I’ve been thinking about how to clear out my basement of all that has accumulated. My closets, shelves and studio too. It is a task that takes a particular strength of resolve, having enjoyed the luxury of wealth that affords such excess, such waste. It will be on my list of resolutions this new year, like it was last year and the year before, and probably even before that. Each year my resolve is broken by the magnitude of the ten thousand decisions that the weight of ownership has brought upon me. Perhaps the recurring resolution itself should be disposed of instead. It would be easier than picking up each treasured forgotten object and deciding where it should go.
The problem is how much I love my world of things. If I call it a collection I could justify the boxes of curiosities and vintage objects that might have made their way into my art or put on display. If I call them necessary, I might hold on to those bits of hardware, spare parts and materials just in case I need them. I’ve been stung before by the immediate need for something I’ve just thrown away. I can’t make that mistake again. And if I tell myself that each item once held in the hands of my mother or father, my grandparents, my son or daughter, or a younger version of myself holds a memory, then I must hold onto those things too.
I do love the rich story and history an object can hold, especially those worn and aged with constant use. And even if the story is imagined, created in the mind as it is held in the hand, its fiction holds a truth in the same way that a novel can touch at one’s core. But even the novels on the basement shelves need to find a new home. And a story, once told, can be passed on to someone new, like the boxes of keepsakes that have remained unopened since packed years ago.
The power isn’t in numbers, but in meaning. Many things tell the same story. I shared in the exhausting yet emotionally weighted task of sorting through the belongings in my mother’s apartment after she died a number of years ago. It puts things into perspective. Every item can’t hold the same sentimental meaning. Some things meant more to my parents than to my siblings and myself, and its okay to let them go. And the story or meaning of some treasures has been forgotten or perhaps never told. But it is surprising what you keep, what you protect, what you treasure. The tea towels woven by my mother will be kept until they are unraveling and worn thin I’m sure. But the gaudy, cheap red tin, just like the one that held tea in my parent’s kitchen since as far back as I can remember will also be kept, every cup of tea bringing back a sweet memory of home. It isn’t even Mom’s original tin. That one lives in my brother’s kitchen now. Mine is one discovered recently in a Nova Scotia flea market. But I love it just as if it was my mother’s. In this fiction, I’ll soon forget the flea market and start believing that this red tin once actually held my mother’s tea.
There is a story, too, in the broken and repaired French serving bowl I found in an antique shop in Morocco. Once beautiful in blue, yellow and white patterns, the thin line of a crack which split the vessel in two still shows between the thick metal wire bindings that now hold it together a century later. I imagine the scoldings and the tears and the servant of a French colonial household relieved of their employment over a broken bowl. Too precious to throw away it must have been brought to a local craftsman who would have expertly bored holes and grooves in the china before tightly embedding iron staples into place. He would have returned the bowl to some semblance of its original beauty and function, enough for it to find its place among the remaining plates and saucers on a table set for guests, the repair hidden by a pile of fresh tangerines.
It is like the gold and black bowl I showed once in an exhibition. “Silent Word” was sculpted from the ashes of burned Bible pages mixed with egg yolk and clove oil, then, once set, coated with melted beeswax and gold leaf. It, along with the other sculptures of “The End of the Book”, spoke to the lack of ritual in disposing of unwanted or damaged Bibles. I had been collecting Bibles that had lost their place in someone’s home: Those found on thrift shop shelves, those given to me by friends who no longer read them, and those family Bibles, passed on for generations, collecting dust and coming apart at the bindings. “Silent Word” was damaged in the gallery, perhaps intentionally, but at least handled roughly after being put on display. I imagined an angry visitor, offended by my ritual burning of the Bible pages, stealthily breaking the sculpture while the gallery attendant was otherwise occupied, then walking away satisfied with the retribution I deserved for such a sacrilege. After the exhibition, I retrieved all of the pieces and was able to repair the bowl with glue and wax and gold leaf, much like the well known Japanese art of kintsugi. Like the Japanese bowls, the repaired sculpture now holds greater meaning. The art is better because there is a more compelling story embedded within it, more meaning added to the sculpture because of the repair.
I’ll keep these bowls. I’ll keep my grandfather’s paintbrushes. I’ll let go of the lightning rod, the fondue pot, and the old clocks. I’ll keep the crosscut saw and violin bows, but let go of the chemistry lab glassware, antique medical encyclopedia, and old light bulbs. The lead organ pipes, the suitcase full of masks, the broken gramophone, the vintage x-ray light box and the tub of old nails will all have to go. There’s lots I’ll keep, of course, and I’ll let go of a great deal more too, but even once I’ve made many trips to my favourite charity’s thrift shop, I will still have a wealth of stories and memories. Much won’t be missed at all, and those objects that pull at my desire to keep even as I unload the boxes at the second hand shop, will soon be forgotten I’m sure. Letting go will open up space for the remaining items to tell their own story. The curated collection will be more like a skillfully edited novel rather than an unwieldy and unread historical epic.
My annual broken resolution to deal with so many things once and for all, should not be tossed out after all, but carefully restored, like my treasured bowls, to serve its valued purpose. What finally remains after a few more years of mended resolve and many more filled cardboard cartons carried out the door, will be a pared down household of things that tells a more truthful fiction of my life.