I like medical things; the smell of disinfectant, a surgical glove stretched over a cold tense hand, stainless steel speculums with their smooth finish and seductive shape, the resistance caused by application of pressure to the plunger of a fluid filled syringe… and the glide and squirt of liquid from the tip of a long, hollow needle. Of course, I don’t perform surgery with my impedimenta, I just keep it in a box under my bed and every so often I take it all out, examine it and then hide it all away again.
Hospitals are another matter; whiteout, grey-staffed, confused institutions, corridors soiled with throbbing bacteria and groaning corpses. At some point though, I must have had a pleasurable experience in a hospital, or an exciting one at least. Why else would I have chosen clinical trinkets as my obsession? Imbedded somewhere in my subconscious must be a memory of flesh-tingling significance, a trigger for this macabre fascination. My collection represents fear of pain, fear of death, fear of loss of control. That which we fear, we are drawn to. Although that theory doesn’t work to explain ‘collector’s mentality’ as a whole, a dark-side can always be found…
My friend Sophie collects funny-shaped rubbers, a particularly benign compulsion. I once asked what they meant to her and she said, ‘I don’t know really, I just like looking at all the different colours next to each other.’ When I asked if I could take the lid off her display case and sniff them, she went all hot and bothered and said, ‘Are you sure? I hate the way they smell, it’s totally disgusting’, but I noticed that when she said it, her cheeks became flushed in a manner reminiscent of sexual arousal and she couldn’t quite look me in the eye.
So why do humans collect? Is it mental illness; consumerism turned into addiction? Hoarding as a way of not letting-go of emotions? Are we trying to re-create the high we experienced on being granted possession of that first Dinky Toy, white-label test press or china thimble bearing painted portrait of a Border Terrier? Or is collecting a way of defining our identity through physical ownership of objects, an externalisation of ‘self’.
Often, the need to display is great. And the desire to meet other collectors, to share, swap and revel. It seems that collecting is a tribal activity. We reach out to others who share our specific enthusiasms, saying ‘look at my credentials, please accept me!’ and we feel a sense of belonging – within a hierarchy formed according to who owns the best, the most, the rarest.
‘This is who I am’, screams an autograph album from a maiden-aunt’s bookcase, ‘the kind of person who hobnobs with celebrities!’ My fathers collection of Victorian Mineral Water bottles bears testament to his view of himself as a knowledgeable local historian. Imelda Marcos’s shoes tell the world that she is a woman of certain taste and affluence. So, I suppose a collection is also a badge of the whole tribe’s status within a wider social context.
Many years ago, my mother went to Egypt to spend some time meditating in a yurt. (I know, you’re thinking ‘why didn’t she just hop on the bus to Lewes or get a train to Glastonbury?’ – because this was long before ‘glamping’ became a thing.) Between sun salutations and boiled egg breakfasts, lunches and dinners, she took a few camel rides in order to get a good view of The Sphiynx, The Pyramids and a host of limestone temples. And how was her camel-driver dressed, against the ruinous desert heat? Like Lawrence of Arabia? No. He wore a red plastic mac, with a hood, like Donald Sutherland’s ill-fated daughter in Don’t Look Now.
My mother couldn’t resist, ‘My goodness, it must be sweltering inside that coat. I notice your colleagues are dressed rather differently?’
‘Yes’, came the driver’s reply, ‘I am hot, but I wear this coat every day. It was given to me by an American tourist. It will bring my family wealth and success. Do you have anything from your country you can give to me?’
In his mind, the objects he collected amassed luck, or had symbolic mystical powers. And maybe that is not such a stretch of imagination, as the pleasure derived in collecting goes far beyond the monetary value of the items themselves. It is derived from the symbolic attachments that form in our minds. If we can convince others of this added value, the power represented by the object increases again. Take artist Piero Manzoni’s cans of shit. At the height of Pop-Art’s mass production popularity, the guy has his own excrement tinned and labelled, selling each one for a million dollars. The transmutation of energy is astonishing: you start with a waste product, add the power of suggestion through advertising and association of status and end with fame and fortune, courtesy of a bunch of art collectors. Duchamp’s urinal impacted so heavily on cultural perceptions as to change the course of artistic critical thinking irrevocably, forever. OBJECTS EMBODY POWER. But where does this power lie – in the object itself or within its owner?
It seems unlikely that my mother’s camel-driver could ever achieve the type of wealth and lifestyle he seemed to be alluding to, just through the act of wearing a PVC raincoat, but my mother noted that he did have special authority amongst his peers when the only thing marking him out as immediately different was the iconic jacket. The collective consciousness formed a new perception of reality in response to the object as a symbol: the people have the power.
Probably my favourite line in Bram stoker’s Dracula comes when the Count catches a glimpse of Jonathan Harker’s crucifix in the mirror: ‘DO NOT PUT YOUR FAITH IN SUCH TRINKETS OF DECEIT’ he snarls, his eyes flashing red with fearful disgust, as though the entire Catholic Church has just spat on his grandmother’s grave. ‘No Dracula’, I always think, ‘Do not add emotional power to Jonathan’s faith by reacting with such venomous hatred.’
So anyway, if you happen to see a reasonably priced Brass syringe body circa 1880, made by Arnold & Sons of London, feel free to drop me a line. But please note, I can’t promise not to use it to influence my social standing, incite voyeuristic pleasure, or within the context of a magical ritual.
Words and Photograph by Rachel James