The incurable collector

We no longer have to forage for survival, yet hunting
and gathering can still make our palms sweat

Story and photography by
Katharine Mott

SHORTNESS OF BREATH, palpitations, loss of hearing, glazed eyes, sweaty palms. Though not terminal, these are the signs of a disease that can last a lifetime. It’s the bug of collecting.

A yard sale sign can trigger the symptoms. Flea markets can’t be passed up. A newspaper ad for an auction a few hundred miles from home gets the blood pumping. Internet auctions can be a whole other addiction.

The bug isn’t contagious and not everyone suffers from it. Sometimes we don’t know how the fetish developed or when—it’s just there.

My own passion is for cream pitchers. It can’t be just any cream pitcher—it needs to fit within a set criteria. It has to “speak” to me before I add it to my collection. It needs to serve a purpose in my lifestyle—maybe cream for two on my table, or a pitcher to serve eight. I might envision a delightful sauce in it, or a bouquet of tulips. It needs to be the right shape and heft. It needs to be a bargain. And I need to choose it.

I’ve surveyed friends about their collections. One teapot aficionado has a collection ranging from the teeniest doll’s teapot to one that sits on the floor on a stand that allows for pouring. A few friends collect teddy bears and dolls, some old, others of a particular vintage. Marbles, bottles, stamps and shells are popular. Someone I know collects lists—not literally, but he can rhyme off all the ranks in the navy, for example. One friend has a 20-plus walking stick collection. She’ll be ready if she ever needs one! I met a chap who has more than 40 motorcycles in his garage. A couple of friends collect paintings of people, and some simply collect people around them.