There are a few constants on the Boston University campus: jaywalkers, MacBooks, the train’s looming honk, chubby pigeons, cracked—no, ruptured—sidewalks, abandoned coffee cups (don’t worry, they’re paper), and last, but definitely not any less ubiquitous, the Longchamp Le Pliage Original Tote Bag.
The Le Pliage tote bag just might be the only piece of fashion that unites students from all over campus, whether it’s the film major, obsessively curating their Letterboxd account, or the business major, with a slicked-back ponytail. All kinds of students slip its signature cowhide straps over their otherwise differently-styled shoulders to take on the day, their entire academic lives perched at the hip.
The first time I encountered Le Pliage was during my freshman year. The foliage was falling from the trees and that familiar Boston breeze carried drill sounds and the scent of expensive perfumes. But, even surrounded by brown, yellow, and orange, all I saw was navy blue nylon. For such a simple thing, it caught me in a net of immediate curiosity.
It wasn’t the kind of bag that bore its own self-importance. No stiff corners, no rigid exterior, and most curious to me at the time, no logos. It didn’t tell me who or what it was the way a Louis Vuitton bag, poxed with tiny little ‘LV’ monograms, immediately does. Though Le Pliage doesn’t shy away from recognition either.
The bag gets its name from the French. In English, it translates to “to fold.” And fold it does. Inspired by Japanese origami, the tote can be folded in four steps, shrinking it from its small, medium, or large size into the shape of a sweet and unsuspecting envelope. Phillipe Cassegrain’s, former CEO of Longchamp and creator of the Le Pliage tote, choice of nylon canvas and Russian leather make the bag capable of withstanding rain or one too many books.
However, after the initial intrigue wore off, I was left questioning how nylon and luxury could coexist. As interesting as my research for this article has been, my skepticism still prevents me from actually buying one. So, I can’t help but wonder, what about this little French folding bag has broke college students forking over $155?
Maybe it’s easier to conceptualize.
Given that most luxury bags that can fit a MacBook (and then some) inside are often well over $155, Longchamp is sort of allowing students to have their baguette and eat it too. The nylon keeps the cost low so students don’t have to decide between dinner or a bag. At the same time, they don’t have to worry about overconsumption by buying luxury knock-offs that will crumble under the weight of their Apple ecosystems.
Even though I might not be completely sold on the Le Pliage tote bag, its omnipresence on campus signals that the bag has qualities other than its materials (ie. wearability, accessibility, and stealth) that make it worth the price. But, of course, this opens up a whole new question:
What exactly makes a bag “worth it”?
It’s no secret that the Le Pliage tote bag probably costs much less to manufacture than it is sold for, but that’s basically all of the luxury market. Even Chanel’s prices have steadily increased over the years, despite the declining value of their materials. In 2008, Chanel ended its iconic commitment to adorning its bags with solid gold hardware, replacing it with gold-plated metals instead.
Additionally, many luxury brands fail to readily reveal the manufacturing conditions of some of their products, meaning that some of the most coveted designs in fashion may very well be made under poor or even inhumane working conditions. In the truest sense, “luxury” is just a brand—an aesthetic if you will. The word should not always be trusted as a marker of meaning.
Some people think purchasing and preserving a luxury bag as it grows in value over time can be a meaningful form of investment. But, the act of purchasing a bag simply to tuck it away until it can be sold again requires a personal sacrifice, too.
A Birkin that must stay in pristine shape for the unforeseeable yet looming day when it goes up in value, but its creation was the complete antithesis. It’s a short-term thrill that goes directly against the messy, lived-in origins of the bag itself. When Jean-Louis Dumas, former CEO of Hermès, designed the Birkin in 1984, it was, like the Le Pliage, inspired by life.
A young Jane Birkin, model, actress, and new mother, used a picnic basket to carry around her and her child’s things because she could not find a bag big enough to bear the load. Hence, the birth of the Birkin. Today, however, you would have never known that Hermès’ “invite only” Birkin bag came from such a mundane need.
This all sounds like quite an obvious take, but in the “run don’t walk” world where you can buy a backpack and post a thirst trap on the same app, this thinking process seems less and less intuitive to the average shopper.
Perhaps when thinking of the value of bags we must think backward. Like Billie Eilish (almost) said: what was it made for? If the answer doesn’t align with what you need it to be, because maybe you’re no good at caring for suede or have a laptop the size of a house, perhaps it isn’t “worth” it. A big part of estimating value is integrating personalization into the way we think about cost.
When students buy a Le Pliage, they do it because it works for them—it’s comfortable, durable, and utterly stuffable. It suits them and provides a return on an investment that manifests in their daily lives.
Shop wisely!
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