If these 6 'designer' bags are still on your wishlist (or in your wardrobe), you're more basic than you think

Last week, I was organizing my closet when I found it: the Goyard St. Louis tote I'd saved for two years to buy. Purchased in 2019, carried religiously through 2020, and now sitting behind winter scarves like an expensive secret. The bag hadn't changed—it was still beautifully made, still perfectly functional. But something had shifted in what it signaled, and we both knew it.

There's a particular kind of whiplash that comes from watching your carefully considered purchase become a meme. One day you're appreciating the craftsmanship of hand-painted chevrons, the next you're seeing it called out in TikToks about "starter pack luxury." The transformation happens slowly, then all at once.

What makes a bag "basic" isn't really about the bag at all. It's about what happens when something genuinely special becomes a shortcut—when owning it stops saying "I appreciate quality" and starts saying "I googled 'first luxury bag to buy.'"

1. The Goyard St. Louis that became too visible

The Goyard paradox is almost poetic. A brand that refuses to sell online, that barely advertises, somehow became the most obvious choice for anyone wanting to signal understated wealth. The St. Louis tote achieved that deadly combination: instantly recognizable to those who know, desperately coveted by those learning.

I watched it happen in real-time at airport lounges. In 2018, spotting one felt like recognizing a fellow traveler with similar taste. By 2021, they'd multiplied like overhead compartment tribbles. The hand-painted chevrons that once whispered now seemed to shout.

The thing is, it's still a beautiful bag. The canvas is still exceptional, the heritage still real. But when something becomes the universal answer to "what should my first luxury bag be?"—well, that's when you start leaving it behind the scarves.

2. The Bottega Veneta Pouch that peaked too fast

Remember 2019? When Daniel Lee's pouchy clutch was the only bag that mattered? The way fashion people carried them like soft sculptures, cradled in the crook of their arms at gallery openings and fashion week? The Bottega Veneta Pouchwas supposed to herald a new era of anti-logo luxury.

Instead, it became the fastest rise-and-fall story in recent accessories history. The bag went from insider secret to Instagram saturation in about eighteen months. By the time the high-street copies arrived, the original had already started its retreat into fashion history.

The Pouch taught us something about modern luxury cycles. The speed of trend adoption has accelerated so dramatically that even a $2,000 bag can feel played out before you've finished paying off the credit card bill.

3. The YSL Lou Lou that everyone has

Walk through any upscale shopping district on a Saturday afternoon and count the YSL Lou Lous. The quilted leather, the gold logo, that particular shade of black that photographs so well. It's become the luxury bag equivalent of a safe first tattoo—meaningful enough, regrettable never, memorable rarely.

The Lou Lou occupies a specific position: expensive enough to feel special, accessible enough to be everywhere, classic enough to justify, boring enough to blend. It's the bag for people who want to own a designer bag but don't want to think too hard about which one.

There's nothing wrong with it, which might be exactly what's wrong with it. It's the aesthetic equivalent of ordering chicken at an interesting restaurant—nobody can fault you, but nobody's impressed either.

4. The Prada Re-Edition that marked the moment

The Prada Re-Edition 2005 shouldn't have become what it became. A reissue of an old style, released without massive fanfare, it somehow became the definitive bag of 2020-2021. Every third person under thirty seemed to own one, usually in black, usually worn crossbody, usually photographed against bathroom mirrors.

I bought one too, caught up in the collective conviction that this was different, that nylon was practical, that the vintage reference made it special. The quality was genuinely good, the price point almost reasonable. But when you start seeing your exact bag on every other person at Whole Foods, something shifts.

The Re-Edition became victim to its own success—so perfectly positioned, so widely adopted, that it lost the very thing that made it appealing: the feeling of discovering something.

5. The Cult Gaia bamboo that tried too hard

Not technically designer, but the Cult Gaia bamboo bags achieved something similar: they became the universal symbol for a certain kind of aspirational vacation aesthetic. You know the one—it appeared in every Santorini sunset photo between 2018 and 2020.

The bamboo bag was never meant for real life. It barely held a phone, showed every scratch, and announced "I'm on vacation" even when you were just buying groceries. But that was part of the appeal—owning something so aggressively impractical felt like a luxury in itself.

Now they sit in closets worldwide, relics of when we all thought we were the kind of people who needed dedicated "resort wear" accessories. The bamboo bag didn't become basic because too many people owned it—it became basic because it tried so transparently to be special.

6. The Mansur Gavriel that couldn't sustain its cool

The original Mansur Gavriel bucket bag was everything: minimal, architectural, with that flash of unexpected color inside. Fashion insiders carried them religiously circa 2014. The waitlists were real, the desire genuine.

But somewhere between the endless restocks and the expansion into twenty different colors, the magic dissipated. The bag that once signaled you knew about emerging designers now signals you were really into Pinterest in 2015.

The Mansur Gavriel story is almost sad—a genuinely innovative design that became so successful it lost exactly what made it special. It's still well-made, still beautiful in its simplicity. But fashion memory is cruel, and once something becomes the "it bag," it's usually already over.

Final thoughts

Here's what I've noticed: the anxiety about being "basic" might be more basic than any bag could ever be. The constant calculation of what signals what, the fear of being too obvious, the endless chase for the next thing that hasn't been discovered yet—it's exhausting.

I still carry my Goyard sometimes. Yes, it marks me as someone who bought into a particular moment of luxury groupthink. But it also carries my laptop perfectly, has survived four years without showing wear, and makes me happy in that simple way good objects can. The cycles of taste will continue spinning, declaring things in and out, basic and special.

Maybe the real luxury isn't owning the right bag at the right moment—it's the confidence to carry whatever you like, whenever you like, without checking whether the internet still approves. Though I'll admit, I'm still leaving the bamboo bag in the closet.