The first time I carried Cassis, a shopkeeper asked whether the bag was black or purple. Both, I told her, and that is exactly the appeal. In a restaurant it goes black; on a bright pavement it turns plum. This is a dark, wine-soaked aubergine that shows itself only when light catches the Clemence grain, then retreats into shadow.
With gold hardware the warmth is unmistakable up close, and the metal picks out the purple notes in the leather. It holds the usual small-bag inventory, a phone, keys and a card case, plus sunglasses if I leave the hard case at home. At sixteen centimeters tall, eighteen wide and five deep, it stays close to the body no matter how full it is.
The risk with cassis is pairing. It sits spiritually close to chestnut and to oxblood, and next to either one an outfit can go muddy. I keep mine against black, cream or grey and let the bag supply the only color in the frame; worn that way it looks deliberate on every occasion I have tested.
One last thing, and it is the reason I have kept this color for years: dark purples are the hardest tones to photograph and the easiest to live with. In person the bag is softer and richer than any screen will show you. Buy it for the room, not the picture. Two winters of dinners later, it has held beautifully.











































