My love affair with Sacai Satchel.
A few years ago, I was obsessed with the idea of collecting iconic designer bags. Chanel, YSL (or – I suppose now – Saint Laurent) and Celine topped my list, and I can’t tell you how many hours I spent crafting and then pouring over my then-dream roster.
My new obsession was born partially of my current environment (the assumption that the world of elite companionship and designer goods ought to go hand in hand) and partially of my formative years. My evil yet stylish maternal grandmother hoarded haute couture, and we sent her out in a Jackie O-esque pink Chanel suit. She wore heels until the day she expired.
But then, on one trip to The Real Real, everything changed. The initial intent of my venture was in to sell a couple of designer blouses of which I was no longer fond, and I was waiting on the associate to finish the paperwork when I saw her. Black and gold and bold yet intricate. Weird, but in a clearly expensive way. One glance in her direction fully imparted her value.
My first thought was that she reminded me of myself.
It was clear that the piece before me was the brainchild of an artist who designs things for those who prefer something other than the norm. For the fashionable sort who live by their own rules and possess a certain level of disposable income. I needed her.
So it was after a whirlwind few minutes in which three associates huddled around to chatter excitedly and sing the praises of the designer that they released my Sacai Large Leather Flap-Top Bag from her plexiglass cage and placed her gently in my hands. I inspected every inch, from her perfectly formed, glasslike front to her pebbled calfskin, vintagey back, to the, to the array of handles – all of different aesthetics – that allow the user (I mean, the wearer) to mix and match and play. She was perfect. She was a deliberately planned and powerfully feminine amalgamation.
And so I paid a grand or so, and then she was mine.
In that moment, I knew that this investment placed me one step closer to achieving my ideal twelve-years-down-the line form: a beautiful 50-year-old free spirit who lives with an abundance of cats and art, who still lives in dresses and heels, and who periodically reaps the financial and sexual rewards of men.
Who, unencumbered, throws a few things into a carry-on, grabs her Sacai, and jets off to the Waikiki Spam Jam because she feels like it. This bag really is, as another fan and author wrote “an anti-it bag for the chic eccentric“. She is an instigator, and regularly sparks conversations with admirers. She understands me, and I am so immensely thankful to know her and love her.