STOREFRONT | Retailers Are the Ambassadors of Our Cities
We must double down to support our storefront businesses.
Written By Ryan Hurley
This piece was originally printed as the inaugural Storefront Column in Issue 1 of Southern Urbanism Quarterly.
Southern urbanites, like most Americans, are spending more time at home than ever. We’re distracted by Netflix, TikTok, and YouTube; entranced by politics and the national media; and enabled to bank, see our doctor, work, and even date—all without leaving the house. Nearly everything else is delivered by e-tailers like Amazon. The remainder is likely just beyond our doorstep at big-box and fast-casual spots that have collectively made our landscapes look much the same. Add the demise of local journalism, and life today can feel wholly nationalized and monotonous. In 2001, the seminal book Bowling Alone argued that Americans have become disconnected from the people, places, and institutions that used to hold our communities together. Today, its thesis seems almost quaint.
But amid the powerful forces ensnaring us home alone, there is also one drawing us out—a dynamic, twenty-first century band of homegrown storefront operators sustaining the urban spirit that makes our cities worth living in. Whether offering their own concepts in food and beverage or goods and services, these locals engage and delight us with new experiences. Less appreciated, their spaces are also hubs of conversation and connection. Together, they are the modern soul of our cities. They are our ambassadors to the outside. They are our brand.
Our bar, restaurant, and retail businesses are vital, and they need our support. Today, they are being bombarded by astronomical expenses and the work-from-home revolution. In Durham, for example, there was 27 percent less 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. foot traffic this October compared to the same month in 2019. People are simply not getting out. That’s an existential threat to our storefront entrepreneurs and their people, which should be treated as an existential threat to us. We must strategically and tactically support these businesses so that our cities continue to rise. If we fail to do so, the tremendous personal, financial, cultural, and intellectual capital they’ve drawn and created will vanish. When you wipe out a rainforest, it takes forever to return, or it may simply never come back.
A city’s storefronts offer more than sustenance, goods, and services—they give us a sense of place and arrival. They set the tone. As curators of the city, like their food and beverage peers, retailers light up our sidewalks with all sorts of intrigue.
To appreciate this capital-creation, let’s recall the early aughts, when most Southern cities were stagnant. And many of their downtowns were empty, but they possessed historical fabric and were built to a desirable human scale, and their dormant storefronts and factory buildings began to attract a scrappy (if foolhardy), new breed of mom-and-pops. Manhattan’s SoHo shows that the first movers are often the artists and little-to-lose, misfit entrepreneurs. Similarly, in Durham, restaurants, bars, breweries, and coffee shops led the way as our culinary culture grew. Many holed up in inexpensive, isolated, inconvenient locales. To get people out and to get us to come back, they had to tantalize our taste buds and pursue excellence in their craft. They had to be memorable. They had to be creative. It was a matter of survival.
As our cities grew and diversified, food trucks, shacks, and farm-to-fork dining transported us with flavor and authenticity. Local breweries concocted every imaginable IPA. Coffee roasters and chocolatiers fragranced our streets. Southern comfort food expanded not just to new twists on biscuits and gravy but also to Argentinian empanadas, Chinese bao buns, and Tibetan momos. Halal and Hispanic markets opened along with French cafés and German bakeries. These changes reminded us that the South, at its best, has characteristics of both the melting pot and lettuce bowl: We celebrate crossover innovations while also offering deep studies of clearly definable identities.
This incredible variety of culture and experience multiplied and began to characterize streets all over our region. Within each city, storefronts were rarely dense, but they were available if we were willing to seek them out. And today, when we do, we are rewarded. Owners and staff intrigue us with their knowledge about their products and processes. Around bar tops, dining tables, and espresso machines, they engage us in friendly debate about our towns, why we love them, where they are headed, and how we see ourselves within them.
But they don’t just spark conversation; they also build trust. Through retailers, visitors get tips on the best of what to see and do. In thriving cities, start-up purveyors of niche products and novel collections spring up and spur these conversations further. Often with more time to talk, they load up new emigres with information on everything from schools and everyday services to our best hair salons, tattoo artists, and yoga studios.
A city’s storefronts offer more than sustenance, goods, and services—they give us a sense of place and arrival. They set the tone. As curators of the city, like their food and beverage peers, retailers light up our sidewalks with all sorts of intrigue. Looking around, we see vintage thrift and kitsch, street- wear and skateboards, succulents and gardening gifts, and African art and clothing. They animate our historic squares with hand-crafted fine jewelry and ethically sourced gems, independent designer clothing and slow fashion, mid-century modern furniture, comic books, collectibles, and more.
Patrons relish perusing these shops to find new inspiration and ideas. This is especially true as many become allergic to mechanistic, algorithm-fueled online shopping and the dismal service experience overtaking department stores and the mall. Our local shops offer a refuge. They feed a hunger for exploration, for expertise, for surprise.
Our storefronts are something else as well: They’re builders of community. They host game nights, run clubs, drink-making and crafting classes, book talks, salon series, and even marry-your-city contests. These events get us out of the house, inviting us to move, play, and learn. They introduce us to new friends, partners, and collaborators, providing vital social and economic lubrication. Our local retailers hold fundraisers for other locals too—nonprofits they know deliver essential services and tailor-made solutions firsthand to those in our area.
While the storefront footprint in our cities is a fraction of what it once was, our curatorial, community-centric talent is firmly rooted in place. In contrast, the chains we find at the mall are everywhere and nowhere. We dig in here, while they transport us to Anywhere, USA.
But make no mistake—our locals are ailing. A storm has hit nearly every line item of our storefront businesses’ financials. Along with declining sales, they are seeing skyrocketing costs around salary, rent, inventory, food, advertising, and gas. Fold in the generational shift to remote work and a tight labor market, and our ambassadors are being deluged indeed. Pre-COVID, business may have been tough. Now, though, it’s a high-wire act of the highest order.
For Southern cities to flourish, Southern retail, food, and beverage enterprises have to succeed too. This Storefront column is an effort to further that mission. In the installments that follow, we’ll use this space to explore and celebrate different facets of our local storefront landscape—the challenges it faces and the promise it holds. These ambassadors of our cities need our backing. Stay tuned for a lively conversation about the ideas, opportunities, and imperatives that lie ahead.
Ryan Hurley is the co-founder of Vert & Vogue, a boutique clothing retailer based in downtown Durham, North Carolina, since 2008. Follow Ryan’s business at Vert and Vogue.