely flimsy justifications. The 21st century encourages us to think that successful living is borne of striving and long hours. Padding around a spa in the cocoon of a towelling robe is the opposite of that existence. Like all of the most appealing luxuries, it feels faintly illicit. As the marketers of spas have intuited, we need to be reassured that it is doing us good, too.
SPAS: THE FINAL FRONTIER
Naturally, there are spas that push the luxurious elements of the experience to their outer limits. One of these is the Banyan Tree Al Areen Spa and Resort in Bahrain. It is part of a Singapore-based group and its positioning combines Arabian exoticism with ‘the ancient wellness philosophies of the Far East’. It is also the Middle East’s largest spa, at 10,000 square metres, and includes secluded villas with individual pools, an extensive hydrotherapy garden, spacious treatment pavilions, saunas and even an igloo – which in the middle of the desert is quite something. Alongside international expatriates, it attracts a large number of Saudi Arabian guests who zip across the causeway. The Independent newspaper described it as ‘the most luxurious and expensive hideaway in the Middle East’ (‘Top 10 pamper palaces’, 11 February 2007). A three-night stay in a Royal Deluxe Villa, with a 120-minute hydrotherapy treatment, could cost around US $1,500 depending on the season. Add treatments and watch the price rack up.
The spa’s director, Hylton Lipkin, is a great advocate of the Asian approach to spa treatments. ‘It’s very different from the European interpretation, which tends to have a slightly clinical side to it: lots of people in white coats. The Asian experience is far more sensual, with aromatherapy candles burning and a strong sense that you have left the real world behind.’
Banyan Tree opened its first establishment in Phuket, Thailand, in 1994, describing it as ‘the first luxury oriental spa in Asia’. Reintroducing ‘ancient health and beauty practices which have been passed down from generation to generation’, the chain focuses on ‘spiritual, mental and physical harmony’ (www.banyantreespa.com). For many spas, this emphasis on spiritual renewal is a further method of convincing guests that they are indulging in something more profound than pure physical pleasure. They are making progress, improving themselves in some undefined way.
Behind the Banyan Tree Group is an entrepreneur named Ho Kwon Ping – affectionately called KP Ho by the Asian press – and his wife Claire Chiang. KP initially worked as a financial journalist, including a stint as the economics editor of the Far Eastern Economic Review, before joining his family’s modest conglomerate, the Wah Chang Group, in 1981. He entered the resort business almost by accident, when he and his wife came across an abandoned strip of land by Bang Tao Bay in Thailand in the 1980s. It was a disused tin mine and on the face of it highly unattractive. ‘Struck by the tranquillity of the area, the young couple decided to tackle the challenge of healing the scarred, post-apocalyptic landscape and replacing it with a lush resort paradise’ (‘What makes Banyan Tree grow’, Hotels Magazine, 1 September 2007).
Now Banyan Tree has 25 resorts and hotels, 68 spas, 65 retail galleries selling local crafts and two golf courses. It has successfully expanded into China, taking advantage of the growing interest in spa culture there. KP is frequently quoted as saying that he does not want the group to resemble a spider’s web of resorts and hotels, but rather a ‘necklace’ of luxurious properties strung around the globe.
‘It’s definitely a premium experience,’ confirms Lipkin, referring to the Bahrain property. ‘You only have to take a look at the design of our treatment pavilions to see that. There are 12 of them, and when you’re inside one you feel as though you’re in an oriental palace.’
Not in a conventional sense, though: when KP Ho launched the Phuket resort, he imagined something more along the lines of a boutique hotel than The Ritz. According to an article on the website Hospitality Net (www.hospitalitynet.org), he saw it as ‘a sanctuary for the senses’ aimed at city dwellers. ‘I have heard there are resorts that furnish their suites with luxury brands, like Christofle crystal glasses... You will not find that kind of luxury in Banyan Tree Phuket, or any of our other resorts. What we do is try to create a magical, intimate setting for guests to play out their romances. We aim for an emotional response. That’s how we build brand loyalty. One couple has been coming here every year since it opened’ (‘Paradise regained’, 25 April 2005).
Along with rejuvenating ‘rain showers’, various massage therapies are on offer, with treatments originating from Sweden, Hawaii, Bali and elsewhere. Lipkin says that therapists at Banyan Tree spas must undergo at least 300 hours of training at a central Banyan Tree Spa Academy, which is accredited by Thailand’s education and public health ministries. ‘The therapists are trained not to give one-size-fits-all massages, but to follow their instincts and adapt to the body of the person lying before them, ironing out specific tensions and problems,’ he says. As usual in the luxury world, it all comes down to personal service.
And to being totally over-the-top: the hydrotherma
l garden mentioned above is a series of therapy stations far too vast to be visited in a single session. It includes various shower experiences – such as the ‘warm rain mist corridor’ and the ‘monsoon shower’ – a salt scrub, a detoxifying steam room and the igloo. Rubbing ice on the body is said to combat cellulite. Even more amusing is the ‘bucket drench shower’ – ‘an age-old unique hydrotherapy as one is drenched from head to toe with a massive amount of water falling from a bucket’. Primitive tech meets Hollywood jungle fantasy: you too can be Ava Gardner in Mogambo. Moving on, the ‘brine cavern’, a combination of steam and salt, is recommended for ‘respiratory disorders’. This suggests that the health concerns of the wealthy have changed little since Roman times.
As I’ve illustrated with that last sentence, it is tempting to make fun of the rich. This relatively harmless exercise can turn toxic in a luxury resort situation, where there is often a large disparity in income between the workers and the consumers. The result is that the employees can end up resenting the guests. KP Ho is aware of this danger and tries to ensure an emotional connection between the staff and consumers, reminding employees that the situation is mutually beneficial. Staffers are also given a chance to experience some of the resort’s facilities, putting them in the place of the customer.
Hylton Lipkin certainly has no concerns about the attitude of his staff. ‘They are people who have a flair for hospitality. They see this as more than a job – they actually want to provide the customer with an experience to remember. And at a resort like this, it’s important that the guests feel spoiled.’
REHAB
One of the many odd facets of celebrity is the need on the part of the famous to atone for their excesses from time to time by getting themselves to the contemporary equivalent of a nunnery. Reading the newspapers, it can sometimes seem as if fame, a sense of entitlement and access to unlimited funds lead to addiction as inevitably as night follows day. In order to regain their equilibrium and show a measure of humility, the men and women concerned occasionally pull out of the fast lane to check themselves into an establishment that will help them ‘recover’ from their ‘exhaustion’. This pattern has created a mythology around expensive rehabilitation clinics.
Perhaps the most famous of all such clinics is the Betty Ford Center, founded in 1982 by the former First Lady when she had recovered from addictions to alcohol and painkillers. Ford underwent her own treatment for chemical dependency at the US Naval Hospital in Long Beach, but emerged determined to set up a treatment centre for others. A friend, Ambassador Leonard Firestone, supported the project and together they founded the non-profit Betty Ford Center in Rancho Mirage, California. Its treatment is based on the 12-step programme devised by Alcoholics Anonymous. Although it is a perfectly serious and worthy establishment – and one of the cheaper of its type – the centre owes its prominent image to celebrity guests. Liza Minnelli, Elizabeth Taylor and Kelsey Grammer are among those who’ve talked openly about their stays.
As early as 1987, The New York Times ran a report attempting to demystify the centre. ‘This sheltered desert oasis in Rancho Mirage, set on 14 manicured acres and framed by purple mountains, has a year-round occupancy rate of 100 per cent. But for its 80 carefully screened guests, there is no entertainment to speak of and the daily routine can be long and gruelling.’ Pointing out that celebrities made up ‘less than 1 per cent’ of the centre’s guests, the article painted a picture of bland single-storey beige buildings, Spartan shared rooms, a tough regimen of chores and strict rules. These days it is considered somewhat old-fashioned and far from glossy (‘A day in the life of The Betty Ford Center’, 27 February 1987).
The British equivalent of The Betty Ford Center in terms of notoriety is The Priory, which features almost as often as Yves Saint Laurent handbags in the lives of certain supermodels. In fact the Priory Group operates more than 50 hospitals, schools and care homes throughout the United Kingdom, but it is best known for The Priory Hospital in Roehampton, London’s oldest independent psychiatric hospital, which was established in 1872. It treats a variety of conditions including addictions and eating disorders. Its facilities include a fully equipped gym with trained fitness instructor, tai-chi, yoga, aerobic classes, swimming, aromatherapy and shiatsu massage. Patients stay in their own en-suite rooms with television and are encouraged to have their meals in the main dining room. Fees are assessed individually, but are said to be in excess of £2,500 per week.
With all the free publicity it receives, one would not have thought that The Priory needed to advertise. And yet that is precisely what it did in 2003, when it offered free assessments for people with alcohol and drug problems. The Priory said the goal of the campaign was not to turn callers into clients, but to ‘raise awareness of the huge problem of alcohol and drug addiction in society’. One of the print ads featured a picture of a glass of whisky next to another of a telephone, and the line ‘It’s a tough call’. Another showed a blurred list of drunken comments. The copy read: ‘If this is all you can remember about last night, call The Priory’ (‘Ad drive launched by celeb clinic’, BBC News website, 2 October 2003).
The public learned a little more about The Priory Group when it was acquired by Dutch bank ABN AMRO in 2005 for £300 million. Reports at the time stated that the company earned £120 million a year from its various mental health, rehabilitation and special education services.
Like the Betty Ford Center, The Priory lacks glamour once you’ve peeked behind the headlines, and does not feel like a luxury brand. Where, then, are the truly upmarket rehab clinics? How about Promises Treatment Center in Malibu, California? Variously described as ‘the king of celebrity rehab’ and ‘the first place on the speed dial’ of actors who want to dry out, it features gourmet meals, masseuses, private rooms with fireplaces and sweeping beach views, according to an Associated Press feature (‘Britney’s rehab is the choice of many stars’, MSNBC.com, 6 March 2007). ‘It sounds like a high-end resort and it is – for the rich and famous looking to kick an addiction,’ the article continues.
A 30-day stay is said to cost more than US $40,000. Founder and director Richard Rogg, who launched the facility in 1989, deliberately designed it to appeal to guests who usually enjoyed a five-star lifestyle. ‘Flying in on your jet plane, or somebody coming from a 20,000-square-foot house into our programme, you know this is a step of humility for them... It gives them the treatment and it gives them the environment where they feel safe and comfortable’ (‘Promises: the Ritz of rehab’, ABCNews.com, 25 February 2007). Although based on the 12-step programme, it created a gentler approach known as ‘Malibu-style’ treatment and spawned a string of lookalike centres down the coast. Some of these facilities are even more relaxed, allowing celebrities to leave the grounds in order to work, shop or socialize while supposedly undergoing treatment.
Levels of scepticism about such rehab programmes are high. An investigation by The New York Times uncovered very little evidence that they work:
The quiet truth in the upper-crust rehabilitation industry is that $49,000 a month may buy lots of things – including views of the Pacific, massage therapy and blue-ribbon chefs. But whether it buys sobriety is very uncertain. Reliable statistics about drug rehabilitation as a whole are hard to come by, and are near impossible to isolate for the luxury-level rehab programmes that attract so much attention in the news media... And experts in the field seem to agree that the success rate for rehab programmes, most of which are based on the 12-step therapy created by Alcoholics Anonymous, hovers somewhere between 30 per cent at best, and below 10 per cent at worst.
Even Rogg admitted that it was difficult to measure success rates, other than keeping in touch with alumni (‘Stars check in, stars check out’, 17 June 2007).
A rival Malibu operation, Passages – which costs more than US $67,000 a month, according to The New York Times – rejects the 12-step procedure in favour of an intensive one-on-one treatment. Guests ‘do not generally leave the property’ says fou
nder Chris Prentiss – a former real estate developer – who claims an 84.4 per cent success rate based on interviews with more than 1,000 alumni. The Independent called the property ‘a beachside resort whose faux-classical Doric columns positively drip with bougainvillea’. It added: ‘Facilities include a library... a media room with flat-screen TVs, a meditative koi pond, massage room, hypnotherapy, acupuncture, “metaphysical classes”... and a restaurant catering to each individual’s dietary whim’ (‘The celebrity guide to detox: pass out, check in, and dry out’, 6 January 2007).
Living in a luxury world means that even the nastier things in life – addiction, stress and trauma – take place against a paradisiacal backdrop.
18
The knowledge economy
* * *
‘They wanted the Louvre, the Guggenheim and the Sorbonne like ladies want handbags from Christian Dior.’
When it comes to the Tate Modern art museum in London, I am an iron filing. Every time I get within walking distance of the building, I am helplessly drawn towards it. Even if I only have time to pop in to the former power station’s vast Turbine Hall, I know that something amazing awaits me there: over the years I’ve been captivated by Louise Bourgeois’ giant metallic spider, Olafur Eliasson’s blazing sun (part of ‘The Weather Project’), a giant crack in the floor made by the Brazilian sculptor Doris Salcedo (called ‘Shibboleth’, it symbolized racial division) and a post-apocalyptic hospital – complete with metal-framed military bunks and the sound of monotonously drumming rain – installed by Dominique Gonzalez-Foerster. I could go on – and I will continue going, again and again.
Luxury World: The Past, Present and Future of Luxury Brands Page 23