Delve into the background of bags, and you’ll find they were just as coveted in the 1500s as they are now. Emma Cook unpacks the rich inner life of the ultimate accessory
I am running along the river, earbuds in, lungs burning, heart racing. No birdsong, thank you very much. Only curated noise and introspection. Then I see her. A woman walking towards me, her dog a little way ahead. We smile, briefly, and as we cross one another she pauses for a moment. I do, too, my eyes caught. The way it dangles from her shoulder, the double gold chain glinting in the sunlight. It is exactly like the one I have at home and yet… so not. Reflexively she flicks her bag back and it grazes her hip. I slow to a walk to get a better look. This version is newer and smaller. So much smaller than mine. It is shinier, too, infinitely covetable. Undeniably superior in every way. It speaks of lightness, of newfound freedom, of being out in the morning sunshine with few possessions (I calculate there’s no room in there for more than an iPhone and keys) except, of course, the possession itself. In comparison, my older and bigger version is grounded at home, bloated, out of time, a lumbering dinosaur. Old bag.
How could I have got it so wrong? I speed up again, start to run in sync with my shuffle, but the moment has gone. The dark pull of material desire has intruded again. I try to switch off, but it is difficult not to notice. A tote here. A micro bag there. A crossbody bag everywhere. Handbag envy. Often it is admiration, sometimes, if I’m honest, there is pity. Michael Kors, Kurt Geiger. Really? But how swiftly admiration turns to envy when there is flawless gold hardware involved. Can I really be this shallow? Do I even need to ask? Lusting after something like this makes you a fool. An unfeminist fool.
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