bag whore: lady dior

It’s ironic, isn’t it, that the words “whore” and “lady” should appear in the same line. I suppose it’s not entirely paradoxical if you so happened to be mid-sentence summarizing Julia Robert’s transformation from a common whore to a high-society lady upon meeting Richard Gere in the ever classic film, Pretty Woman. (Actually, there’d be issues if someone never saw Pretty Woman…) But, as always, life surprises you, and there are firsts for everything.

Introducing, the glamorously named Bag Whore. It’s simple. It’s straightforward. Not prettified nor Frenchified (which I’m quite guilty to doing much too often for my own good). Bag Whore. It is what it is, glorified in all its cheekiness. There’s a ring to it, non?

Why Bag Whore, though? Pourquoi, you ask? Ah, because I am one. Admittedly, I may love clothes, I may have an addiction to nail varnishes, but my one true vice lies in my obsession with bags. I started the old blog, La Couturier, shortly after stumbling across Bag Snob, and my first month’s worth of blog entries consisted largely of whatever “it” bag I fell in love with (it’s amazing to see how much I’ve grown – “it” is not longer a part of my vocabulary). In short, La Couturier was largely conceived from my adoration for handbags, their utter necessity, and the independence they represent for the woman. But that’s another story, for another day.

The Bag Whore will pop up spontaneously and impulsively. She (or me, rather), makes her first appearance today, featuring…

The LADY Dior is one of those decadent bags kept, and passed, as an heirloom between the women of the family. From grandmother, to mother, to daughter, easily carried in the crook of each woman’s arm regardless of age. It’s that classic.

Which makes it seem stodgy and grandmotherly. The LADY Dior has quite the stoic shape – rectangular and briefcase-like. I won’t argue with you on those counts. Notwithstanding, walk into a meeting [on time; being “fashionably late” is tacky unless it’s to a fête] and every individual in that conference room knows immediatelythat you mean business. The same speaks for an interview. The effect isn’t simply in reaction to that fact it’s Dior (and therefore fabulous), but because of the bag’s timelessness and austerity. Pull out the Moleskine (bonus points if it’s Hermès) journal, Mont Blanc, and Blackberry and they know you’re serious.

Further, judging by it’s boxy silhouette, I have no doubt about it’s sturdiness. Your most important necessities (the aforementioned plus your No. 2 Yves Saint Laurent Rouge Volupté) are guaranteed to be well-nested and secure. And should some rude chav come your way despite your ladylike attempts to escape his grasp, you could easily knock him out. With your LADY Dior. No, not with your knuckles. That, my dears, is not very lady-like.

Isn’t the debut advert for the handbag stunning? It epitomizes everything a woman wants to be: Parisian, sophisticated, and a femme fatale clad in Dior (and black!) perched atop the Eiffel Tower. I do love that Marion Cotillard, Oscar-winning actress, is the muse; I never quite pictured her to be a Dior girl, but at the same time, I do feel she has embodied that image beautifully, and impeccably. The above advert is the first of the series; it sets the scene for Dior’s icon atop of the Eiffel Tower, whose architecture recalls the bag’s cannage (cannage, fr. n.: weaving strips of cane for making the seat or a seat back). I adore the reference.

Chapter three of the Lady Dior saga takes Mme. Cotillard to Shanghai. It’s rare that any advert/editorial takes place on the continent of Asia, so props to Galliano’s creative team for directing this campaign there! This chapter features the edgier, more futuristic side – note the difference in location, background, and ensemble. Chapter one was classic and conservative, whilst this advert features a leather peplum dress (which I’m lusting after). Sure enough the styling is still safe, but nonetheless, beautiful.

Le sigh. I hope you do know that I fully intend on owning the LADY Dior. Sapphire patent leather? Or black lambskin. That, mes chéries, is ze question.

. . .

bises! x

{images via}