The Weight of the Original

The other afternoon, I came across a candle that looked exactly like one I’d once bought in Paris. Same weighted glass, same gold serif. Only it wasn’t in France, it was the East Midlands, and cost a third of the price. I turned it over, half curious, half resigned. A ‘dupe’.

The word has crept into everyday conversation, shorthand for a kind of almost-good-enough. Dupes don’t take inspiration. They don’t nod respectfully. They aim to be identical, just less expensive. They flatten the original into something reproducible, marketable, and fast. And more often than not, they’re pretty convincing.

Nearly anything can be copied, and often is. Designs, formulas, even tones of voice. And yet, not everything holds together once it's duplicated. Some things lose their weight in the process.

For brand founders, especially those who spent years choosing papers, testing pigments, and writing labels late at night, it can feel like theft in slow motion. For heritage brands, it can feel like erosion. What does it mean to build something lasting, when a lookalike will often do?

Still, something else is at work here. Something that can’t be compressed into a template or sped up at scale. The brands that last are the ones that still make people feel something. Not just seen or flattered, but understood. A founder who packs every order by hand. A scent that opens a door to a memory you didn’t know was still intact. A customer service email that sounds like a person, not a script.

Dupes can copy the shape, but they don’t carry a story. They weren’t made with a person in mind. They don’t grow into your rituals or gather meaning over time. They might win the first sale, but very rarely the second.

So the work is not to scramble for newness or call out the copycats. The work is to deepen the thing that was already true. To build slower, more intentionally, and with a sense of proportion. To return to the person you’re making it for, not the algorithm.

Because what people come back for isn’t just the product. It’s the pause it gives them. The room it opens. The sense that someone, somewhere, made it for them.