Objects of Obsession: On Bags, Cars, and the Strange Alchemy of Meaning

I have always believed that the objects we return to again and again are never accidental. They are not chosen once; they are chosen repeatedly. They earn their place through use, through reliability, through the quiet accumulation of trust. Over time, they stop being possessions and begin to feel like extensions of the self.

For me, bags have always belonged to that category.

Long before cars became an obsession, before winter coats became philosophical inquiries, I was quietly loyal to one company: Grams 28. Their bags entered my life without ceremony and stayed without effort. Clean lines. Exceptional leather. Thoughtful proportions. Nothing ornamental. Nothing unnecessary. They were the rare kind of objects that didn’t try to impress you on first contact—but rewarded you endlessly for living with them.

I trusted them. And trust, I’ve learned, is the highest compliment one can give to design.

Then I bought my first Porsche.

Specifically, a 911 Targa—one of those cars that doesn’t simply transport you, but recalibrates your senses. The steering teaches your hands new language. The engine rewires your ears. The balance of it, the honesty, the refusal to over-explain itself—it changed the way I thought about engineering, restraint, and joy. Porsche, I discovered, is not about spectacle. It is about correctness.

I became, almost overnight, insufferable. I read everything. Watched everything. Learned the lineage, the oddities, the failures, the cult cars that never quite fit the mainstream narrative. Porsche became less a brand and more a worldview—one that values purpose over polish, function over flourish.

So when I heard that Grams 28 had collaborated with Porsche, my interest sharpened immediately. But when I learned that the collaboration centred not on a 911, nor a supercar cliché, but on a radically reimagined Porsche 944—often referred to as the “Mars Rover”—I knew this was something different.

The collaboration, created with photographer Jonny Roams, wasn’t about nostalgia. It wasn’t about luxury as display. It was about curiosity. About exploration. About taking something precise and well-engineered and asking a dangerous, wonderful question: what else could this be?

The 944 at the heart of this project is not precious. It is elevated, lifted, prepared for terrain Porsche never intended—but somehow feels perfectly suited for. It is functional rebellion. Respectful irreverence. The sort of idea that could only come from people who understand the original object deeply enough to challenge it.

That philosophy runs directly through the bag.

The duffle from the Grams 28 × Mars Rover collaboration didn’t arrive with fanfare. It arrived quietly, beautifully made, heavy in the hand in that reassuring way only excellent leather and tactical X Pac can be. Vegetable-tanned. Rich. Alive. The proportions were exact—neither indulgent nor restrictive. Structured enough to hold its shape, supple enough to adapt.

I took it on my first trip almost immediately.

Airports are ruthless testing grounds. Overhead bins, hotel floors, rental car boots, rain, friction, time. Lesser bags reveal themselves quickly. This one did not flinch. The leather softened without weakening. The handles sat naturally in the hand. The zip—so often overlooked—glided with mechanical confidence. Inside, the compartments felt intuitive rather than prescriptive. Nothing forced. Nothing wasted.

It has since become my primary travel companion.

What I find most compelling about the bag is that it feels aligned with the way I now travel. Less excess. Fewer choices. One bag that does the job properly. Like a Porsche, it rewards familiarity. The more you use it, the better it becomes. The X-Pac develops character. The bag begins to remember you.

And that, I think, is the point of the collaboration.

This is not merchandise. It is not branding disguised as product. It is a shared philosophy rendered in material form. Grams 28 brings its quiet mastery of manufacturing and restraint. Porsche brings its uncompromising approach to function and engineering. Jonny Roams adds narrative—an eye trained not just on machines, but on the landscapes and ideas that surround them.

Together, they have created something that feels deeply personal to me—not because it bears a logo, but because it reflects a way of thinking I recognise in myself.

There is a particular kind of satisfaction that comes from using objects built by people who care more about correctness than applause. Objects that don’t explain themselves, because they assume you are paying attention. The duffle does not shout “limited edition.” It doesn’t need to. Its confidence is internal.

Much like the 911 Targa.

Since owning the car, I’ve become more sensitive to this kind of design language. I notice it everywhere—or more accurately, I notice its absence. The world is full of things trying very hard to be noticed. Very few are trying to be right.

This collaboration feels like a quiet act of resistance against that noise.

A bag inspired by a car built for imaginary terrain. A car reimagined by people who understand restraint well enough to break it carefully. A philosophy shared across disciplines: that exploration—whether geographical, creative, or personal—requires tools you can trust.

I carry the duffle now without thinking about it. It sits beside me on trains. In hotel rooms. In the passenger seat of the Targa. It belongs there. It feels inevitable.

And that, perhaps, is the greatest compliment of all.

Some objects enter your life as indulgences.Others enter as companions.Very occasionally, one arrives that feels like a mirror—reflecting not who you were when you bought it, but who you are becoming.

This bag is one of those objects for me.

And like the car that sparked the obsession in the first place, it reminds me—every time I pick it up—that the best design doesn’t chase attention.

It earns devotion.