I’ve always been a bit of a collector, a hoarder of pretty things and a scrounger of thrift store racks. As a kid, I amassed quite an extensive collection of Beanie Babies and other assorted plush animals (oh child of the nineties). In my other obsession – model horses – I was slightly more discerning, albeit far nerdier. Breyers, in my adolescent estimation, were the finest for quality, conformation, and variety of breed, color, markings, etc. Each plastic horse was given a name and proudly displayed on a shelf but was never to be played with. No, they were far too precious for that.
Now, my beloved horses lie carefully swaddled in packing paper in carboard boxes in the attic of my parents’ house. Perhaps one day I’ll sell them. They might even be worth something – they are collectibles after all. But I doubt I could bear to part with them even now.
Oh, What’s One More Throw Blanket?
These days, my collecting is slightly more restrained and regrettably, utilitarian. Assorted dinnerware enameled in florals and fanciful animals teeter in high stacks in the cupboards. Pillows (never too many) lounge in vibrant colors and patterns on the sofa, the bed. And now, eclectic pieces of new and antique furniture are beginning to fill up the space in the apartment that I share with my boyfriend, who, thankfully, indulges me in this. Each new piece brings with it a story or a memory and imbues a sense of place. Increasingly, the things that I buy to fill our home (and my closet) are not fresh off the shelf, but previously lived-in and sometimes less-than pristine.
It is of course now not only socially acceptable but in vogue to buy vintage. The proliferation of thrift stores and secondhand clothing sites like ThredUp and The RealReal are a testament to the frugal, typically eco-minded, often millennial consumer. Though we as a society remain firmly entrenched in the economics of consumerism and materialism, this is nonetheless a welcome turn.
The Antique Guru
My grandmother, who is solely to blame for my love of dusty old things and restrained compulsion to cram “kick-knacks” into every inch of available space, knows a thing or two about antiques. For years in her retirement, she’s worked shows for an antique dealer friend of hers and has volunteered at the local hospital thrift store. Each time I see her, she comes bearing a new bundle of designer threads that she’s procured for me from said thrift store (that volunteer discount is gold). Her century-old Victorian home is itself a time capsule of a bygone era — the parlor room a museum and the furniture, relics.
Her house is filled with all of the things that she’s collected throughout a lifetime. But it doesn’t feel crowded or disordered; rather, it is full of quiet sentiment and whispered stories. I recently came across an article by journalist Ann Friedman that beautifully captures this very idea. Oh, and it also happens to defend the accumulation of stuff:
“I believe that the physical things you collect as you move through your life—even those that don’t make your stomach flip with joy—add up to something more than their individual utility or aesthetic appeal or heirloom potential. They aren’t just things, they’re your things. And if you remove yourself from the picture, the stuff you surround yourself with tells a story about you. It is a physical autobiography you write by living.”
Ann friedman
For the Thrill of It
This is why Friedman says she loves estate sales. They provide a window into the life of the person who lived in that house and amassed those objects. For her, the thrill of the sale is not only in the act of perusing through the bric-a-brac, but in the story-telling that goes along with it. She describes her experience at a recent estate sale, where she preoccupied herself with piecing together a narrative of the previous inhabitant’s life, using books and clothing and old family photos as clues. The intrigue for her lies less in the physical remains of that life, in the objects themselves, and more in the connection and meaning that these items had to their owner.
I, too, love estate sales. But my interest comes more from the former position – from the objects for their own sake and the thrill of the hunt. To find the real treasures, one must wade through all the other things that are often of little interest and, plainly, sometimes just junk (though it feels uncharitable to besmirch the deceased’s taste as such). Murano glass, Persian rugs, and mid-century teak tables lie in wait to be uncovered alongside practical but mundane kitchen gadgets, half-used tubes of paint and pet supplies, and the universal garage miscellaneous. When this elusive dust-filmed item of beauty is unearthed, there is a sharp inhalation of breath and a moment of happy surprise that accompany its discovery.
At the same time, I also experience a bit of Friedman’s curiosity concerning the people whose home I and hundreds of other strangers now traipse through, fondling possessions and assessing worth. For me, this often elicits slightly uncomfortable, embarrassed feelings. It all seems too morbid – the house pried open to the greedy public to have its contents parceled off and carried away one by one with no regard for the family who, until very recently, called it a home. This feeling is always strongest as I approach the house and cross the threshold to find others – dealers, dabblers, nosy neighbors – milling about in search of a good bargain. If there is a thought for the owner or family who once was, an inkling of reflection or appreciation, it is not shared among these strangers.
That’s A Nice Trunk
In a way, there might be something to Friedman’s approach. If the things we own tell stories, those stories began before we ever had a part in them.
A few months ago, at an estate sale in an affluent residential neighborhood in Berkeley, I came across an old steamer trunk. The canvas was a faded olive green, the brass rivets tarnished black and the leather trim falling away, and on either side, was a monogrammed “E”. It would need some work, certainly, but the potential was there. That the “E” conveniently corresponded to the first letter of my last name was a happy accident.
Curious about the trunk’s previous owner, I snapped a picture of a framed fraternity certificate from 1942 that I found among a pile of personal affects. After a Google search of the name on the certificate, I discovered that my mystery man had graduated from UC Berkeley and served in the Army. I wondered if the trunk was perhaps a remnant of his days in the service. He is survived by loving friends and family, his obituary informed me. The house, which sported a for sale sign for a few weeks afterwards, now belongs to some other family who have filled it with all of their accumulated things.
A Spark of Joy
This trunk, which had been a part of this stranger’s life for decades, is now a part of mine. The weeks of elbow grease and paint that I poured into restoring it has nurtured the kind of proud fondness that an in-store or online purchase could never have.
There is more work yet to be done to replace the leather handles and trim that has begun to wear away, but this is a job for hands that are more skilled than mine. For now, the trunk sits in our living room in front of the couch, above which a single large abstract picture hangs. That too is a recent estate sale purchase. The trunk, handy little guy, multitasks as coffee table, footrest, storage, and cat lounge all in one.
At one point, Friedman poses a question regarding the things that we collect – “Do these things spark joy? Is the mundane supposed to spark joy? Somehow, I don’t think that’s the point.” In answer and challenge to this – yes, these things can and do ignite joy. And maybe that isn’t the whole point, but it’s part of it, wrapped up in the ownership of a thing. It’s why, when I look at this ordinary trunk sitting in our living room, drab green and imperfect, I smile.
