Letter 15: On Antiques
A blemish on the miracle that is 21st century, first-world living is the crush of consumerism, the constant inundation of cheap goods, disposable goods, goods with planned obsolescence to make way for constant upgrades. We suffocate under the weight of stuff; it fills our homes, our landfills, our oceans. We are under constant pressure to consume more of the glut that arrives on our shores thanks to exploitation occurring worlds away.
How to remedy this when, though the austerity of minimalism is enticing, you’re still a red-blooded human who gets a thrill from welcoming beautiful objects into their home? You turn to the things that have cluttered other people’s homes and have been cast back out into the marketplace.
What beauty there is in objects from the past – a lifetime of experiences written on their surfaces, far more interesting than the blandness and uniformity of perfection.
Warm patinas developed by the touch of many hands. Dents, scratches, fading, and wear from years of use, perhaps with love, perhaps indifference, perhaps loathing. One wonders about the lives lived in the shadow of these objects.
And there are lessons to be derived from even these inanimate things.
You cannot soothe your existential anxiety by pulling a dozen versions of the same item from the store shelf and inspecting each one for imperfections to ensure you select the ‘best’ one. There is only one version and so the decision is made for you. A little reminder that you’re not in control of this experience.
Items are passed from one life to another, humble dishes or candlesticks or vases enjoying longer existences than their human keepers. Time moves on without us.
My favourite memory of searching for antiques occurred on Berlin’s Antikmeile (Antique Mile).
I stopped in one of the street’s many shops, packed from floor to ceiling with treasures. The shopkeeper was one of the loveliest people I’d ever encountered and we communicated in a mix of broken English and German. When I had finished browsing, she carefully wrapped my purchases and I tucked them into my bag, only to have my blood run cold as I realized the shop only took cash and I had none. I told her I would have to leave to get the money and went to remove the goods from my bag. She waved her arms in an exaggerated manner to indicate that I should keep the items with me as I went to seek out the cash.
There I was, running through the streets of Charlottenburg with a couple hundred euros’ worth of what felt like stolen goods in my bag, searching for an ATM which had all seemingly vaporised now that I was in need of their services.
Finally, one appeared on Google Maps, but when I reached the site and looked up, what I saw in front of me was… a mattress store. In what felt like a fever dream, I walked in and inquired with the kind albeit confused shopkeeper if she indeed had ein Geldautomat hidden somewhere among her merchandise. No such luck.
After an eternity of running around, I found a bank, withdrew the requisite cash, and returned triumphantly to the shop, my feelings of petty thievery abating as I became the rightful owner of my treasures, my own silly little story adding to the collection of memories that these objects had witnessed and would carry with them.
Thanks for reading. See you in two weeks.
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