This video has made the rounds on nearly every social media platform—and like others in its genre, it's led people to reduce fashion production to overly simplistic narratives.
So let’s take a look at why this bag might not be quite the same as the one you’d find at Hermès. 🧵
Most people have a very functional relationship with their wardrobe. They choose garments for their utility—warmth, comfort, protection from the elements. In this context, quality is measured by durability and function: how long a piece lasts and how well it does its job.
Others dress with social aims in mind, such as climbing the corporate ladder, attracting a partner, gaining entry into certain circles. In these cases, luxury goods convey status, wealth, or cultural fluency. It’s still about utility—just of a more symbolic kind.
But there’s another way to appreciate fashion—through craft. It’s not about how well something performs or what it communicates. Instead, it’s about valuing the skill, time, and intention embedded in the object itself, even if no one else cares or recognizes those qualities.
In the original TikTok video, the maker claims his bags are just like Hermès because they use the same materials. That’s like me saying my spaghetti is on par with a Michelin-starred chef’s just because we both use tomatoes and flour. In fact, skill matters more than materials.
So what sets Hermès bags apart? A key element lies in how it’s sewn. Hermès employs a technique called the saddle stitch. The maker first pierces the leather with an awl, then threads two needles through each hole from opposite sides, arms stretching wide like a bird's wings.
This time-intensive method originates in harness making. When Thierry Hermès founded his company in 1837, it was one of many Parisian workshops producing bridles, saddles, and reins for the horse-drawn carriages. Hence why the company's logo still looks like this:
In this context, a saddle stitch about function. Unlike a machine-sewn lockstitch, which can unravel if a single thread breaks, a hand-sewn saddle stitch remains intact. Each pass of the needle locks the thread in place independently. When riding horses, this is about safety.
The arrival of automobiles in the late 19th century gradually swept horse-drawn carriages off the streets. As the need for harnesses and saddles declined, the leatherworkers who once supported that industry adapted by turning their skills toward other leather goods, such as bags.
In fact, Hermès is hardly the only maker using this technique. There are dozens of independent French artisans making similar things: Victor Dast, Serge Amoruso, Peter Charles, & Louis Chelli. My friend @RJdeMans, author of the brilliant book Swan Songs, uses Bertrand Montillet.
That said, not all saddle-stitched goods are equal. A few years ago, this video went viral thanks to a clickbait title: “We Made a $5,000 Hermès Wallet for $70!” But IMO, the edge finishing looked gloopy, and the final product lacked the refinement you’d expect from Hermès.
For comparison, here are Hermès wallets. IMO, stitching is neater and more precise. The wallet also folds more cleanly, likely bc Hermès selected a more appropriate leather. To be clear, Corter makes solid products. I just don’t think their wallet is on the same level as Hermès.
Beyond added durability, a saddle stitch also offers a visual appeal. When executed properly, there are no gaps between the stitches, creating a cleaner finish. Compare the handsewn Hermès bag and machine-sewn Symthson wallet examples below.
There's also the finishing. The dark brown bag is from Hermès; the tan one from Glenroyal. The Hermès edge finishing makes separate layers of leather appear seamlessly fused into a single whole. In contrast, the Glenroyal’s edges are rougher with clearly visible layers.
When everything is done well, you get beautiful bags like these. When you learn about the different dimensions of craftsmanship, it's easy to tick off things like checkboxes (e.g. "is it saddle sewn?"). But I encourage you to train your eyes to look at things as a whole.
For instance, the careful pattern drafting, pad stitching, and ironwork in Atelier Willow's suits translate to this beautiful shaping: curved chest, conical sleeves, and lapels that bloom out of the garment's buttoning point. It's about the total silhouette, not just each part.
J. Crew uses pretty nice materials (sometimes from Loro Piana!). But the difference in craftsmanship means that their garments don't have the same shaping. (Reasonable as they don't cost as much!).
I saw some people here say that I'm elitist and racist bc I don't think a random dude on TikTok is making bags at the same level at Hermes. But notice that the TikTok guy isn't actually showing you the craft that goes into his bags (nor are there many customer reviews).
There are plenty of Asian makers who do incredible work: Hosoi (France), Saic Firenze (Italy), Ortus (Japan), Atelier Shiang (Taiwan), and Shiue Wen Jhuang (also Taiwan).
My favorite is a Vietnamese-American woman named Bellanie Salcedo, one half of Chester Mox in the US.
Bellanie trained under a former Hermès craftsperson and sources leather from Hermès-owned tanneries. She does fully bespoke work and makes everything from bags to wallets to belts. My favorite item, her "dogleg card cases," start at just $75—a fraction of what Hermes charges.
I think you should buy things because you'll love and use them. Ideally, they make you just as excited in year ten as day one. Hermès bags are made from full grain leathers that take on a patina, but that patina only develops if you actually love using the item!
I think the whole project of buying a dupe is failed from the start because the object will always live in the shadow of the thing you actually want. You should buy things on their own terms. Is the item well-made? Does it excite you? Do you appreciate the maker's story?
We are living in a time where product is increasingly separated from process. I have no doubt that AI could make physical copies of Japanese woodblock prints. But I don't love those just bc they decorate my walls—I love them for *how* they're made, even if others don't care.
This video says little about craft. The appeal hinges entirely on the idea that you can get a status symbol for less money. But will you truly value and cherish something for decades if your introduction to it starts with the same sound effect used to signal a male erection?
Certainly, Hermès charges a premium. I support getting something similar from independent artisans for less. But even they won't charge just $1,000 for such labor intensive work. You are paying not only for their time, but the years it took to develop those skills.
I should note: a saddle stitch can also be faked. If you buy something under the presumption that it was handsewn—a mark of time, skill, and craftsmanship—but it turned out the person just ran it under a machine, would you be upset? Can you tell the difference? These are the issues at play.
Real craftspeople take years to develop a reputation, sometimes on forums where discerning customers can tell the difference between small details. Encourage you to be a bit more discerning when someone seeks to capitalize off cheap cynicism.
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A lot of attention is paid to craft traditions in Western Europe and North America, such as handsewn Hermes leather goods and bespoke Savile Row suits. But the uneven focus leads some to believe that things made outside of these places are low quality.
This is not true. 🧵
When I was on a menswear forum, there was a guy whose style I greatly admired. Like others on the forum, Niyi Okuboyejo loved men's tailoring. He had a technical understanding of how a jacket should hang from the shoulders. He also knew how to put things together in a classic way
At the same time, he also knew how to do things in his own voice and style, but in a way that looked good and not haphazard. Sometimes this was about adding a funky tie; other times, it was playing with materials and silhouette. All of these are still suits and sport coats!
I think "fun socks" should be used judiciously, as a lot of what's worn today feels more childish than whimsical. IMO, most men should avoid them entirely.
But if you insist on wearing them, here are some suggestions on how to make them look less bad. 🧵
Any time this topic comes up, people invariably bring up George HW Bush, who was known to wear fun socks later in life. While I wasn't a fan of those socks, I agree that Bush was well-dressed. I also think when you reach a certain age, you have license to wear whatever you want
There are a few reasons why most outfits look bad with these sorts of socks. First, most men are not at that senior age where these socks become charming.
Second, most of these socks look like something you acquire by sending in a proof-of-purchase from a cereal box.
Most people think of black tie as the most formal kind of menswear, but technically speaking, it's semi-formal evening attire. Historically, men wore this kind of outfit to dinner or evening shows, such as going to the opera or ballet. Or celebrations such as NYE parties.
White tie is true formalwear. It differs from black tie primarily in how it requires a long tailcoat (black tie originated when men cut the tails off their coats to create a more casual garment for dinner). Also requires a white waistcoat, white tie, and wing collar.
If you're interested in bespoke tailoring and based in the United States, I have some trunk show announcements to share with you. Since Twitter recently changed their formatting options, I will be doing this as a thread. 🧵
Matthew Gonzalez
There's a long history of cross-border influence and immigration in tailoring, but as far as I know, Matthew Gonzalez is the first American to operate under his own banner on Savile Row. Born and raised in Southern California, he moved to London about twenty years ago to pursue a degree in bespoke tailoring from the London College of Fashion. Thereafter, he climbed the ranks — moving from undercutter at Thom Sweeney to cutter at Dunhill and eventually Huntsman, where he achieved his longtime goal of cutting on Savile Row.
Today, he runs his own firm, where he merges his California sensibility with his training in British bespoke craftsmanship. He recently told me he admires a photo of JFK staring out of a window. The President dressed in a dark worsted suit, white button-up shirt, and dark silk necktie, but everything about the photo looks very casual and relaxed. This, he told me, is what American style means to him.
Gonzalez cuts suits and sport coats inspired by that mid-century American tailoring, although he's adamant about not wanting the clothes to look like historical costumes. Thus, while the jackets have a soft, natural shoulder line, he sticks with front darts and prefers side vents (rather than the dartless front and hook vent characteristic of Ivy Style). The lapels have a moderate width and minimal belly (the curve sometimes distinguishing an older style of British tailoring). The garments are designed so they can be teamed with a dress shirt and tie, or something more casual such as a chambray button-up.
Given Gonzalez's penchant for slightly more relaxed, casual attire, it's no surprise that he also offers made-to-measure suede jackets, wool-cashmere shawl collar cardigans, and denim Western shirts (made without the contrast stitching, so they look more at home with tailoring). He's also one of the few bespoke tailors I've met who "gets it" when it comes to the polo coat, arguably the most iconic of American overcoat styles. Gonzalez tells me he thinks a polo coat should have letter box patch pockets, a half belt, gauntlet cuffs, an inverted back pleat, and a center button vent. But crucially, he also thinks the split-sleeves should be made with a lapped seam. To my eye, this makes the garment more casual and sporty—truer to its original roots—and allows the tailor to shape the sleevehead.
Consider Gonzalez if you share the same sensibilities: a love for classic American tailoring, but a suspicion of styles that are too anachronistic, and a bias towards clothes that feel more relaxed and casual. The point about Gonzalez using a split-sleeve with a lapped seam demonstrates that he takes care of details that may not occur to a client, but will be appreciated years down the road.
Taillour
In bespoke tailoring, there's a generally accepted rule that most clients would do well to observe: choose a company based on their house style and stay close to it. The term "house style" refers to the tailor's established methods, which combine to create clothes with a distinguishable fit and feel. Just as you wouldn't order burritos from a ramen chef, you shouldn't ask an English tailor for an Italian jacket (or vice versa).
Taillour is one of the few exceptions. Co-founder and head cutter Fred Nieddu has worked in the bespoke tailoring industry for decades, cutting for firms such as Thom Sweeney and even teaching pattern drafting courses at the London College of Fashion. A good percentage of his current workload involves making clothes for films and TV shows. In fact, you may have seen his creations. He made all the menswear for the Netflix series The Crown, the suits in the film The Phoenician Scheme, and one of the colorful costumes for Wonka. Given this experience, he's more flexible than most tailors regarding what he's willing and able to make.
Still, I think it's always a good idea to stay close to the house style. I think of Taillour's house style as very soft but architectural in its lines. Nieddu uses a full body canvas and only a bit of laptair near the wearer's collar bone to prevent the jacket from sinking. The shoulders are minimally padded, giving the garments a very light feel. While Neapolitan tailors are known for a similar construction, Taillour's jackets have a bit more room and shape. The shoulder line is very straight, and the chest is slightly full. When combined with those characteristically straight lapels and larger jacket collar, I find Taillour's jackets have an angular appearance reminiscent of Apparel Arts drawings.
Consider Nieddu if you want a tailor who's a bit more flexible in terms of what they're willing to make (although, again, I recommend tweaking at the margins, not bringing in a photo of something and asking for it to be copied). He has also made clothes for women, which will be useful if you're looking for someone who can make a women's suit, sport coat, or overcoat.
Summer is around the corner and soon you'll read a bunch of tweets about how every man should have a pair of loafers.
I don't think anyone needs anything, but if you're shopping for a pair, let me show you how to think about loafers. This applies to any wardrobe item. 🧵
When it comes to choosing loafers, a simple answer will go something like this: "Such-and-such brand makes the best pairs." Or "Here's a hierarchy of loafers." IMO, such approaches are reductive and often devolve into trend or status pursuits.
Let me show you another approach.
As always, it's helpful to start at the beginning.
There are a few origin stories for loafers, but most lead back to Norway. If menswear lore is to be believed, then the penny loafer comes from a simple slip-on shoe known as the teser, which was once worn by Norwegian peasants.
Someone asked if I could tell them where to buy a pair of good chinos. In this thread, I will tell you, but my answer is not simple. On the upside, I think this is a better approach when shopping for clothes and you can apply it to any kind of item. 🧵
A simple answer will go something like this: "Such-and-such makes the highest quality chinos." Or "this brand provides the best value." While potentially useful in some respects, I don't think this gives you the fullest picture.
Instead, let's start at the beginning.
During the 1898 Spanish-American War, US troops stationed in the Philippines wore sand-colored pants made from a heavy cotton twill woven in China. Since the Philippines had been under Spanish colonial rule at this time, the locals call these "pantalones chinos" (Chinese pants).