The Velvet Rope

The day before the Materialist and her family left for Kyoto, there was an article in the Daily Yomirui, one of Japan's English-language dailies, about a battle between two brothers.

Here's what happened: there's a store in Kyoto called Ichizawa Hampu (Higashioji-dori Furumonzen [Chion'in-mae] Agaru, Nishikawa, Higashiyama-ku, Kyoto; 03-75-541-0138), which makes sturdy and plainspoken hemp bags in various butch-chic colors: gray, olive, navy, black. After the patriarch died, the company passed to his third son, Shinzaburo. But then Shintaro, his older brother, contested the will. The case went to court, Shintaro won, and Shinzaburo started his own company, Ichizawa Shinzaburo Hampu, earlier this year. It was like Rashomon as chronicled by WWD. The best part? Not only was Shinzaburo making essentially the same product--though his bags reportedly had a more updated silhouette, as well as a broader and peppier palette--but he'd opened his store almost directly across the street from the mothership. According to the article, the battle had sparked something of a frenzy, and every morning, long lines (sometimes up to 100 people) gathered outside both stores, waiting to get in. This was something the Materialist had to see.

The next day, the Materialist and her family heaved themselves out of the taxi at around 11a.m. in front of Ichizawa Hampu's plain wood-and-plaster storefront, where they joined a line of about forty middle-aged women (and men), giggling 20somethings, and sullen-looking hipsters. The line began at the front door of the store before turning a sharp angle and continuing down a narrow alleyway. A security guard, officious in a jade-colored uniform and helmet, walked down the line, tapping people back into place and shushing others. Across the street, the Materialist could see another line, this one waiting for Ichizawa Shinzaburo Hampu and also about forty deep, reflected back to her. She waited, as knots of five people at a time were let in, until it was her turn.

Inside, there was the heightened, false calm of a crowd of people trying to act above it all and failing. The walls, which were hung with display hooks, were almost picked clean, as were the display tables. The staff, who wore striped T-shirts and indigo-colored aprons, stood against the back wall--it seemed they had nothing else with which to replenish the supply, and so could only watch and wait as the last tote bag, the last messenger sack, was pulled off the wall or plucked from the table, its future owner joining the long, silent, anxious line that wound through the tiny shop.

And what of the bags themselves?  They were inexpensive (prices began at around $25); simply and beautifully made; black, or gunmetal gray, or a nice fawny tan, all of them restrained, tough. They seemed like the sort of thing you might have for years; the fabric was stiff, but you could tell that with age it would become soft and pliable, its color bleach and fade. Their design, too, was simple: a square shape, plain handles, no pintucks or ornamentations or flourishes of any kind--their simplicity, their pure design restraint and utter functionality, was their genius. (And, needless to say, only heightened the absurdity of the brothers' war.) They were, however, on the small side--the largest was about a foot square--and seemed better suited as a purse or lunch sack than they did, say, a tote bag. High on the walls were bags that had been decorated by various artists and celebrities, including a pigeon-gray one on which Yoshitomo Nara had drawn in black ink one of his signature mischievous kids.

After leaving--but buying nothing; there was almost nothing to buy--the Materialist and her family ran across the street to join the line to the upstart store, where they stood among a number of people they'd seen across the street just a few minutes ago, all carrying Ichizawa Hampu shopping bags. Here, as you grew closer to the front entrance, you were herded into a looping line marked off by a red velvet rope and overseen by a young employee, who smiled and bowed and was missing only a headset and clipboard to make the experience complete. Inside was the same prickly, urgent calm, the same long lines, the same almost-bare walls. The bags at Ichizawa Shinzaburo Hampu were almost the same size and cut as Ichizawa Hampu's, but in camellia pinks and bright sky blues, leafy greens and creamy yellows. Older women grabbed them off the walls in fours and fives as their husbands stood behind them, pointing out other colors and sizes.

As the Materialist and her family left the store, they looked across the street in time to see an employee from Ichizawa Hampu bring out a sign: their stock, it seemed, had been exhausted, and there were no more bags to be had that day. Only in Japan, that place where shopping, "those twinned acts of looking and buying," as Simon Dumenco wrote in his lovely and perceptive piece on Tokyo,  does waiting in line for a navy hemp bag make you feel part of its everyday culture--a true-blue obsessive, Japanese style.

The next day, the Materialist and her family heaved themselves out of the taxi at around 11a.m. in front of Ichizawa Hampu's plain wood-and-plaster storefront, where they joined a line of about forty middle-aged women (and men), giggling 20somethings, and sullen-looking hipsters. The line began at the front door of the store before turning a sharp angle and continuing down a narrow alleyway. A security guard, officious in a jade-colored uniform and helmet, walked down the line, tapping people back into place and shushing others. Across the street, the Materialist could see another line, this one waiting for Ichizawa Shinzaburo Hampu and also about forty deep, reflected back to her. She waited, as knots of five people at a time were let in, until it was her turn.

Inside, there was the heightened, false calm of a crowd of people trying to act above it all and failing. The walls, which were hung with display hooks, were almost picked clean, as were the display tables. The staff, who wore striped T-shirts and indigo-colored aprons, stood against the back wall--it seemed they had nothing else with which to replenish the supply, and so could only watch and wait as the last tote bag, the last messenger sack, was pulled off the wall or plucked from the table, its future owner joining the long, silent, anxious line that wound through the tiny shop.

And what of the bags themselves?  They were inexpensive (prices began at around $25); simply and beautifully made; black, or gunmetal gray, or a nice fawny tan, all of them restrained, tough. They seemed like the sort of thing you might have for years; the fabric was stiff, but you could tell that with age it would become soft and pliable, its color bleach and fade. Their design, too, was simple: a square shape, plain handles, no pintucks or ornamentations or flourishes of any kind--their simplicity, their pure design restraint and utter functionality, was their genius. (And, needless to say, only heightened the absurdity of the brothers' war.) They were, however, on the small side--the largest was about a foot square--and seemed better suited as a purse or lunch sack than they did, say, a tote bag. High on the walls were bags that had been decorated by various artists and celebrities, including a pigeon-gray one on which Yoshitomo Nara had drawn in black ink one of his signature mischievous kids.

After leaving--but buying nothing; there was almost nothing to buy--the Materialist and her family ran across the street to join the line to the upstart store, where they stood among a number of people they'd seen across the street just a few minutes ago, all carrying Ichizawa Hampu shopping bags. Here, as you grew closer to the front entrance, you were herded into a looping line marked off by a red velvet rope and overseen by a young employee, who smiled and bowed and was missing only a headset and clipboard to make the experience complete. Inside was the same prickly, urgent calm, the same long lines, the same almost-bare walls. The bags at Ichizawa Shinzaburo Hampu were almost the same size and cut as Ichizawa Hampu's, but in camellia pinks and bright sky blues, leafy greens and creamy yellows. Older women grabbed them off the walls in fours and fives as their husbands stood behind them, pointing out other colors and sizes.

As the Materialist and her family left the store, they looked across the street in time to see an employee from Ichizawa Hampu bring out a sign: their stock, it seemed, had been exhausted, and there were no more bags to be had that day. Only in Japan, that place where shopping, "those twinned acts of looking and buying," as Simon Dumenco wrote in his lovely and perceptive piece on Tokyo,  does waiting in line for a navy hemp bag make you feel part of its everyday culture--a true-blue obsessive, Japanese style.

Comments

[daffodils]

Hi - interesting story.. but why didn't u have a picture of the bag that was the highlight?