Home at Last

collector’s addition

Keep your passion close to home with expert advice for building a satisfying collection while sidestepping classic pitfalls.

By Christine Mather Photograph by Jack Parsons

This article first appeared in Spring 2010 Su Casa

While economists have long known about the startling powers of accumulation and compounding, collectors are sometimes bowled over by the bunnylike capacity of their collections to reproduce. What once may have been a modest collection of, say, vintage pocketknives suddenly becomes a veritable arsenal of blades, as if every ex–Boy Scout within a hundred-mile radius had made a contribution to the cause. This is due in part to the blind obsession that accompanies much collecting. The collector, as zombie, forges out into the world snatching up every example of the beloved possession until awakened one day when the desk drawer overloaded with 125 pocketknives falls through at the bottom.

Add to the compulsive foraging the less-than-helpful co-dependent gift-giving of friends and family. Receiving a carefully selected example of the beloved fixation from each thoughtful loved one every birthday and major holiday can expand the collection at a staggering pace.

Collecting almost anything can become a cautionary case of be careful what you wish for. Without much effort you can quickly be buried in swizzle sticks, porcelain eggs, fishing equipment, blue-and-white transferware, teddy bears, chopstick holders, balloon pins, nativities, windmills, barbwire—you name it, it can and has been collected. Usually these collections take up a lot of space, both physical and psychological. They require, besides housing—no small thing—study, travel, and lots of tender loving care.

Like most obsessive behavior, collecting can lead to trouble: resentful children who suspect the teddy bears are more important than they are, fragile spouses who can’t imagine where you intend to place the recently acquired windmill, furious bosses who suspect that eBay trumps all work, or even the collector’s sudden recognition that 20,000 bottles of wine are certainly more than you can, or should, drink in a lifetime. I know all about these things because I am a collector, I live with one, I have spawned them, and I go to work faced with a 90-year accumulation by lots of other people at the group grope of collecting known as a museum.

As one who has a mutation of the collecting gene, I suggest you think about making your inevitable accumulation personally meaningful as well as artfully assembled. Unfortunately, one man’s art might well be another’s garbage; just like love, there is no predicting what carries you away. This is the no-accounting-for-taste factor upon which the American economy heavily depends—think certain major car manufacturers.

If you happen to be of the swizzle stick and barbwire school of collecting, often known as “collectibles,” I suggest you put down this article right now—I cannot help you, although I do feel your pain. Ditto if you are a “buff” of any sort—golf, gun, train, golf (did I say that already?). I cannot fathom the mind of the “buff,” so you will just have to seek the advice of a “buff” buff or professional help. These are examples of collecting areas that may be personally meaningful but are not art. No matter how hard you might try to assemble these items in an artful way, you will still be left with a heap of stuff.

An artful collection must start, first and foremost, with real and recognizable art. So if you are like me, a bundle of pretensions about the wonderful world of art, a ragbag heap of art history classes, a snobby connoisseur of all things regionally marvelous and arcane, well, sit right down so we can swap a few war stories about collecting.

Of these stories, two involve collecting what is considered art but assembling the collections in such a blind or pedantic way that beauty is lost through a lack of thoughtfulness. For example, imagine a collector of fine Oriental rugs so overcome with textiles that he has them rolled up and lashed together upright in a large labyrinth of rug columns that fill his home. Or consider a collector of contemporary photography who doesn’t even see the bulk of his purchases because they are sent directly to his personal curator for care and storage. Even the most passionate collectors can get trapped by the sheer bulk of their collections.

In my own experience, the most ardent and zany collector I have known is Herbert W. Hemphill Jr., whose love of American folk art helped define the entire field, so enormous and inclusive was his scope of vision. Bert lived with his collection in a stuffed brownstone in New York. His home was so full that there didn’t seem to be a bed, and if you set down your wine glass, good luck finding it again. In a desperate struggle to avoid drowning, Bert had to keep parts of the collection on the road, loaning it to various institutions, partially gifting and selling huge hunks of it, all in an effort to live with the lovely monster of his creation. A great representative example of his collection is in New Mexico—a place he loved—at the Museum of International Folk Art in Santa Fe, while an even bigger portion resides at the National Museum of American Art in Washington, D.C. There was hardly anything in the great breadth of our country that Bert would not collect in his quest to save art that he would have described as of, by, and for the people.

Perhaps Bert’s greatest contribution was his recognition of what has been called “outsider art.” He judged the great expressive powers of each individual—no matter how far outside the mainstream nor how strange, bizarre, and personal his or her vision might be—as something that contributed to the rambling and audacious nature of our country’s art. But what was great for the country and for Bert would have tried the soul of even the most stalwart collector. Despite his passion and guiding role, Bert’s collection was not for the faint of heart.

With these cases in mind, remember that focus can be the single most important factor in taking that nasty accumulation of stuff to the transcendent realms of a serious collection. Approach your collecting with intellectual and visual vigor, rather than fanatic stalking. Intellectual focus means study and seeing as much material that interests you as possible. Museums and galleries abound to help you in this endeavor. Inspecting the best public institutions have to offer can sharpen your eye so when something catches it, the attraction will be based on knowledge, as well as passion. Take a hard look at what you collect, subject it to the big “why?” question, and further, get real about living with what you collect.

If you have an accumulation of things hidden in a drawer, closet, storage facility, or even safe-deposit box that you do not use, see, or refer to at least once a month, you are not living with your collection, nor is it serving the function for which it is intended—to bring beauty, meaning, and knowledge into your life. If you are living with your collection but your friends and family are made miserable by its presence, perhaps it’s time to refocus and have more fun with your collecting.

Ironically, broadening the content of your collection rather than narrowing it can bring greater rewards, both visually and intellectually. For example, back to those dreary pocketknives, what if you refocused your curiosity upon the history of Scouting in America? As a New Mexican, you would have a great field of exploration—Philmont Scout Ranch and Ernest Thompson Seton await. Living artfully with your collection is more feasible when the collection becomes more inclusive rather than exclusive.

My own personal growth as a collector has led me to find examples of New Mexican decorative arts and life, especially from the turn of the 20th century to World War II, and to the gentle exploration of Mexican and New Mexican folk art’s growth and development in the 20th century. Given where I live and my inclinations, both of these areas are broad enough to allow me to actually live with my collection. Folk art fills the house, we use the decorative arts in the form of furniture, Native American drums hang from the ceiling, tinwork sits by the fireplace, and framed prints share the study with books focused on regional subjects. Our initial collecting focus, life-size animals by New Mexican wood-carvers, still remains primary, but the other decorative arts support this interest in Hispanic New Mexican art.

Living in New Mexico, we are especially fortunate to forage into an art world full of possibilities; few places offer the collector such a broad range of exploration. From historic Native American pottery to contemporary photography, and from serious painters to influential printmakers, the list reads like a primer for American art.

What lies closest to home for me also lies closest to my heart. Truth be told, if there were anything I would love to have the resources to collect, it would be homes, adobe structures that call out for renovation and salvation. But it seems that only one will have to do.

Christine Mather is a museum curator, as well as an author of Santa Fe Style, Santa Fe Houses, Native America, and True West, volumes that explore design and lifestyle.