Where petals become shrapnel, and lambskin wears war paint.
Clad inblood-red lambskin, this Boy Bag is a grenade tossed into the atelier. Its surface—silk-screened with anarchic poppies and daisies—bleeds like a psychedelic wound, each bloom a bullet hole in couture’s pristine facade. The structured silhouette, rigid as a tactician’s map, is defaced by floral shrapnel. No demure bouquets: these are flowers thatbite.
Medium yet militant, it carries the arsenal of ecstasy: a switchblade lipstick, a love letter dipped in venom, a key to Andy Warhol’s silver factory. The leather’svelvet carnage—soft as a bruise, fierce as a manifesto—ages into a tapestry of riots: scuffed by mosh pits, stained by absinthe spills, baptized in strobe-lit revolutions.
From punk dungeons to gilded ballrooms, it isa garden growing through concrete, a bouquet detonated at dawn. Slip its chain over your shoulder like a bandolier. Clutch it like a Molotov cocktail wrapped in silk.
For the guerrillas of glamour. For the poets planting landmines of beauty.
