Luxury has become exceptionally skilled at making violence look refined.
It places a crocodile-skin bag beneath perfect lighting, gives it a prestigious name, and surrounds it with the language of craftsmanship, heritage, exclusivity, and timelessness. The animal disappears. What remains is the silhouette, the logo, and the fantasy of becoming the kind of woman who owns it.
That disappearance is part of the design.
Recently, I watched footage from crocodile farms connected to the luxury-fashion industry. The images were difficult to sit with—not because they revealed something entirely unknown, but because they made visible what luxury usually asks us to keep abstract: animals confined, raised, and killed for their skins so that someone can own a handbag, belt, pair of shoes, or watch strap.
The finished object is presented as refinement. The process behind it is anything but.
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