Italy, the Minister of Tourism, and (fake) bags.
News from the past. In 2013, Daniela Santanchè, a controversial yet central figure in Italian politics, gifted Francesca Pascale, then the partner of Silvio Berlusconi, with two bags from a prestigious French brand.
What seemed like an innocent gesture would later become a source of embarrassment for Pascale and controversy for Santanchè, who in the meantime had become a minister. The reason? The bags in question turned out to be counterfeit.
After years of silence, the controversy has resurfaced in recent days, fueling a heated debate in the media and on social networks, sparking amusing memes and unpleasant political clashes. However, little attention has been given to the bag itself, a simple object born out of the need to carry belongings and supplies, which has undergone centuries of transformation to become a status symbol, a work of art, and ultimately, an icon of style.
Born in Ancient Egypt, bags were originally made of papyrus—a flexible and abundant material shaped into containers that were far more than simple envelopes. They were true markers of social status. If we move back in time to the 16th century, in the heart of the Grand Duchy of Tuscany, skilled artisans began working with fine leathers—goat, calf, and suede. These were no longer just simple bags but true works of art, adorned with fringes, embroidery, and bows—a refined elegance that reflected an era where detail was everything. Shortly after, in Venice—a crossroads of merchants and travelers—tanners and leather goods manufacturers dedicated themselves to the production of practical bags designed to carry travel essentials and small goods. These bags became trusted companions for those navigating commercial routes, silent witnesses of a world in constant motion. The 19th and 20th centuries, eras of great change, saw women traveling with increasing frequency.
This led to the creation of bags with pockets and compartments, designed to make it easier to carry personal items during journeys for both leisure and work—a growing symbol of female independence. Finally, the 20th century saw the bag become a true style icon—a symbol of emancipation and practicality. The term “borsetta”, rooted in the Greek word “byrsa” (leather), became part of everyday language. From the post-World War II period onward, the bag evolved and adapted, becoming an expression of female identity—an everyday item that encompasses centuries of history, social change, and cultural evolution.
In the dense fabric of sacred iconography, an anomaly emerges—a contrast that unsettles the apparent harmony of a Flemish masterpiece: The Annunciation by Robert Campin, also known as the Master of Flémalle.
A bag—a profane object, unrelated to the solemnity of the theme—peeps out at the feet of the Virgin. It is not a mere detail but a rupture, a crack in the smooth surface of the religious narrative, a disturbing element that challenges traditional iconographic interpretation.
The “Virgin’s bag”, an intrusion into the sacred, stands out in a corner, pushed to the edges—and yet, it remains insistently present. Its seemingly random position reveals a subtle design, a network of hidden meanings. An invisible diagonal connects it to the gaze of the Archangel Gabriel—a thread linking the earthly to the divine. Two sacred books—one touched by the wind, perhaps the Holy Spirit, and the other resting in Mary’s lap—complete this symbolic triangle, a network of references that unveils the bag’s purpose: a container, a reliquary, a guardian of sacred words.
The preciousness of the object, its aura of mystery, clashes with its marginal position. Its striking visibility arises precisely from this contrast between the sacred and the profane. The bag, like a casket of a priceless treasure, echoes other containers: the vase of lilies, symbol of purity, and Mary’s mantle, guardian of her body. This interplay of references extends to the very fabric of the representation, to the web of meanings that envelop the Virgin and hold the sacred book.
The painting is designed among tones ranging from angelic white to Marian red, from the green of the bench to the yellow of the cushion, culminating in the deep black of the bag, which emphasizes both its materiality and symbolism. Here, the bag becomes an enigma, opening space for multiple interpretations.
In Gérard David’s Annunciation, a bag once again appears, a cryptic focal point laden with hidden meanings, relegated, like the other, to the lower edge of the canvas. David’s bag echoes the sculptural folds of the Virgin’s robes, transforming into an autonomous sculpture. The humble Mary embraces the divine word, while the lilies and the vermilion bag stand beside her in silent chorus, like an empty stage where the bag’s presence pulses through the contrast of ebony cords and a golden rosary. Here too, the iconographic system unfolds in a choreography of elements: the Madonna, sacred scriptures, lilies, fabrics, and the bag. Each element moves between marginality and centrality, and our subject, aligned with sacred figures, reveals its dual nature: a polysemic symbol oscillating between the profane and the divine, between shadow and narrative, between spirituality and materiality. From sacred depictions with symbolic bags to the worldly controversies of questionable gifts, the bag remains an object of storytelling and paradox. Between art and reality, the line blurs, leaving room for reflection on the very nature of objects and gestures.
Opening image: Robert Campin, The Annunciation, Trittico di Mèrode, 1427
