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I was in Los Angeles a few weeks ago for a shoot. It was raining in New York at the time, and my social media feed was bombarded with posts of the gray and torrential downpour. I didn’t want to come back. I was still fairly new to the city—only my third trip, but I had already fallen in love. The smell was fresher. There was the (sort of) clean subway that I took once from Chinatown to Koreatown, and an overall sedated feeling, like people’s unapologetic love for crystals or the casual spread of chic pot chocolates next to salt and pepper shakers. And of course, there was the weather. It was sunny. It was warm. I had a nice little tan on my shoulders, almost as if a single ray had lightly kissed me. I began to imagine a fantasy life in Los Angeles—sans a car!—forever stress-free. My stomach turned thinking about returning to New York, where I wore all black and carried a great, but worn-out black Gucci suede sack from 1997.
To cope, I bought a bag, though I usually don’t condone retail therapy. I had a spare hour with co-workers, and we headed to a vintage shop recommended by a prop stylist named Coryander. Coryander could tell me to jump off a bridge and I would: she wore a deep blue denim jumpsuit that her friend designed, had a tranquil what-happens-happens energy, and pretty cheeks that reminded me of two ripe peaches. (She also told me to not let money get in the way of my dreams.) I don’t remember the name of the store or where it was, except that it was tucked next to a little green juice shop (like every other vintage store in the oasis). The clothes were exactly what I thought of as “so L.A.:” Lots of sheer white dresses, too many clogs, and delicate vintage underpinnings from the early 20th century. In other words, everything I don’t wear. But a bag on a stool caught my eye. It was a clean rectangular shape and appeared to be from the early ’50s. It was made out of a rich wicker, a deep yellow that felt like a mix between Barilla pasta and organic egg yolks. There was a bamboo handle and a clasp positioned on deep green felt. Inside, there was a tiny label that read “Magid: Handmade in Japan.” I inhaled it and picked up a sweet grassy scent that hit me just behind the eyes. It reminded me of playing on a fresh lawn when I was a kid. And just like that, I dropped a cool $130 on it.
Wicker or straw bags have always been evocative of summer, thanks to the iconic image of Jane Birkin at the beach or a rattan chair at a Parisian cafe. In the July 1997 issue of Vogue, the woven carryalls were described with vacation adjectives like “truly tropical” and “airy.” This particular bright piece looked awkward with my head-to-toe black. But it felt lighter. After all, it was my black Gucci bag, slumped in the backseat of our Uber, that held a laptop, a bag of too-much makeup, and who-knows-what globules at the bottom. I would never let this wicker bag “slump;” instead, I treated it like a puppy or a newborn baby. I cradled it. I took pictures of it! My co-workers poked fun at me with texts like “Goes to L.A. once!” or “You can’t even drive!” But I didn’t care. I texted a photo to my boss who responded: “Are you getting boho on me?”
Maybe I was getting a little boho. But I felt like I manifested a feel-good moment with that wicker piece. When I left Los Angeles and returned to New York, it was with a heavy heart, but I did indeed feel less sullen carrying a light slice of summer. Besides, when I landed the weather was just as it had been in L.A. Where there is a will, there’s a way—or at least, the right bag to get you there.
To get the look—and the feel—of summer, shop these 15 chic straw and wicker bags.
