The genesis of collecting in my life stems from memories of my childhood collections. My ability to remember isn’t always great—by this, I mean the quality of my memories is unpredictable, sometimes arriving in soft sweeps, other times in sharp detail. Tucked within those brushstrokes are flashes of fondness: childhood activities—forts under the dining room table, outings to the pool or corner store to get candy, collections—stickers, stuffed animals, and more, and the objects in our family home—grass-cloth wallpaper, the orange velvet sofa, and green wool wall-to-wall carpet.
The textures and colors of my childhood rise to the surface of my memories.
While I struggle to recall vivid moments (but not feelings) from my youth, I can often remember where a client’s vase sat years ago, or how we organized their holiday linens with picture-perfect detail. This contrast between short-term and long-term memory remains a curious aspect of my life. I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do about it, but I stay mindful by practicing remembering and writing about it, both here and in my journal. I pause with my memories, I stretch back further to give them space to resurface.
Memory is something you don’t think much about when you are young; you might take it for granted. For some, it’s like a reliable friend who will always be there. For others, it fades gently; and for others still, it disappears in heartbreakingly swift ways. Memory can feel like a loyal friend or an elusive shadow.
In our homes and our collections, memory leaves little breadcrumbs—clues that quietly shape the way we organize and interact with the objects around us.
A friend recently reminded me of the collections I had as a child. That moment sparked a reel of recollections: my sticker books, stuffed animals, dolls, and their wardrobes. And then the more unexpected ephemera—paper cocktail napkins and matchbooks—odd perhaps for a child, but full of color, character, and meaning. Those weren’t just things. They were place markers—souvenirs of time and people.
Our memories can be a roadblock or a roadmap to understanding the objects we keep, collect, and surround ourselves with.
Objects have a kind of magic, to hold space for memory, even when we’ve misplaced the story. The genesis of collecting, for me, is a link to these fond memories that tie back to who I am today.
The simple reminder from my friend brought back these collections in crisp detail—pages of albums filled with bright colors and patterns, gleaming foil accents, graphic fonts, and witty slogans that all spoke to the time and place created. I didn’t need the physical collection to bring back the feeling. The memory had merely been waiting for a nudge of rediscovery.
Looking back, I can see a quiet connection between my child self and the creative adult I became. The one who would create textiles using colors and patterns. I was always attracted to objects with strong graphic qualities.
My love of textiles, graphics, and visual storytelling—perhaps it all started with the small colorful tokens of my childhood.
So today, I offer this gentle prompt: What did you collect as a child? Were they just things… or tiny echoes of who you were becoming?
What is the genesis of collecting in your life’s story?
Speaking of Genesis…that’s another fond memory tunnel to travel down into “The Land of Confusion.”
In my work and life, I’ve learned that collecting is never just about the object. It’s about our identity, our memories, and the emotions they contain and sometimes release, allowing us to enjoy them over and over again. It’s about honoring what matters—and deciding what stays.
💫Collectibles
