The Weasel Drawings by Lucinda Rogers. Words by Christopher Hirst.

Fashion is all about newness. That tissue-shrouded gewgaw you are proudly swinging in a logo-embossed carrier bag is a new you. How strange, therefore, to discover that items of considerable antiquity are attracting more attention to one outlet on New Bond Street than all the other high-gloss shops on this swanky boulevard. The bags on display in the window of the Louis Vuitton shop come from a spanking new range, but the jokes printed on them are old as the hills. A cutting-edge reticule called Heartbreaker (£1,300) is emblazoned with this rib-tickler: “My wife went to the beauty shop and got a mud pack. For two days she looked beautiful. Then the mud fell off.”

I’m sure these whiskery gags will have the bright young things chortling fit to bust at the nite spots where Vuitton accessories are de rigueur, but, like so much in the fashion world, this literally risible gambit is not what it looks. The jokes come from art-works by Richard Prince, the eclectic American master. Vast canvases bearing these Borscht Belt gags featured in his big retrospective at the Guggenheim Museum, which I caught in New York last September. It was a strange experience to see a 15ft by 15ft painting of “I’ve been married 30 years and I’m still in love with the same woman. If my wife ever finds out she’ll kill me.” In an essay on Prince, art critic Rosetta Brooks explains: “Prince’s ‘Jokes’ aim to disabuse the viewer of [the] prevailing belief that comedy represents a form of transcendence… Far from being light-hearted, these ‘jokes’ harbour bitterness and alienation.” Even reduced to handbag size, they are no laughing matter.

But it is another jokey antique that makes Vuitton’s store the cynosure of all eyes. Everyone strolling New Bond Street takes a gander at the massive poster of this column’s favourite celeb. From matchstick legs to diamond-pinned head scarf, the brooding figure of Keith Richards is spread over three storeys outside a new extension to the shop. Pensively strumming his guitar in a hotel suite, the Rolling Stone is the latest addition to the company’s “Core Values” advertising campaign, which has previously featured Mikhail Gorbachev and Catherine Deneuve. Parked next to Mr Richards on the bed is a Vuitton guitar case, which acts as table for a cup of tea, an open book and a magnifying glass. (Well, none of us are getting any younger.) The crevassed face of the rock icon gazes across the luxurious accommodation decked out to his idiosyncratic tastes. Draped over one of the table lamps, a scarf bearing a skull motif complements the trademark skull rings on Mr Richards’s fingers. A pile of books supports a curved dagger, a telescope (useful for pirate impressions) and a human skull that appears to have been converted in a stash box. (This invaluable item of luggage does not appear in the Vuitton catalogue.) Accompanying the image of the minstrel strumming a few chords on the lonely road is the evocative tagline: “Some journeys cannot be put into words.”

But this one can. The legendary axeman has moved 55 miles from his mansion in Weston, Connecticut, to a posh hotel in Manhattan. The scene in the advert is not quite as it looks. A video clip on the Fashionphile website reveals that, far from being alone, Mr Richards was accompanied by ace snapper Annie Leibovitz and her extensive entourage. Nor was he staying in the room where the picture was taken. We see him arriving. “Whoa – just like home,” Mr Richards remarks about the familiar fixtures and fittings. Though a Vuitton press release describes the scene as “New York. 3am. Blues in C”, daylight can clearly be seen in the video. “Just show me where to hump my carcass,” remarks our hero. Ms Leibovitz tries him on the bed, in a chair, then back on the bed again, where she tells him to cut out the rock star act. “You don’t have to pose. When you play the guitar, it’s the best stuff.”

Reaction to the advert has been generally favourable in the fashion world. “Louis Vuitton is bringing out its grungy side,” declared The Cut, New York magazine’s fashion blog. “Filth can be fabulous too.” But rock critics have been less impressed. ”It’s battered, leathery and overpriced – and so’s the suitcase,” scoffed The Guardian’s music blog. “One of the hardest rocking rockers who ever did rock has chosen to sell his soul to a luxury French designer company that makes handbags.” This seems a little hard. Mr Richards is donating his fee to Al Gore’s Climate Project. Moreover, Ms Leibovitz has ensured that his instrument features more prominently than its fancy case. “This guitar is so beautiful,” she sighs. You can buy a Gibson Memphis ES-355 with 22-fret ebony keyboard, mother-of-pearl block inlay and Bigsby vibrato in the US for $3,699, which, you can safely bet, is considerably less than the cost of a custom-made guitar case from Vuitton. A portable wardrobe on display in the Vuitton store costs £16,500.

Obviously, Mr Richards is not short of ego, but at least it comes with a spoonful of irony. At the end of the photo session, he is shown the chosen image on a video screen. “Oh, yes, baby,” he remarks to his portraitist, who is also chief photographer for Vanity Fair. “The Rembrandt issue.” And, yes, he’s spot on. Keith Richards (64) by Leibovitz bears a distinct similarity to Painting of the Artist as an Old Man (63) by Rembrandt.

“My wife went to the beauty shop and got a mud pack. For two days she looked beautiful. Then the mud fell off.”