On a hot Sunday afternoon in August, Waldorf Studio hosted its very first workshop: “Knit a Bag for Myself 织给自己的一只包.” Eight girls gathered in the studio, the air filled with tea and the sweet scent of blueberry scones. We sat together, slowly our conversation unraveled: about bags, about bodies, about women.

When we spoke about our “first bag,” everyone was instantly pulled back to childhood: school satchels with cartoon prints, jelly pouches spotted at the supermarket, little purses that carried more dreams than objects. Each girl came from a different world: one worked in finance with a heavy leather briefcase, another a tattoo artist carrying tools and ink, another a designer who always brought fabrics and ideas along. Their stories revealed one truth: a bag is never just a bag, it’s always intertwined with how we live.

I asked, “What is a bag to the body: an extension, a protection, or a burden?”
One said it’s an extension, an external organ that holds everything we can’t: phones, keys, medication, sanitary products, even fragments of our work and personal lives.
Another said it’s a form of protection, a movable boundary separating private from public, shielding us from gazes that cut too sharply.
And some admitted it’s often a burden, especially for women, who are silently expected to always be prepared, to carry tissues, medicine, small necessities for others. To walk out “empty-handed” is to risk being seen as careless or unfinished.

Then another question arose: Can a bag be considered a symbol of female identity?

In fashion ads and pop culture, women are constantly reduced to “the bag she carries.” It makes it easier for the market to sell, for society to classify. But what happens when the complexity of women’s experiences and identities is compressed into the price tag of a single object?

And why are bags so tightly linked to women’s consumption and desire? The truth is harsher than we like to admit. Industries tell us that buying a bag is a natural, feminine urge, while women’s clothing is deliberately designed with pockets too small—or none at all—forcing us to depend on handbags. Over time, carrying a bag became a social shorthand: a woman is expected to prove herself by endlessly buying new ones. But perhaps this “desire” isn’t natural at all. Perhaps it’s been carefully manufactured by markets and gender norms.

Yet something shifted when we picked up our needles and began to knit. Suddenly, the bag was no longer just a market-defined label but a boundary we could define for ourselves. Burden became choice. Protection became self-determined. Extension became narrative.

After tea and conversation, we leaned over our yarn and let our hands take over. Some counted stitches carefully, some experimented with colours, some laughed as they unraveled mistakes and started again. Each little bag began to take shape, imperfect but alive, carrying its maker’s personality in every loop and knot.