But then, after I emptied my bank accounts to make year-end charitable contributions and tax payments, I ran into an art-dealer friend at an antiques show. “I was meaning to call you,” he said, and, being already heavily laden with acquisitions from the show as we spoke, I knew I was in trouble. He explained that someone was bringing in a 19th-century oil painting of Paris at the time of the Franco-Prussian War that he thought I would like. It went with the rest of a set I had purchased years ago. “Call me to make sure it’s been dropped off,” he said as we parted. I knew I was in big trouble.
I stopped by his gallery a couple of days later to view the painting. It was a perfect match for my other ones. I had originally missed it only because it came up for sale when I was waiting for my house to sell and carrying two mortgages. How could I pass it up again? I had to pay immediately, and in full, since someone else had expressed interest in the picture. And that meant . . . well, what’s an emergency line of credit for, if not a case like this? I’m owed some money for several freelance pieces, I reasoned, so I should be able to pay off the loan quickly. But I’ve surrendered the last barrier to my addiction.
I started collecting swords and helmets in high school. My father was in the air force, and we were stationed in Great Britain. I accompanied my parents as we scoured the land for antiques. That stopped when I returned to the United States. I went to college and law school, then worked on a presidential campaign. There was little opportunity to shop and even less money to spend. I’d hit used-book stores occasionally and check the want ads for chess sets, but nothing more.
Then I fell into bad company. I came across a tempting ad in a local paper. A fellow with a houseful of beer steins had decided to sell off his collection of chess sets. He plied me with iced tea, squeezed my checkbook for all it was worth and invited me to go out antiquing with him. The rest, as they say, is history.
I started with contemporary chess sets, then fell in love with antique ones. I bought a couple of eagle figurines as gifts for my parents, then decided that I liked eagles, too. I found World War I posters, Soviet cigarette cases, antique books, naval prints, icons and French military drawings. And I bought them. All of them.
Once you start, it’s almost impossible to stop. At least things like oil paintings seem respectable enough to most people. But the worst sort of kitsch also beckons. I’m a chocoholic and periodically gorge myself on M&Ms. So it didn’t take long before I started picking up M&M paraphernalia. In 1995, the official M&M dispenser was the little figure from the candy ads tossing a football. Last year he had a baseball. Both dispensers now sit in my kitchen. A friend gave me M&M Christmas lights. They now hang on a bookcase. A girlfriend even made M&M pillows for me. And then there are my Diet Coke cans from around the world covering the kitchen walls.
Unfortunately, most noncollectors have little patience with the passion, whether the purchase is an elegant ivory chess set or an M&M dispenser. I asked a colleague if he knew anything about a set of League of Nations playing cards that I’d picked up. He responded with some asperity: “You just had to buy it, didn’t you?” Such a ridiculous question! What did he think I was going to do, leave it?
The most collectors can hope for from family and friends is silence. After she made the pillows, my former girlfriend ignored the rest of my stuff when she stopped by. The stein collector’s wife greets each new purchase with a “that’s nice,” then tries not to notice, though doing so is difficult, since his collection covers almost everything except the ceiling.
Most friends don’t even pretend to be interested when I chatter on excitedly about my latest triumph. Their faces betray their concern for my sanity when they see my house. It might seem crowded to some. But to a real collector, space, whether on a wall or in a bookcase, is meant to be filled.
That’s why collectors are so happy to find someone who shares the bug. Like veterans, they have their war stories–the German military medals that got away, the exquisitely engraved cavalry sword picked up for pennies on the dollar, the Robert E. Lee autograph hauled off from my home by an FBI agent because the seller had stolen it from the Library of Congress, the dealer selling Victorian dinnerware at 10 times its value, the obnoxious guy whose accumulation of medical instruments generates envy, the carved nutcracker that the collector tires of before even getting it home. Collectors love to show off their collections and to see the acquisitions of others no matter how bizarre they may be. An acquaintance displays old coffins in the rafters of his house and human skulls from antiques shops in his living room.
When I moved four years ago, my friends took bets on how soon my new place would fill up. There’s still room for a few books, but I have to admit that wall space has become quite dear. Try to squeeze in a new china cabinet–forget it. Perhaps it’s time to found Collectors’ Anonymous.
But give up collecting? It offers the joy of a bloodless hunt, the thrill of conquest without carcass. It provides an opportunity to learn about art and history, sharpen one’s negotiating skills and put together the best possible choices within one’s budget. It’s simply too much fun to stop.
The next time you run across someone with a tendency to prattle on about his collection of napkin rings or who scours yard sales in search of drain tiles, be patient. Remember: collecting is a sickness that can strike anyone.
