Handbags: My Favorite Measurement of Time
By Lorraine Merkl
Some people recount their lives in milestone events, or with photo albums; by their romances, the places they’ve lived, or the destinations they’ve visited. Admittedly, I am not one of those people. My story can be told through a series of well-loved and well-worn purses.
The Kelly Bag
In 1986, I was 27, one year shy of getting engaged, and two years from getting married to my boyfriend, Neil. My modest income from my copywriting job paid the rent on my Tudor City studio, which Neil referred to as “Tudor Closet,” as well as everything else in my life. One would think this would have encouraged frugality, but it did not.
I can’t remember why I was uptown on Madison Avenue, as it was nowhere near my life at the time. Yet, there I was, passing a store (an NYC institution, which recently relocated to Florida) called Art Bag. I stopped dead in my tracks to stare at the most beautiful bag I’d ever seen in my life: a top handle, trapezoid-shaped purse with two straps across the front that met at the clasp in the middle.
My next memory is standing at the counter watching the sales associate write up my order as I calculated how long I’d have to eat soup for dinner before I could pay it off. I couldn’t wait to impress my mother, a dyed-in-the-wool fashionista, with my latest acquisition.
“Oh, you got a Kelly bag,” she said off-handedly.
Not only was the moment anticlimactic, but I embarrassed myself by admitting I had no idea what that was.
“It has a name? I thought it was a new style,” I said.
My mother then schooled me in the Grace Kelly lineage. The bag is still in my rotation after all this time, and last year I brought it back to Art Bag for refurbishing. Just in time.
DKNY Convertible Backpack
My first job out of college in 1980 was in the Lord & Taylor advertising department of the flagship Fifth Avenue store. I wanted to be a copywriter but was paying my dues as the assistant to the creative director. Even though I eventually got to write the ads (à la Peggy Olson), I couldn’t wait to get out of there and into an ad agency.
Eight years later, I was not only a “Mad Woman” but a married one, and occasionally still shopped at L&T, I think mostly to remind myself of how far I’d come. On one of those trips, I became transfixed by a black leather backpack.
Ordinarily, not being outdoorsy, that style would not have appealed to me. But this was different. This backpack was urbane, sleek, and sophisticated, with three outer pockets, a roomy interior, a closure that included both a drawstring and a claw clasp, and the touch that had me whipping out my credit card: a zippered strap that transformed it from backpack to shoulder bag.
No wonder, I thought when I realized it was DKNY, the new, more affordable label created by Donna Karan, who had made a name for herself as the designer for the modern professional woman (there was a yellow taxi in every ad).
I confess I have not used it in decades, but each September when I change my closet to fall/winter and display my handbags, I take a moment to admire the backpack, now in all its distressed glory, and remind my husband that I want to be buried with it.
Kate Spade Nylon Bowling Bag
In the early 90s, Kate Spade (may she rest in peace) was the wunderkind of the fashion world. In 1998—when my son, Luke, was three—Kate Spade Soho opened its doors. My best friend, Cecile, purchased the then-ubiquitous boxy tote in her signature color of red, whereas I got the more compact black bowling bag—a respite from the “mommy bags” that hung off Luke’s stroller.
By then I was freelancing and did the lion’s share of my work at home, but usually had to go to offices for input sessions when I got assignments. With my Kate Spade on my arm, I’d venture into midtown, not forgetting I was a mom, but remembering I was also a stylish New York woman.
Chanel Flap Bag
I turned forty in 1998 and my mother wanted to buy me a Chanel bag. I politely declined. I was into functional dressing because my world revolved around taking Luke to the park and working from my home office. Kate Spade was good enough for me.
By the time fifty rolled around, I had changed my tune. I set my sights on a quilted, double flap in red. The store no longer carried what I wanted, at least not at the time, and I had to turn to the secondary market. I found the exact one in a consignment store in my neighborhood, but someone beat me to the Coco punch.
It took me a year to find another just like it and I never looked back. I have no regrets because I saw it as an investment, and according to Sotheby’s, it was a good one. My 25-year-old daughter Meg has already called dibs; it will eventually be hers to wear or sell to fund any of her many future plans.
The (Almost) Birkin
Somewhere around 2015, I got the Birkin bug. There still seemed to be a narrow chance of procuring one at Hermès, so I started scouring the secondary market for one in the signature orange with gold hardware. But every time I found what I was looking for, something like Luke and Meg’s college tuition, home renovations, or unexpected medical expenses stood between me and my holy grail.
In 2018, I turned sixty and decided that for my milestone birthday I would be sporting Hermès, no matter how many times Neil held his head while questioning the cost by repeating, “For a bag?”
I was determined. This was it. The wait was over. But then, I couldn’t do it.
Luke had just graduated from his engineering program with a job in Silicon Valley. Even though his new company was giving him relocation money, I didn’t think it was enough to properly set up his new home. I’d forgo the bag once again.
I set a new goal date but tossed it aside after reading an article in The Cut about some underground network of replica bags and the women who carry them. I found the silhouette in the color I wanted for a couple hundred dollars. It’s not a “fake” or counterfeit; it bears no Hermès logo. My “plain Jane” Birkin is fine with me, and Neil doesn’t have to grimace when I carry it.
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl is the author of the new novel The Last Single Woman in New York City.