The Supreme Court of Korea recently ruled that recycling luxury goods for personal use does not constitute a violation of trademark rights. The decision overturned a guilty verdict issued by a lower court against a repairer who had transformed an old handbag into a wallet. In Korea, this type of service is commonly referred to as “reform.” The Supreme Court further clarified that such transformed items would only violate the law if they were bought and sold in the market.
The luxury brand involved in the case — the plaintiff — did not issue a public statement following the ruling. The discrepancy between the Court’s position and that of the brand appears to stem from a fundamental difference in how each understands the scope of trademark rights. The Court seems to regard the logo as a conventional signifier, identifying the manufacturer of a product. The brand, by contrast, appears to view its logo not merely as a marker of origin but as a condensed symbol of lifestyle, taste, and prestige.
From this perspective, whether or not the modified item enters the marketplace may be secondary. The brand design itself functions as a kind of currency — one that signifies distinction, exclusivity, and selection. The customer who ordered the transformation of the handbag was clearly aware of the brand’s symbolic power and sought to prolong it by turning her old bag into a wallet. The brand, in turn, sought to protect its prestige by not allowing alterations to products bearing its logo. It was only the Court that appeared to adopt a more limited understanding of the brand, treating it as a signifier of market origin rather than as a vessel of symbolic value.
The Court’s ruling appears somewhat out of sync with commonsensical knowledge about luxury goods — namely, that they are more than simply well-made products. If any market were to illustrate this clearly, it would be Korea. Although the overall size of Korea’s luxury goods market may be smaller than China’s, Korea ranks among the highest in per capita luxury consumption. Koreans’ appetite for such goods is arguably second to none.
Extensive queues form outside department stores on the release day of newly launched luxury items, and the scenes intensify during seasonal sales. It should also be noted that not everyone in those queues intends to keep what they purchase. Some buy items to resell at a higher price when demand peaks; others purchase on behalf of clients who are unable to visit the store. If these were merely bags, shoes, or jackets, such behaviors would be difficult to explain. They signify something — something that the Court’s narrow market-oriented reasoning does not fully capture.
It is often argued that luxury goods signify success and social status. If economic success translates into greater purchasing power, then the link between luxury consumption and status appears logical. Yet the argument is not entirely convincing. How many people genuinely believe that all luxury brand users are economically successful or wealthy? One need not be affluent to carry a designer label. To claim that one wears, for instance, Prada solely to display success seems a fragile proposition. Even if there is some truth in this reading, the meaning of luxury goods in Korea exceeds such a straightforward equation between consumption and status. This is where a structural reading is necessary.
Horatio Says
The Court was not naïve. It did what courts are designed to do: it defined the limits of trademark protection within the marketplace. It treated the logo as a legal sign — an indicator of origin, a marker of commercial value. Within that framework, the reasoning is coherent. Law tends to operate in material categories.
What the ruling does not fully engage, however, is the broader symbolic economy in which luxury brands circulate — particularly in Korea.
Luxury goods here do not merely move through stores; they move through screens. They are worn by K-pop idols, actors, influencers — figures who inhabit a carefully curated sphere where visibility itself is capital. Within that sphere, taste is performed, circulated, amplified. A handbag does not simply signify who made it; it signifies entry into an aesthetic ecosystem.
At times, this ecosystem resembles an adult fairyland — an enchanted forest of Prada, Hermès, and Louis Vuitton — sustained by images rather than trees. It is not entirely detached from economic reality, but it operates according to its own internal logic. Style, presence, and being seen acquire a weight that exceeds the object’s material function.
In such a system, a logo is no longer a mere trademark. It is a condensed narrative. It promises distinction, refinement, selection. It signals proximity to a world that appears both exclusive and endlessly reproducible through media.
From this perspective, the brand’s anxiety over alteration becomes more intelligible. If the logo functions as symbolic currency within a highly mediated economy of visibility, then any modification risks disrupting the coherence of that currency. The concern is less about leather and stitching than about narrative control.
Still, Horatio would resist overstating the case. A symbolic economy may feel autonomous, but it remains anchored to material transactions. The Court addressed the material boundary: what may be bought and sold. The brand defends the symbolic boundary: how its meaning circulates. The friction between them is not a clash between ignorance and sophistication, but between two different logics of value.
Eliot Says
Yet one might wonder whether the symbolic economy Horatio describes is already more pervasive than the material boundaries he preserves. A telling example appears in a recent television series, The Art of Sarah, available on a streaming platform. The series follows the “rise” of a young woman who becomes a con artist, deceiving Korea’s high society with a fabricated luxury brand before eventually meeting her downfall.
Sarah begins as a modest sales assistant at a department store, a place where customers are treated almost like royalty while the store owner towers above the sales staff as a distant sovereign. Within this hierarchy, Sarah slowly begins to understand where the power of luxury brands truly comes from. After months of serving the brands — almost as a servant to them — she catches herself thinking that she wants to become a person worthy of carrying one of those newly launched, glittering handbags displayed before her.
In the world of luxury goods, words can become more powerful than reality. Sarah posts a comment online about a non-existent brand called Boudoir. She claims that Boudoir is among the most prestigious luxury houses in Europe, one that supposedly holds exclusive warrants from European royalty. Through carefully staged showcases of the brand, strategic celebrity promotion, and — perhaps most importantly — strict control over who is allowed access to its products, Sarah gradually constructs an aura around Boudoir: exclusive, selective, and extraordinary.
What emerges is a system built less on material truth than on collective belief. The power of words, the power of visibility, and the shared perception of what others consider tasteful or stylish can generate a symbolic structure that quietly shapes everyday decisions — what to desire, what to choose, and ultimately what to buy. If a fictional brand can generate such power from nothing more than narrative and circulation, one might reasonably ask whether established luxury houses operate in a space where symbolism already exceeds the material object itself.
Horatio Wraps Up
Allow me a small observation. I take the point that what we call symbolic power may not remain confined to the sphere I had presumed. One must look at the structure behind the spectacle. If signs, appearances, and reputations can indeed shape conduct so thoroughly that they organize everyday decisions—what to desire, what to admire, what to purchase—then the structure is not merely ornamental but operative. In such a case, the enchanted forest I described is not simply an escape from reality but a system that quietly governs it. Humans, after all, are wonderfully inventive when it comes to prestige.
I would still hold that the material world must eventually impose its limits. Yet it seems equally clear that symbols possess a remarkable capacity to suspend those limits, at least for a time, by persuading people to inhabit a reality that exists largely through shared belief. My caution therefore remains—but I concede that the power of such belief may run deeper than I first allowed. And if that is so, the enchanted forest of luxury may be less a fantasy than a landscape people willingly choose to inhabit. That, at least, is how it appears from where I stand.