On Collecting

Tales of humans and their love for objects

by

The perennial curator, I regard objects with the same sensibility I feel toward children. Each object has its own identity and special needs. I enjoy their unique attributes and I am proud when others admire them. When parted, I look forward to their return and check them over carefully when reunited. I like to share their stories. 

I used to tell people that every object has three stories, but upon reflection, I believe there are actually four. The most obvious story is the first: the tale that an object conveys visually, whether it is a straightforward picture or an abstracted image painted on the surface of a canvas. Or it might be a suggested narrative generated by its style of craftsmanship, like an Eastlake chair dating to the British Arts and Crafts Movement. Secondly, there is the story of the object’s making: who made it, where, when, and what it is made of. The journey, or provenance, can be considered the third: this record tracks the object’s movement, from its birth in the studio, through its different owners and locations, to the present site. Lastly, but no less compelling, is another story—a private one. This fourth story is generated by the owner of the object, the collector who imbues the item with personal meaning. It is the story of the object’s significance in the eyes of the collector.

For the better part of the last thirty years and still counting, my job brings me into contact with collectors, making me the happy beneficiary of their stories. My broad experience includes management of private holdings as well as those of several museums, for whom I led the growth, care, and interpretation of thousands of objects of all varieties to ensure that future generations would have the pleasure of enjoying them. Among the hundred or so exhibitions I curated over the years were shows composed of objects borrowed from personal collections. These items ranged from rocks, meteorites, and insects to cameras, jewelry, Judith Leiber handbags covered in hand-sewn crystals, and all manner of artworks. Sometimes a collector approached me first: I was presented with several extraordinary invitations, among them the chance to exhibit the funeral hearse that carried Martin Luther King, Jr., to his final resting place. Unfortunately, the vehicle did not fit through any of the museum’s doors. Yet, a huge 66-million-year-old Triceratops skull weighing over a ton somehow did, albeit barely. 

We often use the word “collection” to refer simply to a group of things. I prefer Merriam-Webster’s definition of the collection as “an accumulation of objects gathered for study, comparison or exhibition, or as a hobby.” We all accumulate stuff; the difference is the intentional choice to save it. Regardless of what we collect—beetles, Barbies, bikes, or Brancusi—and despite their monetary worth, rarity, or other specifics; the very act of saving endows the object with intrinsic value, even if that perceived worth is recognized only by the owner. 

We all own objects, and we all collect stuff. An innate human behavior, we instinctively surround ourselves with things, whether gathered absent-mindedly or through careful research and selection. These accumulations can consist of absolutely anything from letters, family photographs, and used Lego kits to living things like neighborhood cats or even ephemeral items. Sigmund Freud, the famous father of modern psychology, not only collected antiquities, but also jokes and “slips of the tongue.” LeRoy Robert Ripley traveled the globe seeking curious facts to report in his newspaper column. His absurd claims and exotic souvenirs are on view in the many Ripley’s Believe or Not! venues in popular tourist destinations. Although not held in high esteem today, Ripley was earnest in his desire to raise our awareness of the marvelous and strange things the world has to offer. Perhaps following Ripley’s footsteps virtually, a local fellow I know spends his time searching the Internet for trivia that he shares with patrons in bars, restaurants, and private parties in the form of Quizzical Trivia Nights. 

This fourth story is generated by the owner of the object, the collector who imbues the item with personal meaning. It is the story of the object’s significance in the eyes of the collector.

Most serious collectors begin the habit in childhood. Scott Purdin, for instance, has been a collector nearly all his life. He started when he was barely eight years old after his uncle introduced him to penny collecting. Purdin says he is “a [dead] ringer when it comes to knowing pennies,” and after all these years he still has his complete Penny Book and the bags of coins accumulated during his youth. Purdin later took up a passion for post-war British art after placing a 3 am phone bid on two paintings in a London auction. No one bid against him on the oil painting. However, the other bid for a small four-by-five-inch watercolor stirred up a little competition, bringing the price up higher than anticipated. Purdin says that at the time he felt it to be “a big risk,” but he was delighted when the wooden crate containing his new paintings arrived several weeks later. Curious to learn more, he started reading up on British art, and learned that William Coldstream, who made the larger painting, was the teacher of the other artist and produced little during his lifetime. Purdin began to study all the artists associated with the school where Coldstream taught, later buying another work by the artist several years later. He gradually built up an important collection and continues to buy and sell British art. 

Whether for investment or pleasure, serious collectors work hard to acquire the objects of their desire. As Purdin puts it, “If you want to collect, you need to become obsessed and look deeply; you need to develop a discerning eye for detail.” Describing his own collecting practice, he says: “I get to know [the things I collect] very well. When I started my book collection [for instance], I learned to be able to look at a book and determine its value. I learned how to understand its condition, rarity [and its] numbers, which show when [a book] was printed and what edition it is.” 

The hunt not just to acquire another object but to unearth its secrets lies at the heart of Greg Milneck’s passion. The owner of DigitalFX, a Baton Rouge production studio, he collects vintage watches and cameras. Milneck says he still abides by the advice given to him by a sage collector when he first started out: “When looking for a certain object that’s obscure, just buy the first one [you find] and don’t worry about the condition. Then go out [again] and find a perfect one [after doing your homework]!”

Milneck’s favorite item to seek out is the Akeley “Pancake” camera that revolutionized the early twentieth century film industry. Milneck explains that the camera was invented in 1915 by Carl Akeley, a naturalist who sought to record animals in their native habitats. Milneck’s fondness for these cameras began forty years ago after he bought a Paul Strand photograph depicting the round-shaped camera. When asked why he collects them, he says he realized for the first time that it’s because of the stories they represent: “What I do for a living is tell stories. I enjoy learning about the history of my craft. I love researching the story of why it was made, when [and] who used it.” Each time Milneck adds another item to his collection, he embarks upon a new quest to discover the object’s story. He relayed the tale of his most recently acquired Akeley. It came with two unassuming documents: one with an intriguing name and the other with some odd numbers. Armed with these clues, he scoured library and Internet holdings to find out what he could. He happily discovered that Faxon M. Dean, the famed silent-era cinematographer, just might be the original owner, and that the camera may be one used to film Wings in the 1920s.

“If you want to collect, you need to become obsessed and look deeply; you need to develop a discerning eye for detail.” —Scott Purdin 

To collect any object seriously requires training the eye (or palette, as the case may be). The ability to discern minute details makes all the difference in determining the value of one object versus another almost identical one. Suzanne Sexton and her husband Gray describe themselves as “enthusiastic collectors” who enjoy their beautiful things. Together—alongside a vast collection including original American prints, Tiffany Studios desk sets, Southern art, American furniture, and more—they have built up an art collection that prominently features American Brilliant Period Cut Glass. The sparkling bowls, platters, trophies, shakers, and cologne bottles of all shapes and sizes are displayed throughout their home and office. Among Sexton’s favorite memories is the time she happened upon an exquisite powder box at an unassuming antiques booth during one of their twenty-five annual visits to the Miami Beach Antiques Show. Recognizing the red color of the glass and its excellent craftsmanship as being extremely rare, she purchased it. Some years later at a different antiques booth during the 2014 American Cut Glass Convention, her husband Gray identified the matching colognes, making her rare find even more spectacular by reuniting the set. The matching powder box and colognes are worth more to Sexton than their monetary value.

When we collect and keep objects that we deem significant, the items metaphorically represent an extension of ourselves. In other words, our collections are reflections of our personality and reflect our path through life. For instance, I once met a renowned Lafayette-based malacologist (an expert on mollusks) whose Smithsonian-worthy collection contained over 7,000 species and 100,000 specimens. When I went to visit him, he opened drawer after drawer of shells of every size, shape, and color imaginable, each one carefully labeled, while he talked about his childhood in Cuba and his move to the United States so many years ago. Perhaps unconsciously, his collection connected him to the country of his birth and the shells he collected there in his youth, both of which were suddenly lost forever when Castro took over. 

On another occasion I got to know a woman with Alzheimer’s and her son when I borrowed paintings by Noel Rockmore from her collection. She had acquired over 1,400 paintings and drawings by Rockmore over the course of nearly thirty-five years, providing support and encouragement for the artist throughout his life. Yet, her family was completely unaware of her holdings and she had forgotten about the artworks until her family rediscovered them in a New Orleans storage bin, somehow unharmed by the ravages of Hurricane Katrina. The collection not only represents the artist’s life, but his patron’s life as well. Thus, in carrying on his mother’s work to preserve Rockmore’s legacy, the collector’s son is also preserving his mother’s legacy.

Every collection contains a good story—the one I refer to as the “fourth story.” These stories often are known only to the collector—until they choose to share them. When we reveal the personal significance of an object that we hold dear, we become vulnerable. We disclose what the object means to us, and thus reveal our interior life; allowing someone else to catch a glimpse into that sacred space within us that contains our memories, insecurities, hopes, failures, and perpetual dreams. I am forever indebted to all the collectors I have known for entrusting me with their stories. 

Elizabeth Chubbuck Weinstein is an independent curator, writer, and creative consultant based in Baton Rouge. She is the former Chief Curator and Director of Interpretation of the Louisiana Art & Science Museum, where she worked for eighteen years.