In April this year, when the Trump administration’s tariffs hit Chinese factories, something unexpected happened: factories that produced the very same handbags for the world’s biggest luxury brands stepped into the spotlight, offering to sell directly to American consumers at a fraction of the boutique price. On a now-banned TikTok account, @senbags2, a man named Wang Sen, who claimed to be an original equipment manufacturer for luxury brands, showed how Hermès bags are produced. The New York Post shared how one of his viral videos broke down a $38,000 Birkin, revealing that its leather, thread, and touch of French craftsmanship totalled just $1,450. “More than 90% of its price,” he said, “is paid for its logo.”
Sen’s exposé sparked a growing conversation in the fashion world, and questions in my own mind about how a brand’s logo and design can be perceived as holding this much value. According to the numbers reported by Wang Sen, Hermès hikes up Birkin’s price by $36,550. No matter their socioeconomic status, anyone will begin to wonder: how did a brand cultivate enough iconicism for such a monetary discrepancy to seem justified?
While quality and craftsmanship still matter, luxury pricing ultimately has little to do with materials and everything to do with emotion: pride, belonging, and status. These forces drive not just the trend cycle of fast fashion, but high-end trends too.
As ‘loud luxury’ became mainstream, a quieter — and perhaps more on the sly — form of status emerged. Chanel, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Dior, Prada — the classic and timeless names that pop into mind when you overhear someone conversing about designers. But less often do you hear the names: Berluti, Brunello Cucinelli, Loro Piana, or Bally.
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In a modern era where high-quality dupes are becoming readily available, coupled with a global luxury fashion market size projected at a compound annual growth rate of 5.8%, the industry is more visible than ever. Imagine threading through the crosswalks of buzzing New York City traffic — increasingly more people now carry Chanel’s interlaced Cs or Gucci’s red and green stripes. Here’s where we spot a real-world example supported by the supply and demand concept taught in every Econ 101 course: as the market becomes saturated with popular designers, the ultra-rich pivot toward quieter luxury brands, attempting to rediscover the discretion they once enjoyed. The New York Times journalist Guy Trebay observes how some New Old Money embrace a “wealth display [that] is noticeable, but only to those who know what they’re looking for.” This is fashion as ostentatious modesty, what Mellon biographer Mac Griswold otherwise calls, a “What me — rich?” attitude exemplified by American gardener Bunny Mellon herself.
Take Goyard: their rise to prominence shows how even brands that avoid traditional advertising can become status symbols once consumers assign them social value. British Vogue journalist Alice Cary remarks that, unlike its famed contemporary Louis Vuitton, Goyard’s founders preferred to keep a low profile in the luxury world. They don’t advertise via celebrities, and their products have little to no overt logos, so the brand is niche enough not to be recognized just anywhere.
Even so, their Artois PM Bag has caught the attention of fashion consumers and luxury insiders. The sense of mystery that Goyard provokes with their atypical marketing decisions is what appeals to clients, along with offering that feeling of being “in the know”. But naturally, as more consumers take part, the very mystique that once made Goyard special becomes diluted. Even the brands that intend to stay quiet can be pulled into the cycle of mass recognition.
Whenever my parents perused boutique aisles, ten-year-old me would clink San Pellegrino — the store’s courtesy — against a delicate glass. Despite still not enjoying the taste of a tingly, disembodied, neither-air-nor-water liquid, sipping San Pellegrino in these moments was my early exposure to the marketing and staging that imprinted emotional value onto the receipt. I understood the scene being set — everything in the store, down to the beverages, was curated to make the buyer feel like they belonged to a different, elite world.
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Some might argue that iconic logos are part of a shared cultural legacy, and there’s value in owning something recognizable. I concede — luxury can be beautiful and enduring. But it becomes limiting when we buy solely for social belonging rather than personal taste. In addition, dupes may seem like democratization, but they just replicate the same status-chasing cycle. As one group buys in, the next follows. Saturation leads to cheaper copies, then trendsetters flee to a new, quieter brand. And the chase continues.
Why don’t we stop chasing altogether?
What if we measured fashion not by labels, but by how it makes us feel? When I ask friends to describe my style, they name my jeans, my sweaters — not the names stitched into the tags. That’s the difference between chasing detached prestige and embracing one’s taste.
Fashion should primarily be about self-expression, not external validation. At its best, it tells the story of who we are, not who we’re trying to impress. So if one day you also fake-savor San Pellegrino under boutique lights, ask yourself: do I love this piece, or what it says about me?
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