I love the art of collecting, don’t you?
I’m a bit of a fair-weather collector, only adding to the pile once every few months; but I love that thrill of discovery, of finding something that perhaps no one else has seen in decades.
I collect old portraits, both posed and informal, from the turn of the century. I have quite a sentimental reason in doing so – as daft as it sounds, I often feel bad that their images have been left behind, whether through a deceased estate, or by distant relatives who have no idea who they are, and who then pass them on to antique stores with other semi-precious things. They sit in dusty boxes, hundreds crammed together, without a place to belong. So, I find out the portraits that are hidden amongst hundreds of others, the small one of a freckled-faced girl or a faded mother and child, and add them to my box of sentimental relatives.
Old photographs definitely have their own breed of charm. I love the posed sepia toned family portraits, the children (especially little boys) donned in ribbons, lace and buttoned leather shoes; the stern, wide-eyed faces of bearded men, sitting straight-backed in fancy parlours; and the daguerreotype miniatures of black clad bonneted grandmothers, curled, ribboned, and often stony-faced. I imagine that I can see hope on the faces of the young couples - the stylish young women standing at a noticeable distance from their formally seated husbands.
The photographs I save speak to me about the idea of family, heritage and history; I like that these unknown people loved, laughed, lived and died somewhere in the world, and now, by being added to my own small collection (and even though I don’t know a thing about them) they won’t be forgotten.
Are you a collector?
Nat
