It was no mere coincidence that Raul Lopez, founder of Luar, opened a pop-up shop in Lower Manhattan and sold this year’s hottest bag on one of New York’s hottest days. The designer —who found inspiration in the infamous Prada Marfa installation—wanted sweat to be a part of the experience. “So that it would feel like a desert,” Lopez said on Tuesday evening, standing outside the tiny space.
The careful calculation resulted in a shopping experience that felt like a hazy summer block party: cans of hard seltzers sat in a pool of melted ice; shoppers spilled out of the store (which had no AC) and into the streets; the air smelled of cannabis and B.O. Inside, a hunky DJ, outfitted in a white tank, blasted out classic house music tunes like “Gypsy Woman” and “Show Me Love.” A visual buffet of cool-kid outfits was on display: tiny sunglasses, baby tees, low-slung skirts. And the most popular accessory, of course, was Luar’s trending Ana bag, strapped across lithe frames like a crossbody pouch.
Lopez says he feels a special kinship to the Prada Marfa installation—its randomness, its geographical isolation, its absurdity. It’s how Lopez feels sometimes. “I fit into circles, but also don’t,” he said, basking in the breeze from two personal fans designed as over-the-ear headphones. (“Amazon. Overnight delivery.”) Like Prada Marfa, Lopez has always felt like he exists on the outskirts. “I never fit into the queer scene, the straight scene, the fashion scene; I kind of always have this ‘je ne sais quoi.’” Over the years, however, Lopez has learned to find subversive joy in being misunderstood. “When I walk around the city, people literally stop and laugh and take pictures,” he says, reflective. Then his tenor switches in a flash: “But I kind of live for it. It juices me up.”
An outsider perspective is exactly what propels Luar (which is Raul spelled backward). The brand buckles against the traditional, with its fluid tailoring and aesthetic celebration of Lopez’s Dominican heritage and New York upbringing. “Teflar and I were just talking about this,” Lopez said, pointing over to his designer friend, who was enjoying the action and wearing uber short-shorts. “Back in the days, Vice Magazine would come and document these parties, and there would be like a do and don’t section. Me and Telfar were always on the don’t list.’ Lopez’s eyes narrowed. “The “don’ts” are always the things that are the looks for me.”
In typical Luar fashion, Lopez even found a way to make the pop-up his own. Only one item was on sale: a new pony hair version of the Ana bag, in a shocking shade of orange. It hung on a white wall like an art piece. Shoppers had to scan a QR code and purchase the bag on Luar’s website because, as Lopez explained, “the shop is the website.”
“Why does the shop have to be brick and mortar?” Lopez argued. “Which is cute! But, girl, I’m not trying to pay rent, light bills, employees, and the whole thing. I’m not there yet.”
And while this was a pop-up shop, curiously, there was not an intense pressure or expectation to shop. There were plenty of young, cool people simply hanging around, sitting on the curb and sipping the free drinks. Orlov Yo, a professional ballroom dancer, said that his friend texted him about the pop-up while he was at the studio. He ran home, threw on an oversized suit and his black Ana bag, and came. But did he buy the new bag on sale? “No,” he answered. He was just there to hang out.
Either way, Lopez’s pop-up-cum-party worked out. When we talked, Lopez said there were five bags left at the one-day-only pop-up. They started with 250.
