César.

In his story, when someone shows him a piece of jewelry, César rests it for a moment in his open palm and weighs it, still, before saying anything: he reads the metal's weight and purity by touch, and only speaks afterward. He does the same thing with his own chain without realizing it, a gesture he's repeated since he was fifteen. And before giving an opinion on something, he tends to click his tongue softly. To anyone who knows him, that click says more than a whole paragraph. None of this is on the bag; it's simply who he is.

The tote is the most practical piece in the collection: sturdy canvas, a shoulder strap, and room for bread, a book, or the groceries. It suits César, because he lives without accumulating: an almost-empty flat, three mugs of which he only uses one, and everything valuable reserved for his craft, not for the living room. Carrying his things in a single bag and nothing more is very much him. Who he is and what he weighs is in his biography; capacity and measurements are on the purchase page.