Warning: The following text may be disturbing to sensitive consumers – or trigger spontaneous buying urges. This trigger warning should actually be mandatory for one of the most dangerous terms – especially in the run-up to Christmas: ‘limited edition’. Two words that effortlessly turn even sensible people into adrenaline-fuelled hunters. Words that sometimes cause me to place an order in the middle of the night because I'm afraid of seeing ‘sold out’ the next morning. And even though I'm an expert, so to speak, and know how it works, I would still buy my Christmas candles in July.
Nowadays, hardly any sector can do without limited editions: from scented candles, perfumes and advent calendars, which appear in new festive guises every year, to make-up palettes, which usually remain ‘exclusive’ until New Year's Eve – before ending up in the sales, only to be resurrected a few weeks later as a spring edition. While the fashion industry relies on so-called capsule collections and designer collaborations, in the food sector it starts with gingerbread and doesn't end with pumpkin spice lattes or vintage sparkling wine. In short, limited editions have long since become the norm for generating sales – and the state of emergency is not just a sales strategy at Christmas.
It is important to note that limited editions are particularly common for products that are both interchangeable and emotionally charged. In other words, the smaller the objective difference, the more the product is sold on the basis of rarity, design and emotional appeal. The best example: vases, books or art prints that are numbered and/or signed by hand to create collector's value. This turns a random candle – as a limited edition Christmas candle in a festive design – into a must-have that quickly sells out. And let's be honest: how often do we really want something – and how often do we only want it because it might soon be gone?
‘Limited edition’ sounds like art, exclusivity, something that not everyone has. In reality, however, it is an age-old sales principle – artificial scarcity as a desire booster. Because when something is only available for a short time, it seems more relevant to us. It is no longer just about the product, but about the experience associated with it – the feeling of being part of the moment. And if you want to be part of it, you have to be quick – and spare no expense or effort. Incidentally, this is a process that is not only reinforced by social media, but often initiated in the first place by targeted influencer marketing. This works particularly well in the luxury segment, where consumption has little to do with need and much to do with meaning and status. We buy to feel something – belonging, identity or perhaps just a piece of purposeless beauty in an ugly world.
For manufacturers and brands, limited editions serve several purposes. On the one hand, they generate short-term attention and make the brand appear vibrant. In addition, they often serve as a test run for new products: if a limited edition sells exceptionally well, it often reappears later in the regular collection. Conversely, many regular products disappear just as quickly as they arrived – not because they were ‘so exclusive,’ but because they simply did not sell particularly well. But even that is rarely final: often the same product returns as a ‘holiday revival’ – then, of course, in limited quantities and with a new label. In other words, most limited editions are neither intended to last forever nor are they truly unique. They are the prototypes of modern consumption – short-lived, packaged in design and noble meaning, and always ready for a relaunch.
Hardly any other brand plays this game more elegantly than Diptyque. Every year, the Christmas collection appears in a new design: sometimes shimmering blue like stardust, sometimes inspired by Nordic forests, or in opulent gold with the colours of the French tricolour. The design is always different. The colours are always new. The individual products vary slightly. Only the ‘Sapin’ candle is always included. For what feels like an eternity, it has smelled of pine needles, resin and fairy-tale forests – and for me, it is the perfect pre-Christmas ritual in a candle jar. It is a must-have, but it is neither rare nor new. It is simply beautiful. Nevertheless, I look forward to it every year when it comes back.
If you ask me, that's the real masterpiece: with ‘Sapin’, Diptyque isn't selling us a new candle every time, but a state of mind – by giving the old fragrance a new look, packaged in the promise that Christmas will be a little more golden, exclusive and unforgettable this year. A festive déjà vu: we recognise the pattern, feel at home and yet reach for it again and again. At least that's how I feel. And that's a good thing.
There is just one question that comes up every year: when is the right time to light it? It burns for around 60 hours and should be lit for 2–3 hours at a time. If I light it too early, it will have almost burned down by the holidays. If I wait too long, it will stay beautiful forever – but that defeats the purpose. Mathematically speaking, the ideal moment is on the first Sunday of Advent. Then it can burn for two to three hours about twice a week, slowly releasing its pine scent and accompanying us through December. This way, it remains attractive until the holidays, when it makes its grand entrance on 24 December. Incidentally, if you put the lid on after extinguishing the candle, trim the wick regularly and avoid draughts, you can even prolong the pleasure a little. And the best thing is that this way you really use it – instead of putting it on the shelf as an unused symbol of Christmas anticipation, as I often did in the past.
Perhaps true luxury lies not in owning, but in using. For me, this becomes apparent every year when I light the sapin for the first time. It may no longer be perfect and immaculate on Christmas Eve, but it is alive – and usually accompanies me even beyond the holidays.
