As I strut into Shenzhen, China, bidding adieu to Hong Kong, I can’t help but gaze upon the majestic structure on my right, Luohu Commercial City, where enchantment unfolds.
Behold, the mall of wonders, where your heart’s desires await, but here’s the catch – they’re hidden like a secret treasure. No flashy counterfeits on prominent display here, my friend. The police are in a constant frenzy, raiding the place like a battle royale, seeking those coveted branded luxury bags.
But fear not, for the true treasure lies behind the elusive curtain. Picture this: a suspicious-looking old lady might snatch your hand and slyly slip you a business card.
No flashy counterfeits on prominent display here, my friend. The police are in a constant frenzy, raiding the place like a battle royale, seeking those coveted branded luxury bags.
But beware, my friend, for evaluating the quality requires a Ph.D. in Chinese street smarts. One peculiar Chinese trait is that they’ll sell you the moon and stars, claiming it’s the absolute best, yet when it’s their turn to buy from you, they become savagely critical like a hawk eyeing its prey.
So, brace yourself for the ultimate test – the art of negotiation. Otherwise, be prepared to leave Luohu Commercial City with a wallet as deflated as a popped balloon. But fear not, dear adventurer! I have an ingenious solution to spare you the misadventure of being duped by dupes and save you the hassle of a trip to China.
In the dystopian fashionscape “And Just Like That…” set 11 years after “Sex and the City 2”, we enter a parallel universe where Birkin bags possess the magical powers of immortality and everlasting youth.
Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte have evolved into high priestesses of the Luxurious Order of Birkin Worship, with Samantha being banished only to return as a specter in a divine cameo.
One sacrilegious act shakes the foundation of their Uptown Manhattan haven – the audacious theft of a Birkin bag.
In this sacred realm of eternal blowouts (au revoir, Carrie’s natural curls!), Big’s constant reincarnation, and fierce women who have sworn to slay every look, one sacrilegious act shakes the foundation of their Uptown Manhattan haven – the audacious theft of a Birkin bag.
Beware! A Birkin thief has been let loose on season two of And Just Like That.
In the now-infamous Episode Three, the divine Seema, an enchantress clad in the very fabric of style itself, steps onto the urban catwalk of New York City. But tragedy strikes before your eyes can adjust to the sheer fabulousness radiating from the screen. In what appears to be a 21st-century retelling of the Greek myth of Hermes (who might have designed the Birkin bag if he were alive), a rogue Hermes-wannabe snatches Seema’s hallowed Birkin.
Seema’s screams reach the heavens, but the Birkin Gods are too busy picking out their outfits to answer. They fail to smite the Birkin bandit, who disappears into the urban labyrinth. Seema, tragically detached from her Birkin, wails, “What’s happening to this city?” as if the soul of NYC were contained in that bag.
Could this be an omen? Was Mayor Eric Adams trying to implement some warped, Birkin-based social policy? We shudder at the possibilities.
The acquisition of a Birkin is akin to decoding an ancient cipher; one must engage in a shadowy dance with HERMÈS, forging bonds of blood and fashion before maybe, just maybe, they deem you worthy.
In the primordial days of the franchise, we witnessed the Birkin trials of Saint Samantha. Ripped apart from Lucy Liu (her patron saint) and her destined Birkin, Samantha becomes an allegory for humanity’s eternal quest. The acquisition of a Birkin is akin to decoding an ancient cipher; one must engage in a shadowy dance with HERMÈS, forging bonds of blood and fashion before maybe, just maybe, they deem you worthy.
Seema, the messianic figure, is undoubtedly the reincarnation of Samantha’s spirit, the guardian of the Birkin. Who else could fumble such an extravagant relic?
He took only the wallet (mortal currency holds no sway for a Birkin Guardian), and thus, the Birkin was returned to its ordained keeper.
But lo and behold, a twist – the sacred Birkin, lying amidst the roots of a common sidewalk shrub, abandoned by the burglar who probably got stuck on the HERMÈS cipher. He took only the wallet (mortal currency holds no sway for a Birkin Guardian), and thus, the Birkin was returned to its ordained keeper.
Seema, you could’ve avoided this Herculean quest by insuring your artifact – a mundane spell known to mortals. But then, where would be the tragicomic glory?
In the gilded temple “And Just Like That…” where Birkins are the relics that protect, empower, and console, we are mere mortals privy to their epic tales. May the Birkin be with you.
Introducing Handbags for Ants That Cost a Fortune!
As the dust settles on this auction of the Microscopic Handbag by MSCHF, it’s evident that we’ve entered a new era in the Luxury Industrial Complex. Gone are the days when a handbag merely needed to carry your keys, phone, and perhaps a dog small enough to fit in a teacup. Now, the handbag must carry the weight of the entire luxury brand on its micron-sized straps.
Let there be a bag so tiny it can only be seen under a microscope! It shall be the vessel for your hopes and dreams but shall carry naught but a single molecule of desire!
The handbag, once a staple of practicality and a sober emblem of fashion, has evolved – nay, transcended – into an ethereal creature. In its microscopic form, it’s no longer bound by the pedestrian constraints of ‘functionality’. It’s as if the gods of luxury gathered atop Mount Couture, looked down upon the mortal consumer world, and proclaimed: “Let there be a bag so tiny it can only be seen under a microscope! It shall be the vessel for your hopes and dreams but shall carry naught but a single molecule of desire!”
The microscopic Louis Vuitton bag is a searing commentary on society’s magnified obsession with brand symbolism.
MSCHF’s masterstroke lies not just in the tiny size but also in the exorbitant price tag. A work of art to be viewed only through a microscope is an allegory to the human desire to see value in the tiniest of brand emblems. The microscopic Louis Vuitton bag is a searing commentary on society’s magnified obsession with brand symbolism.
Is this the future of luxury? Will microscopic garments be next? A world where we carry around microscopes to appreciate each other’s fashion statements?
Imagine a scene at a swanky cocktail party. “I love your necklace,” says a guest. “Oh, this old thing?” the necklace owner replies, holding out a microscope, “You should see my new Versace dress.” It’s right there, on a slide between the amoebas.
The clothes and accessories have disappeared entirely, replaced by abstract concepts and emblems that exist only in the imaginations of those who can afford them.
It’s clear that in the theatre of the absurd that is high fashion, the play has reached its final act, where the clothes and accessories have disappeared entirely, replaced by abstract concepts and emblems that exist only in the imaginations of those who can afford them. It’s a “The Emperor’s New Clothes” for the 21st century, and the audience is eagerly leaning in with their microscopes for a closer look.
Let us bask in the extravagant tragedy that is the demise of fashion collaboration. Enter stage left: ADIDAS x GUCCI, BALENCIAGA x GUCCI, GUCCI x THE NORTH FACE, DIOR x STÜSSY, NIKE x TIFFANY, LOUIS VUITTON x NIKE, MIU MIU x NEW BALANCE… Les pièces de résistance of uninspired logo swapping. The sound of thousands of champagne corks popping in PR offices echoes through the air as the very fabric of creativity weeps into the corner.
NIKE x TIFFANY
The two self-appointed titans of luxury engage in an elaborate dance, their logos fluttering about like two peacocks fighting over a cracker.
In this grand masquerade, the two self-appointed titans of luxury engage in an elaborate dance, their logos fluttering about like two peacocks fighting over a cracker. One can almost see the boardroom of executives, draped in scarves they can’t pronounce and sunglasses large enough to be rebranded as satellite dishes, making a unanimous decision to say ‘yes’ to mediocrity. Ah, the effortless symphony of branding with the artistic integrity of a potato.
ADIDAS x GUCCI
The art of collaboration has been reduced to the act of slamming logos together with all the grace of a toddler mashing Play-Doh.
But let us not limit our discerning gaze to just these two exemplars of haute couture. Let us paint with a broad brush upon the canvas of luxury fashion collaborations. For you see, dear reader, in this golden age of everything and nothing, where identities are as fluid as the consistency of the ever-changing Frappuccinos at Starbucks, the art of collaboration has been reduced to the act of slamming logos together with all the grace of a toddler mashing Play-Doh.
Here we stand, at the majestic precipice of postmodernism’s twilight, where the boundaries that once sparked creativity through opposition are now as blurred as the vision of our executives as mentioned above at an open bar. In this new world of unity and sameness, where everything is perpetually remixed into a homogenous and flavorless smoothie, collaborations of yore have lost their luster.
Welcome to the post-collaboration epoch, where the only thing being woven together with any care is the illusion of innovation.
“Dare to be different!” is whispered through the halls of fashion schools, only to be trampled upon by the stilettos of an industry hell-bent on replicating success through the ingenuity of an amoeba. Welcome to the post-collaboration epoch, where the only thing being woven together with any care is the illusion of innovation.
In memory of collaborations past, we light a scented candle (Gucci fragrance, naturally) and don the black Gilden hoodie – the shroud of creativity’s ghost. Here lie the remnants of what could have been, now only serving as a harbinger of clearance sales and Instagram influencers whose bios boast “as seen in Vogue.” Requiescat in pace.
In a world overtaken by Gucci-sliding Instagram influencers, we now witness the epochal clash of titans – the billionaire class seeking refuge in street credibility.
The glittering sword they chose to wield? LOUIS VUITTON’s spectacular soirée on the Pont Neuf in Paris, where the Seine river practically swirled with jealousy at the opulence above. With Pharrell Williams at the helm, a prodigious musician and an ordained priest of luxury fashion, LOUIS VUITTON has set sail on its voyage to plunder street cred.
Jay-Z, Beyoncé, Rihanna, and others strutted alongside LOUIS VUITTON-branded warhorses, turning the event into something that would make the Great Gatsby himself feel underdressed.
One must appreciate the desperation behind Arnault’s master plan to ship the entire hip-hop Pantheon to Paris. In this breathtaking carnival of excess, Jay-Z, Beyoncé, Rihanna, and others strutted alongside LOUIS VUITTON-branded warhorses, turning the event into something that would make the Great Gatsby himself feel underdressed. The so-called “LOUIS VUITTON Menswear Debut,” as described by The Cut, resembled a Wall Street gala attempting to pass as a Brooklyn block party.
Rihanna and ASAP Rocky
This spectacle, in which Pharrell, the newly appointed creative director, paraded his urban street essence, seemed to whisper to the world, “LV is for Lovers, and the Billionaire next door.” The irony of a man singing “Happy” at an event soaked in the tears of consumers lamenting their credit card bills is awe-inspiring.
A Jeep convertible stacked with luggage driven down the catwalk was perhaps an accidental metaphor for how detached the brand is from reality.
According to Cathy Horyn’s coverage, this men’s fashion show was “confident but without audacity.” When Pharrell quipped, “When you’re chosen, you’ve just got to ride,” he probably didn’t anticipate that he would be riding a Trojan Horse into the realm of fashion. His designs were found to lack novelty and imagination, giving us Damier-checked sportswear and pixelated camouflage patterns. A Jeep convertible stacked with luggage driven down the catwalk was perhaps an accidental metaphor for how detached the brand is from reality. The event resembled a cross between the opening ceremony of the Olympics and an extraterrestrial peace treaty.
You shall lead us to street credibility.” Yes, dear reader, in the billionaire playbook, street cred is a currency more valuable than Bitcoin.
Pharrell’s appointment has, of course, raised eyebrows; his prior experience in fashion amounted to a pair of sunglasses and some Adidas sneakers. Yet the billionaire class behind Louis Vuitton gazed upon Pharrell and proclaimed, “You shall lead us to street credibility.” Yes, dear reader, in the billionaire playbook, street cred is a currency more valuable than Bitcoin.
Beyoncé and Jay-Z
Now, don’t get me wrong. Pharrell is a master of his craft in the music industry, but serving as the high priest of a luxury cult trying to become a street movement raises questions. And this ‘street movement’ is selling handbags priced like tiny islands.
The clothes seemed an afterthought as the audience was probably too busy Googling “how to become a billionaire overnight” to buy them.
Lauren Cochrane writes in The Guardian that the event was not just a catwalk show; it was “a celebrity showcase, a gig, and a party, with clothes thrown in for good measure.” The clothes seemed an afterthought as the audience was probably too busy Googling “how to become a billionaire overnight” to buy them.
Louis Vuitton’s approach to selling overpriced, mass-manufactured luxury items under the veil of street credibility, employing a grand maestro of the music world, seems akin to a swan performing a breakdance. It’s bewildering, if not mildly entertaining.
As the world of luxury gallops into an era where authenticity is the Holy Grail, let us ask ourselves, do we want to watch the wealthy in snapbacks, or would we rather have art, music, and fashion untainted by the clutches of industrialized excess?
