I have so many reasons to hate Olympia Le-Tan’s book-bags. On a practical level, I could loathe them for being uncomfortable to carry and too small to fit an actual book. Also, for costing over £1000 each – or, in Ana’s terms, 80 kg of Lindt chocolate, a 17-year subscription to New Statesman or 4 of Mary Katrantzou’s madly expensive pouches. That much for something I could probably make myself, if I weren’t too busy posting about it.
Overanalyzing the product doesn’t make it look any better. What does the Parisian designer sell? Covers without content. Style without substance. And I bet that most of her clients haven’t read any of the works that her clutches pretend to be.
Yet somehow I fell in love with Le-Tan’s handbags, perhaps solely on the basis that they combine two of my greatest fetishes (yes, the two Bs in my blog’s motto.) Or maybe I should start trusting William “You don’t love because: you love despite” Faulkner. Either way, I think they’re absolutely awesome. That is, unless you carry one without knowing and adoring the book.
Judge the book, buy the cover. [Now I’m a lame pun pro!]