Despite being gifted pewter ‘things’ forever metalled in cuteness as a child (think unicorns, fairies and piglets), I never once HAD TO HAVE something. I have never collected anything. Never owned a collection of pretties. But when does the ‘ness’ (of pretty) become just kinda, freaky?
I am sure when she started; your Nanna’s collection of porcelain cats was all sorts of cotton-candy sweet. But that one black porcelain cat, and the one that was scarily similar to the ginger kitten you lost, shadowed you down the long hallway with their beady waxy eyes. You remain thankful that she didn’t taxidermy old Floss and Jake the Abyssinian when they passed on. As it was, the once candy sweetness of sculptured felines quickly became coated in a layer of naff; no cool kitsch. No more.
What is ‘acceptable collectable’?
Collecting Barbies, Lego, stickers and rubber stamps as a child; completely acceptable. But holding on to these life-maginary wares into adulthood is for me similar to riding a scooter past the age of 7: nonsensical. Though, a collection of shoes. Jewellery. Wine. Music. Art. Books. An entirely different (justifiable) matter…
Maybe it is a numbers-clutter game for me. I have enough trouble finding room to breathe in my cave of a Sydney terrace…the thought of visually taking in your collection of semi-precious gemstones or porcelain dust collectors is plain claustrophobic. Collecting soap, animal heads, decorative plates, newspapers. Just. WTF? And why hasn’t the man in Iceland who collects animal penises (have your morning spew here: http://www.rounds.com/blog/11-weird-collections/) been psychologically assessed? Freaking heck. That is a whole collected kettle of crazy I refuse to further delve.
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