Why Am I Collecting Again?

Judy Southerland

When we began cleaning out our apartment in our preparation for a year long sailing adventure back in 2017, my normal organization and tidiness turned into multiple rounds of "stuff" purging.  We were abandoning land-living and didn't know where we'd end up.   I became Mari Kondo on steroids, determined to sell, donate or gift all that that didn't bring us joy.  It was the ultimate battle of emotionally detaching from our material world.  Closets full of clothes; shelves full of knickknacks, plants, dishes, glassware, pots and pans, pillows, blankets and linens; as well as mounds of papers, games and books were removed in bags and boxes. It's amazing how much stuff we had acquired.  What survived? -- the paintings, prints and objects we've collected.  We put all of these into storage along with the furniture and essential stuff (five 10 foot high crates) required to reconstruct living arrangements upon our return to land.

The year on the water was refreshing in that we stopped acquiring stuff because there was absolutely no storage for it on the boat.  We believed we were totally cured of  the  acquisition-itis.  As we unpacked after we returned, our decision to let go of several furniture pieces that just didn't fit for our new space, our belief that we'd been cured was reinforced.  In the end, we successfully created a simpler, uncluttered land-life.   Our acquisition philosophy was clear - if we bring something new in, something old must leave.  We were comfortable, smug is our simplicity.

Fast forward a year.  It seems we've made an exception for art. Four pieces by four artists have come into our lives -- a paper assemblage, an acrylic painting, an alcohol ink painting and a photograph.  Do we need them?  NO.  Do we have space for them? BARELY.  Are they like anything else we have? MAYBE, BUT NOT REALLY.  Do we care if no one else particularly likes them? NO. Like bugs driven to a glowing hot light in the night, a deep primordial compulsion to collect art compelled us to buy them."

What on earth is this happening to us ?" we asked ourselves.  It just doesn't make sense.  What happened to our simpler de-cluttered life? These new pieces don't emotionally connect us to any special memories as some of our art does.  None of the artists are well known.  We were thankful that, at least, they didn't break the budget.  Our kids, who will inherit the collection don't care for most of our art, don't understand why we have so many disparate pieces, and, most likely, won't be able to sell them after we're gone.  Why are we reverting to our old behavior?

There's been quite a bit of research on why people collect, what they collect and warnings of when collecting becomes hoarding.  After reading all that, I feel better. It's safe to say that our collecting is not an unacceptable behavior.  In fact, the art collecting brings us joy.   Being surrounded by art we love calms us.  It's always with us, not scattered among galleries and museums.  With the collection, we've created a refuge, a place safe from a noisy and chaotic world.

It's true.  Collecting can be additive.  However, research shows that as long as it doesn't interfere with our normal lives or suck all our finances out of us, we're okay.  Like so many who collect, it began with one or two pieces over fifty years ago, but I know realize what drives me to collect art.

Ever since I was small, I loved to draw and paint.  I even had visions of becoming a great artist - an artist whose creativity was driven by the passion and joy in the doing of it.  It was in college, as an art major, I came face-to-face with the reality of my talent or lack of it, I should say.  It was a cold wintry afternoon in the studio at school.  Gray skies with low light streaked across my canvas as I struggled with a still life.  After two frustrating hours toiling on my painting, the teacher came by to assess my progress.  She sighed when she looked at it, pulled the brush out of my hand, and added a touch and there of her own.  The still life came to life.  Her strokes were like magic and I didn't have any of that magic.  It was so bittersweet -- I learned in those few minutes that I would never have what it takes, that wanting to be good and being good are two entirely different things.  But I also learned that I could tell what made good art.

I put down my brush, packed up and left the studio.  Although I attempted a return to the studio 35 years later, thinking that maybe old age would bring me the wisdom to succeed at the easel, the answer was the same.  Making art does not bring me joy.  Collecting it does.  So, I surround myself with art that fills my heart, makes me think and makes me smile.  I will always support artists that make me feel that way.