Getting ready.

A bag spends most of its life somewhere unglamorous: a bathroom counter, the arm of a chair, the floor of a taxi. Palermo's story goes exactly there.

Four friends crowd a bathroom mirror, lipsticks out, bags open on the counter. A woman sinks into a worn leather armchair under a floor lamp, a patterned tote at her feet. A beaded bag hangs from a pair of red opera gloves. A sequin top, a bead necklace big enough to be a bib, a clutch passed between two people whispering.

Only lamps are lit, and the frames are tight, the way you see a friend's bag when you stand next to her. Nothing sits on a plinth. The bags are carried, swapped, borrowed and dropped, which is how anyone decides they want one.