I am an Hermès Birkin Bag
Updated: Apr 25
I am just a bag! None of you ever believe me when I say this, but I am just a collection of animal hide and canvas and pieces of shiny metal.
I remember from a long time ago, I was at the movies, a very rare outing for me, and there was a strange movie playing on the large screen. The movie had dragons, dungeons, knights, kings and queens and it seemed all of them were crazy about this one tiny little ring. Long after the movie was over, sitting on the plush and satin bed of our home, watching my mistress making love to the man who she had met for the first time tonight, my mind wandered back to the story of the movie.
One Ring to rule them all!
Why does the world of humans go crazy about things like rings?
Little did I know back then that I was also going to become an object that people desired and aspired for with great yearning. That people would go to unbelievable extremes to acquire me. That people would use me to show their salt and worth to their friends. That people would be chosen or spoken to because of being seen with me.
My story began the day I was born or rather compiled. I was assembled in a quaint little workshop in France, carefully sewn and hammered together by thin and agile hands. I remember the day I was completed as clearly as yesterday. My maker, a thick nosed, blue-eyed French lady in her early '50s, picked me up and beamed a radiant smile at me. Her face showed an exorbitant amount of satisfaction with her own work. She then clutched me hard and put across her shoulder. She stood up and walked across the workshop to the tall mirror that stood at the end of the long corridor. Curious eyes met her as she made the long walk. I watched myself for the first time in the mirror that day. There wasn't much to see in me but my maker twirled around with glee and joy. Her eyes glinted in a manner that flashed pure insanity and madness for a moment. I didn't understand it back then. But ever since then, every time someone put me on their shoulder I have seen that same flash of blue-tinged madness in their eyes.
As time went by people paid more and more to acquire me. As time went by the mystery of my own magic on people intensified.
What was so special about me?
Was it my fine animal hide? I have seen many other bags since that day in the workshop. Some of them more colorful, richer, finer, louder and more pretty than me. But I have adamantly persisted in the minds of my owners.
Was it my name? Was it my pedigree? Was it my owners themselves throughout the last 20 years?
All these years later, as I sit in this fine mahogany wood wardrobe, sifting through all my experiences and memories, reminiscing, the answer to all my questions shines through.
The answer begins and ends with my maker.
My maker did not make me but she created me, she put me together like a carefully crafted artwork.
My maker was not a maker but a true artist.
I am unique.
I am the only one like me in the entire universe.
I guess that is why when people go to the Hermès store to buy my kind they aren't allowed to choose but are provided one by the store.
Only mass-produced products made in vast mindless factories can be chosen but Art chooses its owner, Art chooses who it wants to be with.
People can desire me as much as they want, but I choose who I want to be with.