Thing Theory

I’m like that too. I’m not a hunter and gatherer of objects,but I’m fascinated by those who are. Though I might cast a possessive glance over my bookshelf now and then,I’m an utter failure at creating and cultivating a collection of any kind. I’m happy to acquire things — say,earrings or shoes — but I lose them all too soon,or wear one pair to pieces and forget the rest. Also,my things just wear and tear much sooner than normal — clothes fade and fray,shoes get scuffed,and everything I own tends to acquire this shabby,experienced aura. I did try collecting matchbox covers once,just to have a “hobby” like everyone else,and didn’t get very far because all I got were red ones called Ship.

So there are people who spontaneously accumulate stuff,and people who collect — which implies a certain single-mindedness,order,discernment,and scale. Whether you collect first editions or soda bottle caps,saris or stamps,trophies or skins or masks or motorcycle replicas — you are part of a tribe that Walter Benjamin called “the most passionate people in the world” (and he was right up there with the most ardent of them,signposting his life through his personal library).

A collector,in the truest sense,is not driven by need or use value,just insatiable appetite. The collecting impulse scrambles market logic — and it’s a lot like love — in how it makes a fetish out of one thing,irrationally values it above everything else,and the assessment makes sense to few people except the avid collector. A collection is also social signalling. It is a chance to stage your idiosyncrasies and your cultural distinction (that’s why,in a relative stranger’s living room,you read them through their bookshelves).

To be a collector is to have a fanatic heart — to seek the happiness of pursuit. Think of Nabokov and his beloved butterflies. After affixing a pin to a rare find,he wrote: “Dark pictures,thrones,the stones that pilgrims kiss,/ poems that take a thousand years to die/ but ape the immortality of this / red label on a little butterfly.” Jonathan Lethem is another obsessive — in a short story,he likens a record collection to boarding “a carousel of pure and infinite unsatisfaction”,where he “rarely listened to a song to its end anymore,perpetually upping the dose with a junkie’s agitation.”

Sometimes,it is driven by the need to make a chaotic world meaningful. In Renaissance Europe,cabinets of curiosity displayed exotic and unclassifiable wonders — from art to natural specimens — meant to evoke amazement about the world. Later,the Enlightenment was fixated on sorting and arranging these oddities.

But even in the glory days of the 19th century,the private collector cut a lonely figure,pursuing her (though mostly,his) obsession,and secretively nurturing the habit. It was later that collecting was socialised,through museums,and its benefits extended to the larger public.

Collecting art and antiques might be a hard-headed investment as much as crazy love. But no matter what your collecting is geared towards,the objects you assemble are also triggers for your own memory. Gathering bits from the world and setting them aside is an inevitably personal project. Collection and recollection just go together — each thing is occasion for a reverie. Some people collect ticket stubs and ephemera from travel — a sample of the now-distant experience.

The dark side of collecting is hoarding,object-lust,a sense of being weighed down by things,and an inability to let go. Freud,of course,took it all back to toilet training. There’s a reality show in the US that shows people struggling to let go of stuff,smothered in their own junk.

But my favourite story about the vainglory of collecting is the famous Picasso poke — the casino billionaire Steve Wynn made a 6-inch gash in his $139 million-worth Picasso,while making an airy gesture at a cocktail party. (Cost of his action – roughly $40 million. His reaction — “I can’t believe I just did that. Oh,shit. Oh,man…I’m glad I did it and not you.” Priceless.)

amulya.gopalakrishnan@expressindia.com