I had planned a day for myself – a quest rather; a day in search of inspiration.

André Leon Talley’s words – “There is a famine of beauty!” – had become the slogan for my self-perceived life that was, to put lightly, in the season of the drought. I was bored; mind-numbingly overwhelmed by the basic mundane repetition of social media as our main offering of aesthetic influence.

Social Media: The deafening and cheap echo chamber of slight originality built upon the formula of the masses; the window of slight originality is closing, suffocating in on our souls.

Don’t tell me you haven’t felt it.

I was met with a cheapened menu, a lukewarm buffet. I was searching for that moment – within crevices of content, corners of the internet – where my world stopped, my eyes widened, and my focus zoomed in on one product, one piece of art, one article of clothing. I was searching for the moment of inspiration.

And so, off I went one Sunday morning in Los Angeles to the place where I knew that moment would be and could be evoked within me; The Melrose Flea Market. As I made the rounds, the same track I had made time and time again in my early twenties, I looked around in disbelief. Cheap, trendy necklaces filled the booths. Tchotkes!

With not one item I wanted to go back and purchase, I left disappointed but not defeated. After all, my ten month old baby was with my mother and so I had the day free – a rarity, a luxury, a moment to take advantage of! So, I trekked onto the next location I thought sure to inspire: American Rag.

Now, the cafe at American Rag has been closed ever since the pandemic. An establishment worth mourning in my opinion. I spent many lunches with my mother in the Parisian cafe wicker chairs on the streets of West Hollywood, feeling the buzz of artistry and hustle all combined into one sweet pulse. Alas, the pandemic changed things but it also killed cultural destinations and the American Rag cafe was one of its casualties. (Don’t get me started that the home shop connected to the cafe which was connected to the store was also closed, diminished to a small corner of the main American Rag floor with things heavily discounted – 60%, 70%, 80%. The consequence of our times.)

But as upset as I was walking into American Rag, I was also deeply grateful to be transformed into a world of fashion: vintage, new, artisan, boutique, luxury. The breadth and the spread was wonderful. The price points attainable and way too high all at the same time. The selection heavily curated in the best of ways. The room screaming back to me: Quality still exists! Quality still exists!

My eye sharpened and my heart picked up. I knew I was close – close to finding something, close to seeing something, close to meeting that moment where inspiration meets a high level of open clarity. The moment that would turn my brain on.

And as I swayed through the racks, touching and feeling articles of clothing that were both completely unwearable and oh so wearable at the same time, my eyes landed on it.

The item I had been searching for.

There, straight ahead of me, sat, what appeared to be a black crocodile leather tote (which I later discovered was completely vegan).

Now, it is worth mentioning before continuing on that I have a weakness for bags. I also have a weakness for black bags. I also have a weakness for a black crocodile bag. And last but not least, I also have a weakness for black, higher end, business-like totes.

Put them all together and you have this bag. The ultimate combination to bring me to my desperately creative knees.

I immediately picked it up and admired what made it so unique: the proportions were perfect and oddly different in a slight “I have seen hundreds of black tote bags” type of way. The thin straps that hung on the knobs of your shoulder were just an inch or two longer than expected, which compared to the size of the actual container was, again, a slight but not obvious juxtaposition. The bag itself was the exact perfect size – snug enough for a laptop, roomy enough for a book and journal. The vegan leather was pleated with larger pouches in between the caved in pleat.

It was perfect. It was stunning. It was me.

I took five quick photos from all different angles for proportion, detail, and artistry. Instinctively, I sent the slew of photos to my mother saying, “LOOK AT THIS BAG.” She immediately responded, “GORGEOUS.”

I checked the price expecting it to be, well, higher. The number $550 was staring back at me. And then my mouth dropped.

Who made this exquisite bag with long straps and vegan leather pleats that is both light and large at the same time that makes me want to gather my things and walk down the downtown streets that is – is it true? – $550?

THEMOIRè. THEMOIRè made this bag.

And in that instant, the world was right again. Creativity and luxury and inspiration was not reserved for the uber affluent or the exclusive creatives. Nor was it hidden in underground galleries or fashion weeks or in exclusive vintage shops. Nor was it overpriced, manufactured, or a direct replica with no soul. Nor was it trending on TikTok or influencer-based with zero to little weight being held behind that recommendation.

Creativity and luxury and inspiration was in front of me offering more than I had sought out. For this bag exuded all of the things while also seemingly achieving the impossible: eco-friendly materials, beautiful price point, and an artisan flair that spoke to, what I could only predict, a brand with an intentional and wonderful ethos.

A brand that is worth creating and building. A brand that is worth consuming. A brand that is worth wearing.

With the THEMOIRè bag in front of me, my famine of beauty ended.