Many collectors have emotional reactions to — and meaningful interactions with — objects. We collectors “get” that objects are more than just themselves, more than symbols, and certainly more than a pile of materialistic goods. At a deeper level, we collectors react to items — those we own, those we seek, as well as those we know may only visit, like those in museums. As I mentioned last week, some scholars call these kind of experiences “numinous”.

I believe that we collectors have numinous experiences — or at least something very close to it — with our collectibles. I think that’s the thing we have trouble articulating, the thing we collectors would call the personal and emotional values which motivate us to hunt & gather our objects, that thing we mean when we say our collectibles are “priceless.” I think numinosity is that intrinsic value we defend while some discuss a lack of inherent or economic values. Numinous experiences are the difference between our tomato/tomatoe views on collectibles: They monetarily “invest in” and we are spiritually “invested in.” We believe, seek, have faith — and when we see it? By gawd we know it!

Call me crazy for comparing collecting to a spiritual experience (I’ve been called worse for less), but what else can you call that mesmerizing combination of knowing and joy — that peace which comes from standing in front of an object?

Plus, if I call it a religion, you can’t persecute me.

Happy Holidays From Clara Bow

And even if a collector’s reaction to his or her collection isn’t technically numinous (but I remind you, you don’t get to select my faith!), there’s a certain je ne sais quoi to collecting. I dig clean– but used — lady’s underwear (that’s “vintage lingerie” to me) and you still play with dolls (OK, you call them “action figures“), and why we each do that is completely unique to each of us. The “what” and “why” are our individual holy grails & pilgrimage, so to speak. What we collect has an “it” factor to us, but not everyone appreciates it like it’s Clara Bow and the year is 1927.

Such a pity, really.

But I suppose if you’ve never stood before, touched or held something inanimate and had such an experience, it sounds (and looks) rather kooky. And truth be told, it is a difficult thing to explain — like deja vu, you know what it is, but how do you explain it to someone who claims they’ve never felt it? Poorly.

And like explaining your god to someone who’s never heard of him, you probably only seem crazier than when you began.

But the reason I mention all this is not only to comfort the rest of you misunderstood, under-appreciated nut-jobs I’m proud to associate with — or even to start a cult of collectors (though the idea is tempting). I mention this because it’s that time of year when people (most of whom are without numinous experience) play Nostradamus and try predicting the hot collectibles of the future.

If we don’t know what the “it” factor is, if we don’t experience the same pull or have the same holy grails, if we don’t all know our numismatists from our numinosity, how can we pretend to predict what’s going to have “it”?

I’d love to be able to say that I can predict what people will be moved by — be it the next Big Collectible or the It Girl that will set the world on fire (figuratively, I hope).

But really, that’s kind of like me telling you that you should collect glass Coke bottles to find yer own Nirvana.

If that’s true, the gods certainly must be crazy.

Collectors are often accused of being a materialistic lot; but as collections are not just made up of objects, how can that be?

Nearly two years ago I wrote how, “Somewhere in time this object ceased to be just an object but became a symbol of something more, something larger than just itself.” Not long after, I talked about collections in context. But at a very simple level, a collection is a set of memories, on display and ready to be shared.

Collections may start with an heirloom, something personal from your past, a thing “just snapped-up” in an impulse — but along the way they transform from a set of objects. They represent more than spoils of your hunting, but the path you took. Collections document your own personal journey.

Old Stuffed Toys

My little accumulation of ratty-old-cuddlies didn’t begin with buying anything. It began with friends from my childhood, like “Tigger” shown in this photo.

“Tigger” is a sawdust stuffed tiger. He’s faded, some of his fur is worn away with love, and he’s been sewn-up several times at the seam along his back. Even if he was a Steiff, he’d likely have no “value” due to his condition.

But to me, every bald patch, every stitch, has a story.

That larger patch at the back is evidence of 8 year-old-me chewing gum in bed — I had to cut the grape-yuck out of him in the morning so my folks wouldn’t know. Those multi-colored stitches down his back are the proof of the improvement of my sewing skills; large, childish stitches in black at the bottom, pinkish more uniform threads in the middle, and tight tan stitches at the top.

So when I spotted “Big Toe Joe” my delight lay not completely in his original creation, nor did I view his missing eyes and ratty hair as desecration; I saw in him what others might miss in “Tigger” — all the spots where the stories lay. The same is true for “Jocko” the one-eared faceless monkey. There are stories in the wear & tear of these childhood cuddlies. They’d been saved for years due to love and I just had to honor that, continue their care, even if I don’t know all their stories. My collection is more than just old stuffed animals; it documents my path to save what I can of abandoned childhood memories.

Another collection which has its roots in my childhood is my “ancient Egyptian stuff” collection.

Just One Shelf Of My "Ancient Egyptian" Chotchkes

It began with those early forays to the library. I somehow stumbled into books about ancient Egypt, likely either from my love of Arabian horses, my passion of learning how to belly dance alone in my room, or a hot & heavy pursuit of mythology; take your pick. In any case I was instantly was smitten with ancient Egypt.

I began to get every Egyptian chotchke I could, no matter how obscurely it was connected. Family and friends have helped through the years, giving things with an excited & hopeful, “You don’t have this yet, do you?” I’ve amassed scarabs, papyrus, wooden and glass hippos, tacky tin mummies and boxes, jewelry old & new, plaster museum reproductions, African candle holders, handmade things with Egyptian motifs — and of course books.

At first my books were those heavily illustrated Time/Life numbers grabbed-for-cheap at flea markets and garage sales. As my fetish continued, including some study in college, family & friends continued to enable me by gifting me lush tomes full of photos of pharaoh tombs. But eventually I graduated to works which focused on the written word, even (when I can afford it) rare works by archaeologists either forgotten or mentioned in the footnotes of others.

When I look at my “Egyptian stuff” I don’t just see a collection of objects on a theme; I see my growth from dreamy romantic child to history lover, from history lover to history student, from student to independent researcher. And I see in all the items gifted to me, the support and love of family and friends.

These displays of my personal growth, of my values, aren’t “just things”. They are as important as snapshots. They are the visual cues to oral stories — if only someone would listen.

How, then, can collecting be seen as just a materialistic act?

Scene from American Splendor

Collectors are often depicted as solitary, selfish creatures — sometimes even, like in scenes from American Splendor and Ghost World, as socially awkward individuals who relate better to ’stuff’ than to other humans. While it may be true that collecting, like many hobbies, is more the sport of introverts than the social spectacle of sports (as team player or fan), that doesn’t mean that all collectors are all the mumbling, shuffling, eye-contact-fearing, social-avoiding kooks they are caricatured to be (however charmingly portrayed).

Some people will say that collecting fills a deep psychological void; be it caused by some deficit of a materialistic culture, a disconnect from our own personal history, or even a wish to disconnect (distract) from our own lives. These people see ’stuff’ as a way for the collector to shy away from the ‘real issues’. Even the related activities of researching are seen as a way for the collector to avoid the here & now, burying noses in books and computer monitors as opposed to seeking social interactions & relationships.

In Canada’s The Gazette, Susan Schwartz reports on a new book by William Davis King which depicts collecting in such a negative light:

In Collections of Nothing, as much a memoir as it is a treatise on collecting, King recalls his divorce a decade or so back, when he was 43. His ex-wife was, like him, full of self-doubt, he writes, wrestling “with a sense of nothingness. Both wanted something deeper than the companionship they had, he writes. “That clinging impulse, that relentless searching, that drive to fill an emptiness” went, for her, into reading fiction. For him, it went into collecting.

His suspicion is that collecting is, for many, a way of retreating from relationship rather than engaging,” he writes, “like the turn to a woodshop in the basement or a late-night blog session.”

Sheesh! By that token, no relationship is safe from the dreaded “hobby”.

As for the hobby of collecting, hunting (shopping) and networking (be it in organized collecting groups or the ‘usual gang’ at tag sales), are vital parts which require interaction with humans. Ditto researching. Even the most hermetic collector will have social interactions, as Schwartz herself acknowledges, saying, “I think of collecting as kind of a social pursuit: I love meeting people in the flea markets and antique shops I haunt.”

But of course Susan & I would agree — we’re both writers, no doubt equally familiar (and comfortable) in our solitary late-night writing sessions, ‘retreating from human contact’.

However, both King and Schwartz have omitted other points in their discussion of collecting.

Scene from Ghost World

One is the fact that many collectors are not alone in their hobby. Hubby and I are virtually joined-at-the-hip, only separating — one to the left, the other to the right — to cover more ground, or when one sits with the pile of stuff while the other runs to the ATM. Collecting is something we do together — that brings us closer together. That’s compatibility, kiddos.

We share collecting with our family too, to build our relationships. We go with the kids and with our parents — sometimes there are three generations of us at an auction. And we aren’t the only ones. We also see pairs of pals, goggles of giggling girls, and other assorted groups hunting in packs as a social event.

Yet, I think the best proof that collecting is a social activity can easily be shown to you anytime, anywhere.

Just ask a collector to tell you about their collection. Then stand back and let the evidence pour in as they yack yer ears off. They’ll give you more details on the items & how they were obtained than you can absorb without a stenographer present — and offer to take you ’round town to see all the best spots too.

That’s pretty social.

We collectors still might be a bit kooky; but we’re not necessarily alone or lonely, using ’stuff’ to fill some void.

Here’s another photo of an item I didn’t purchase at an antique mall — a pair of vintage cowgirl pants, with a risqué & racist theme.

I didn’t get these because, as cute as they are, they were just too pricey for me.  (That’s not to say the price of $40 isn’t fair; I just don’t have the bucks.)  I took the photos just so you could all see them — inappropriate jokes and all.

And then I started thinking about that postcard I didn’t get.

I’ve spent some time — perhaps too much time — thinking about that postcard.  And the only reason I haven’t gone back to get it (yet) is that it started me thinking…

Collectors are like fishermen.  We both like to hang out all day at places that other folks (who don’t fish &/or collect) find about as exciting as watching paint dry.  And we both love to talk about what we do, the great catches we’ve got, and talk about the great ones which got away.

Mostly at this blog we talk about the first two things (what we do and the great catches), but we rarely talk about the big ones which got away.

I don’t know why this is so; certainly any group of collectors will talk about how some “jerk” beat them to The Deal, how Mr. Deep Pockets out-bid them at an auction, or complain about bid sniping software which supposedly helped some other guy “steal” the auction item.  We tell those legendary stories of how we snagged one lucky find at an estate sale, only to discover that they had thrown away boxes of more “just like it” (usually followed by a, “Would you have wanted that? …We didn’t think it had any value…” Ack!)  But sometimes we collectors are just as ignorant to what lies in our hands, and we walk away from something.  Like me and that postcard.  And then we regret it — and annoy family & friends alike just talking about the one that got away.

Just like that fish that grabs the bait or slides off the hook… We almost had it!

I walked away from both the postcard and the vintage cowboy jeans, but I’m only going to go on & on about the postcard.  The difference?

The jeans were too expensive, and, like fish that are too small, I couldn’t keep them so I had to throw them back.  But that postcard… That one I should have got the net for.

Collectors are also like fishermen because we return to our same “lucky spots” for years & years — all because of that one trophy piece we caught that one time.  And as soon as the seasons starts, good weather or bad, we’re out there, “wasting” our weekends when we could be doing something else (i.e. what other people like to do).

Why?

Because we don’t want to let something get away.

#1 I enjoy reading old magazines. I delight in each discovery, reading my finds to hubby. He is always alerted to my discoveries by the gasp I make. Sometimes, when reading really good issues (typically anything before 1964), I gasp so often hubby will remind me to breathe so that I don’t pass-out… I often wonder if my Lamaze breathing would come in handy at these times, but I’ve yet to remember to try it. (If it works, you’ll be able to identify me at any estate sale by my hee-hee-who-ing.)

As evidence I submit this photo of a vintage magazine. It has 136 pages and there are 32 Post-It notes marking pages to scan. (Note: Some Post-It’s mark sections to scan, not just individual images.) Now you can see why he worries about my gasping.

#2 I enjoy auctions tremendously, but jump a lot at the noises auctioneer spotters make. I’ve not yet wet my pants or anything, but the day is nearing… Thank you, Kimberly-Clark, for Depends, and medical science for pacemakers & oxygen masks; now I’ll never be too old to be attending an auction.

#3 Hubby and I wear hats when out buying at auctions, yard sales, flea markets, and thrift stores. Even our kids have ‘hunting hats’.

My hat is this very noticable velveteen leopard print ‘cowboy’ hat that I got at a yard sale for $1.

Yes, we think we’re cool. Yes, it’s a bit hot, especially in summer; so I am always on the look-out for a lighter-shade (but equally cool — and inexpensive) hat. Yes, we know that by now ‘everyone’ knows we are dealers/collectors and that this could tip our hands. But the fact is we can easily spot each other at great distances.

#4 I don’t often polish my nails because as an ephemera lover I’m often digging through boxes and fear leaving red or other colored marks on the papers; yet I still prefer my nails long. The result is often broken nails which I then fidget with, anxiously, at auctions.

#5 Digging through boxes of old junk, my hand get very dirty. I wash them often, not only for the ‘ick’ factor, but because I don’t wish to soil other objects. Washing them often leads to very dry hands which I should pamper with lotions, but the fear of lotions leaving their traces, especially, again, on old fragile paper, prevents me from doing this. Even at night before bed, because I’m usually too lacking in oxygen from #1 to remember.

#6 I sometimes refer to dust on items in my home as ‘patina’.

#7 I have strange relationships with the ideas of ‘value’ & ‘worth’. As I fundamentally believe the value of anything is only what another is willing to pay, I sometimes take issue with retail and restuarant pricing and wish to dicker. I know it’s socially unacceptable, so I don’t (much to the relief of family & friends), but sometimes I’ll skip those outings due to ‘cost’ — and yet I will pay $5 for a pop and a lukewarm hotdog at an auction or flea market. Their ‘value’ increases greatly due to their proximity to the action.

#8 Sometimes things I don’t really like suddenly become adored simply because someone else is bidding/interested. I know my momma and daddy would smack me with a rolled-up newspaper for my bidding lust, but sometimes I just can’t help myself.

For example, I half-heartedly bid on a box of linens & other oddities, including a plush, handmade Miss Piggy doll. I was quickly out-bid by a mob of Muppet-manic mooches, which left me so upset that I heavily revenge bid on, and won, a later box which also included a similar Miss Piggy. I rationalized the larger bid by speaking of Miss Piggy’s resale return when I sold her. “Obviously, she’s in demand,” I said.

Miss Piggy is still here. I have not yet found the heart to sell her — or even investigate her potential ‘value’ — simply because I must still “enjoy the snot out of her” to get back at the infidels who dared to out-bid me on the first lot.

#9 I used to eschew ‘new’ collectibles, prefering to hunt only for ‘old things’. I told myself that paying retail for the latest release was tomfoolery when there were so many bargains to be had.

#10 I realized my folly in its entirety when I spotted Gene dolls. I can’t always afford them; but darn it, if I could I’d have paid retail (or higher) for each and every one. :sigh:

I then realized that I had adopted this snobby attitude because I needed not only to justify my inability to go after the retail priced collectibles and big ticket items, but to nurse my wounded pride too.

#11 I am fickle. Nearly anything — any collectible category, person, place, thing — can fascinate me and make me thrill to collect it. (Now you know why I was a bit worried about the love of new collectibles — at least before that, there were some limitations.)

#12 I am obsessive. Once I get my teeth (mentally — I don’t put collectibles into my mouth) into any collectible category, person, place or thing, I will ruthlessly research, hunt and track all I can on it. I can’t say I’ll always be able to discover the information, find the object, or be able to buy it if I do; but I’ll always be looking for it.

#13 I’m complicated. Driven by new fascinations as well as old and/or continuing hunts, and often at cross-purposes (such as meeting my girlie-girl needs and my collecting ones, or my conflicted judgments regarding ‘value’), I never quite know where my enthusiasm or bidding paddle will take me.

So now you can easily recognize me at any auction, garage sale, flea market or collector event: I’m the gasping girl in the animal print hat with hands, greatly in need of a manicure, holding onto an outrageously expensive hot dog dickering for a quarter on that box of old magazines. Yeah, that’s me.

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