How to Become an Archeologist of Your Own Life
This morning I saw my steel IKEA utensil holder in a new light. The sun pouring through the different wooden spoons grabbed my attention. I was writing a grocery list with Sharpies at the kitchen counter, using a different color to differentiate dairy, bread, and vegetables (a CO-VID inspired activity.) I placed the crock of Sharpies next to the cooking spoons, and suddenly the light made the scene beautiful and moving. The scarred oak table seemed to glow, richly highlighting the still life.
Do you ever take the time to notice the things that you tend to group together, elevated instantly when we label them “collections?” Collections sound like art; we conjure glass cases, labels, and frequent dusting. But I’m talking about everyday items. Hairbrushes, garden tools, potions and lotions promising youth, or bungee cords, stuck in a drawer for years. What do these items we either actually need or else are reluctant to dispose of say about who we are?
Like any good archeological dig, there’s a lot of history involved. Here is a partial list of my collections from childhood up until today: Barbie doll accessories (elementary school), flowery journals filled with angst and longing (high school), wooden boxes of all sizes — including a card catalog drawer (librarian career), shower caps from international hotels (travel and adventure), Starbucks mugs picked up in foreign cities (souvenirs gifted from friends’ travels), large tote bags (both for exercise and child-rearing), and statues of Buddha (my search for a belief system).
For a decade, I had a collection of 3-inch cast-iron Aunt Jemima piggy banks, found in the piles of garage sale leftovers. But sometimes what was once intriguing and kitsch falls into the area of political incorrectness. I eventually sold each tiny turban-wrapped Aunt Jemima at a local antique mall for a couple of dollars each — the place was brimming with other versions of Aunt Jemima, and my own were of little value now that racial branding had become an acknowledged source of pain (I was ashamed I even had them). Sometimes in an impulsive moment the collection doesn’t suit who you’ve become… until you realize the worth of holding on to things impossible to collect again. My “Red Rubber Ball” 45, or the first-edition vinyl of the Turtles’ “So Happy Together” that my father bought me at Sam Goody’s in New York City when I was 11 years old. Treasures lost to a smooth-operating record collector at my garage sale; the same one where I sold a tiny black bikini to an obese woman in a wood-paneled station wagon with no muffler, along with my husband’s golf clubs.
A personal archeological dig requires paying attention. Forget your piles of Nordstrom sale shoes or water bottle giveaways from sporting events. Disregard the shot glasses and rubber ducks. Those items straddle fetishes or hoarding. I’m talking about art. Pile your favorite books (preferably dog-eared) next to your favorite spatulas. A tumble of terracotta pots in the garage next to expired seed packets. Betty and Veronica comics and magenta-haired trolls. Joker cards and “Do Not Disturb” hotel signs. You’ll figure this out. Avoid Hummel figurines and Christmas ornaments. Admire yourself for choosing those obscure things; that’s the way into your story. Take a look, and don’t get distracted. You are what you collect; I think most of us would agree. The more you remember your impulse to collect, the more you’ll know who you are. We are not discussing hoarding here — that’s a TV show and a mental illness. Gathering for a collection is done judiciously, and one must know when enough is enough. I know I don’t need another wooden cooking spoon.
One has to have perspective and some inkling of identity in order to perform archeological inquiries into one’s life. I knew nothing of myself back when I curated my first collection- busy moving forward with the arrogance of youth. What we are drawn to is a way of understanding who we are, if we only notice. Study your collection as you would examine the remains of civilizations from long ago. Look for clues about what drew you to those items. Is there an emotional connection? Psychologists tell us that collections ease insecurity and anxiety about losing a part of ourselves and aid us in holding on to the past in order to continue to exist in the present. Some collect for the thrill of the hunt. Collecting is a sort of quest, a lifelong pursuit that may never be completed. Or, we may lose interest, shelf space, or simply grow up.
Back when I lived in New York, I dug up a patch of soil in order to prepare to install a mailbox post. A few feet down, I excavated one dirt-encrusted bottle after another, the embossed letters indicating they’d once held ancient liniments or some other snake oil. The bottles were blue and turquoise, murky brown or clear. I could not stop finding them- they were everywhere. I collected those bottles and carried them with me over the years. They reminded me of the gift of digging into nothing and discovering treasure, which is really what archeology is all about.
These days many of us are downsizing, for different reasons and at different stages of life. Millennials don’t want to acquire things the way Baby Boomers once did, but the art of gathering remains a worthwhile undertaking. I use my bottle collection today as a charming and unexpected giveaway opportunity. Thoughtful and heartfelt regifting. Place a Shasta daisy and a sprig of purple bee balm in a chipped vintage blue glass bottle as a gift for a birthday or to share in another’s sorrow. It is the collecting that makes it art, because you see it.