Painted a new bag
I made a new bag for myself.
Okay, not technically “made-made” (I wish), and not entirely new: I bought a simple one at a charity shop in London’s Pimlico. I checked — historically, this bag was from Marks & Spencer.
I bought more of an idea of a new bag: square, structured, handheld. Not big enough to do grocery shopping (mea culpa, it’s inevitable), not too small to pretend that it has no function beyond being an embellishment.
It makes me think about Elizabeth II, for some reason.
(There might be — just might be — enough space for a marmalade sandwich for a friend.)
So, for the first time in a decade, I decided to own — and use — a bag that is not:
- a backpack — I still have one that I painted five years ago, when everyone was either fighting for life, theirs and others’, or baking;
- a tote bag — I have a whole collection; some of them are bespoke.
I have a hypothesis that I am still evaluating myself against early 21st-century mass-cultural imagery of adulthood (or womanhood, to be more precise).
All those vaguely creative ladies who lived mostly in New York, if it was autumn, or in London, if it was winter.
With their makeup and clothing choices always ready to switch “from a day to a night” — and by this, nobody meant “washing face and wearing pyjamas”.
“Too busy to have a relationship”: still having lots of informal connections that go beyond “I hope this message finds you well”.
(A boss who cares that you work too much — and, more importantly, why do you work so much.
A group of friends that meets regularly — without extra reasons and with zero coordinational effort from only one of them.)
All their shoes had a name and a season: not a pair for all seasons.
Thin: the Millennium was too obsessed with the idea that “girl power” was somehow connected with being physically smaller.
(I remember, when I was 17, buying XS clothes as aspirational. Full disclosure: in my case, the “X” was followed by a different letter.)
Just like many other millennials, in my childhood, I was shown a future that never came.
(Not necessarily it's a bad thing.)
Because of this, I decided to buy a new bag — a message that would have been approved by a rom-com heroine.
And paint it — not an action on their menu.
It’s been two days since my paint has dried, and we have already started short walks together.
I have discovered that the bag itself dictates a different relationship with the environment.
It’s handheld. May I wiggle it around while walking? What’s the socially acceptable amplitude?
(The only reference I have for this shape is a kettlebell.)
When we are not on the move, shall it go on the floor? Shall I put it on my lap and pretend that it’s not there? Shall I share my chair with it?
And, most importantly, will I be able to use it as a tool in a fight with a wild boar?