The Birkin bag has recently become a hot topic on TikTok, one of my favorite ways to lose time when I’m stuck in a functional freeze. My recent hyperfixation? The Walmart "Werkin Bag."
But seriously, these knockoffs have taken over my algorithm. People unboxing a $100 version of what’s normally a $30,000 bag? It’s a very specific joy to watch. I love imagining someone walking up to a woman proudly carrying her pristine, authentic Birkin—so shiny it may have left her Hollywood Hills “investment shelf” for the first time ever—and asking if it’s the new "Werkin" from Walmart?
The Birkin’s origin story is a design made specifically for Jane Birkin, actress and model. Hermès created this huge black leather bag that acted as her Mary Poppins carry-everything accessory. Jane carried it everywhere for decades, adorning it with charms, scarves, stickers, and whatever political movement she was representing. By the time she auctioned it off for charity, the bag was worn down, beat to hell—but loved.
Fast-forward to today, where people pay upwards of $50,000 for a Birkin. These bags are now investments, status symbols, and rites of passage. Receiving one is a moment—a gift from a husband or a personal marker of “girl boss” success. And yet, most of them sit untouched in dust bags, boxed on shelves, waiting to be resold. I’m sure some people buy them and wear them in Jane’s iconic style, but let’s be real—that’s not Hermès’ core clientele.
Hermès itself is a whole other beast. Appointment-only. Years-long waitlists. And when they call you with a bag? You take it. Doesn’t matter if it’s not the one you wanted; it’s the one that’s available. There’s something so absurd about that. Yes, it’s perfectly aligned with luxury branding, but it’s wildly out of sync with Jane herself, slinging her prototype Birkin over her shoulder, scuffed and stuffed to the brim.
I spent some time clicking through photos of Jane Birkin recently. She’s beautiful—casual androgyny, a joyful demeanor, and always, her Birkin. Hanging on her shoulder or clutched to her chest. There’s something fascinating about how her name and way of being shaped this iconic bag—only for it to now represent something so vastly different.
But back to the Werkin and the excitement on the faces of the people unboxing these Walmart knockoffs. There’s joy in claiming a style of long gate kept by wealth. For $100, you get the color you want and a bit of cheeky luxury. There’s something there about class disruption, about reclaiming style, that makes me grin.
Fun fact interlude: Jane Birkin’s daughters are Charlotte Gainsbourg and Lou Doillon. Two women I’ve admired for years. Charlotte’s staggering range of films—from the sweet French movie about a neighbor who sleepwalks and builds tiny worlds to the raw chaos of Nymphomaniac. Lou, with her casual, gorgeous french style and music that feels like it’s made just for me. There’s a throughline in these women, something resonant. Despite their chique celebrity fashion lineage, there’s an authenticity I’m drawn to.
And yet, I can’t stop thinking about the fires. Thousands of houses in California burned to ash. I imagine the shelves of these homes—maybe with a real Birkin sitting there—now gone. Ash. It’s a stark commentary on material wealth, the accumulation of high-end luxury items. Millions of dollars per household, wiped out in moments. I can not shake the question, “Who grabbed their Birkin”?
I love beautifully made things. My home, while not filled with Birkins, is filled with objects carefully chosen over decades. Some furniture handed down from my grandfather and father. And when I think about what I’d grab in a fire, my mind goes blank. My dog. His food. The stuffed animal I’ve had since birth. Maybe the jacket my mom made me. My hard drives—my entire life’s photographic work. But even now, not under immediate threat, it’s hard to know.
There’s something in this: material wealth in flames, celebrities shifting to mutual aid on social media, the juxtaposition of luxury and survival. I’ve seen posts about Rudy Jude, an understated icon of homestead chique selling $500 jeans, giving away past-season baby clothes, Billie Eilish sharing mutual aid resources, Jason Oppenheim… offering free services? (Fact check that one.) Climate crisis meets LA celebrity culture. It’s here, and it’s unrelenting. Fire and water—elements that sustain us, also taking so much away.
It’s all unfathomable. And yet, here we are.
Happy 2025.