Park Jin-hai primarily focuses on K-dramas, entertainment shows and actor interviews. Beyond that, she also pens articles covering the broader arts scene, with a particular emphasis on classical music, dance and various aspects of lifestyle. Since joining The Korea Times in 2013, she has made significant contributions in the realms of hallyu (Korean wave), industry news and international affairs.
'The Art of Sarah' exposes Korea's luxury obsession
A scene from Netflix series "The Art of Sarah" / Courtesy of Netflix
By Park Jin-hai
"The Art of Sarah" cuts through Korea's luxury obsession with the precision of a scalpel. The Netflix mystery thriller, starring Shin Hye-sun, follows a woman who transforms her personal ruin into an audacious counterfeit empire — and in doing so, holds a mirror up to a society that willingly conflates desire with identity.
From the first episode, Sarah Kim (Shin) signals her ambitions visually. She carries a crocodile leather Hermes Birkin bag valued between 90 and 120 million won ($63,000 to $84,000) — one of the rarest bags on the market — alongside a Dior limited-edition piece, one of only 150 released worldwide in 2017. The visual language vividly sets luxury as armor, argument and identity.
The drama then rewinds to Mok Ga-hui, another of Kim's identities, who toils endlessly at a department store luxury counter without even time for bathroom breaks until a theft leaves her saddled with 50 million won in debt. She spirals into illegal reselling, loan shark traps and hostess gigs. Unable to change reality, she instead changes her identity to the fictional "Sarah Kim" and launches Boudoir, a fake luxury brand with an invented European heritage. The brand sells bags, assembled in Korea from Chinese parts that cost only 200,000 won, as luxury items priced at up to 100 million won each.
Hermes Birkin bag / Yonhap
Her methods go beyond simple fraud. She fabricates a fictional backstory, branding Boudoir as a high-end label with a century of tradition and a British royal warrant. She plants rumors in wealthy social circles that truly rich women carry Boudoir bags and leaks counterfeits into the market to manufacture viral demand. She enforces entry limits in her store in Cheongdam-dong, Seoul's luxury enclave, to induce long queues and then burns remaining stock to maintain exclusivity. It is not a mere scam but rather a masterclass in aspirational psychology.
Even while under police interrogation for fraud, Kim counters with poised defiance, asking, "If you can't distinguish fake from real, how do you know it's fake?" The question is more philosophical provocation than legal defense, challenging the very foundation of what authenticity means in a consumption-driven world.
Culture critic Jung Duk-hyun describes Kim as a "monster spawned by luxury's illusions and desires."
"From bag-gazing daydreams at the luxury counter to debt-ridden despair, she reinvents herself, birthing fakes indistinguishable from real. The scam becomes a business and counterfeits turn into luxury items. What made this illusion real wasn't just her, but everyone's desires," Jung said.
"At some point, investors, store owners and accomplices all know Sarah Kim is a fraud — but none cry victim. To do so would mean confronting their own craving for the fake, much like buyers who willfully ignore the truth on their pricey counterfeits."
A scene from Netflix series "The Art of Sarah / Captured from Netflix
Real scandal mirrored
The drama strikes a nerve because it echoes a real scandal.
In 2006, a phantom brand called Vincent & Co. was marketed as a centuries-old Swiss watchmaker with ties to European royalty, but in reality, the watches were assembled from Chinese parts at a production cost of 80,000 to 200,000 won. They sold for up to 97.5 million won each in Cheongdam-dong. Celebrities and elites lined up to own them. When the fraud collapsed, most victims chose silence over the humiliation of admitting they had been taken in.
Real people are aware and critical of the social clout of luxury, participating even as they criticize.
Hannah Choi, a Korean American in her 30s, secured a genuine Birkin last year and describes the process as anything but straightforward. "A luxury bag like this isn't something you can buy just because you have money."
She detailed the Hermes "ritual," where clients often make less popular purchases of items such as coats, apparel, footwear and timepieces and cultivate rapport with sales associates before a bag is offered, while the brand judges whether the customer fits the image of its preferred clientele.
"It's class incarnate," Choi said.
Even so, she felt she had little choice. "Luxury goods are like an ID card. When I carry them, the standards by which people judge me seem to change. The treatment is naturally different," she said.
A screenshot from Netflix series "The Art of Sarah / Courtesy of Netflix
Kim Ji-eun, a Chanel enthusiast in her mid-30s, frames this within a broader "relative evalualtion" culture where people measure themselves not by personal satisfaction, but by how they stack up against others.
"It's not just doing well. Others set the baseline, pressuring us to outshine them in everything. Grades as kids; now it spills into jobs, spouses, purchases," she said.
"Better clothes, income, matches, luxury — all tie into self-esteem and status. Korea's FOMO (fear of missing out) is intense. As seen in the recent Dubai chewy cookie craze and stock frenzy, if you don't do what others are doing, you feel like you're missing out. Luxury's no different."
Culture critic Ha Jae-keun sees this hunger as a national trait, noting Koreans' unusually strong desire for flamboyant items.
"This drama, by mirroring real scandals to satirize our false consciousness around luxury and our hunger for upward class mobility, was bound to captivate viewers," Ha said.