While bags are only peripherally related to gadgets, they're a personal obsession. I have at least half a dozen, each suited for specific scenarios: a backpack with a laptop slot for short trips; a single-strap across-the-chest bag for forays into the city; even a few manpurse-class rucksacks that mostly sit unused, more stylish than practical.
I'm also intrigued by fashion brands — and even more so by counterfeits. Perhaps I'm just too steeped in irony to ever fully appreciate the magisterial disdain for lesser bags a real Louis Vuitton bag affords its owner, but I've always thought the iconic pattern works best as a knock-off. A counterfeit version is cooler than the real thing; more in line with its real worth in price, too.
Lastly: swine. I can't get enough. Next to bulldogs (and the goblins who ride them), pigs are perhaps my favorite animal, both inside and out. Cute as buttons when piglets, terrible lumbering pork dreadnaughts with dead, baleful eyes as adults. Terribly delicious in almost any form. A sweet meat.
A trinity of swirling appeal, then, in "Excessory Baggage," a sculpture by Meryl Smith, currently on exhibit at Honey Space. It evokes a future where animals are bred with fashionable patterns and textures, killed with a poison gas as they listen to stories read by a kind English nanny, thrown in a kiln to set the cute, cracked along the spine to create a bone zipper, and set in stacks on the tables of Canal Street knock-off vendors. Every rummage for lipstick or phone provokes a damp waft of delicious, high-grade cracklin'.
Update: Horror! I have realized this is not a piglet, but some sort of dog. I now find it all revolting.