The other day as a friend was about to leave, I spotted a couple of small finger jointed pine shelves leaning against the back porch wall where they had been standing for the last six months or so. They were part of a cheap wooden shoe rack I had bought a few years back at Canadian tire for about $16 on sale. The finger joints had begun to come unglued and one of the upright supports had snapped, so rather than repair it we bought ourselves a better one . Although I had no use for shelves, I found it difficult to throw them away. “Hey, could you use these shelves. They need a little gluing but they would make a great little rack for drying herbs or something.” My friend looked at me and said, “I have no use for them as a shelf, but if you want to get rid of them I will use them for kindling for my wood stove.” I stood there for a moment assessing whether this was acceptable, and then reason clicked in and I said “Sure, go ahead and burn them up.” I thought they may have served a nobler purpose, but hey, a man’s got to light a fire. This incident got me thinking about why I have a tendency to save things that I either find interesting as an object, or which I think I might find useful later on.
I’ve never lived through a period of want. Never not had enough to eat. Never even longed for a new pair of pants. I’ve been a pretty lucky little monkey when it comes to living in a time and place where I have not wanted for much. So why do I save broken shelves? And being someone who saves things, why have I not become a collector per say? Or for that matter, a hoarder.
Over my 35 years in the trade I have encountered and come to know several collectors, and indeed we do have a pretty large collection of Canadian folk art, but this is largely due to my vocation, and the tendencies of my wife Jeanine who does have a true collector’s instinct. In collecting terms I relate most closely to the crow. Not in that I am necessarily attracted to shiny things, but in that I tend to pick up and carry away that which I find interesting or pleasing enough that I think I may want to look at it again and again. Knowing that one day, I may find that I have enjoyed the object enough, and if it no longer holds a special relationship to me, I am quite happy to find it a new home. I recognize this makes me more a dealer, than collector.
It is the process I am interested in. Not so much the act of possession. I like handling the stuff and taking it somewhere else where it will be safe. I like to feel I am saving it from the fire. Also, I like to be surrounded with things that resonate with me. Things that make me feel something when I look at them. Things I find beautiful.
Does my becoming a dealer come from me not wanting to throw out possibly useful things as much as it does from an appreciation of beautiful things? Probably so, at least in the first place. As I grow alder I save a lot less for eventualities.
And why with this tendency have I not become a hoarder? The simple answer is I guess it never appealed to me. I have always lived in environments that are essentially orderly, and although far from being minimalist, have never been overly crowded or chaotic. That being said, from a very early age I have always had a room, or a space in a barn , or someplace where I could pile things that were of interest, but not necessary for my day to day life. My hidey-hole. My Raven’s nest. I have included as evidence a tricky triple exposure photo I made of myself in a room I had for my “extra” things in London when I was in my early twenties .
As a kid I wasn’t particularly prone to dragging things home, although as soon as I had my own space in the form of a tree house, I started to put things in there. That was when I was most crow-like. An interesting rock. A discarded cowboy beIt buckle. You name it. Then when I was about 16 my Uncle Clare and Aunt Lottie decided to sell the farm and move to a house in town, so that was when I attended my first auction.
I remember that lovely late spring day, arriving to see everything from this familiar place being dragged out of the house and barn and spread across the yard. My initial response was sorrow. My next response was interest. I was there with my parents and my Aunt Marie and cousin Ron. Ron was eleven days older than me, but already a lot cooler. He had started to grow his hair longer, and had taken to wearing torn blue jeans and moccasins without socks. We were close, so when he excitedly told me that he was going to bid on and buy the Bakelite portable record player, I was excited for him, and decided then and there that I would also bid to buy something to remind me of these folks and their place.
Ron’s record player came up first, and he was up against considerable competition. About half way through the bidding he had to ask Aunt Marie if she would cover him if he went over his savings. She agreed, and he won it for about thirty bucks as I remember. A lot of money in those days. It was worth it though. It was a great sounding unit and loud, and we had countless hours of enjoyment playing large stacks of hit 45’s in his bedroom as we discussed everything under the sun, and ate mandarin oranges from a tin.
The auction wore on and I tried for a couple of things unsuccessfully before winning an old pine drop leaf table which had never been painted for $5. It washed up beautifully, and I began to sit at it to do my homework feeling an indescribable closeness to it. The table is still with me; and although it’s nothing special, I continue to love it for the association.
Anyway, it was on that day when I bid and won a useful table for $5 that something clicked in me. And the switch is still stuck in the “on” position. Within a year I had made an arrangement to rent some space in a barn from a 70 year old man I had befriended, who lived by himself on an unworked farm at the edge of town. And the rest as they say is history.