I've always been fascinated by the human impulse to collect, to gather, to possess. It's a trait deeply embedded in our species—an instinct that transcends time, culture, and geography. We collect not merely for utility, but for something far more profound. Each object we amass tells a story, holds a memory, or represents a moment in time we wish to capture and hold close. But this impulse, while deeply human, is a double-edged sword.
In many ways, collecting is about control. We live in a chaotic world, filled with uncertainties and fleeting experiences. To collect is to impose order on this chaos, to create a sense of permanence in an impermanent world. When we gather objects—whether they be stones from a distant shore, relics from a forgotten era, or artifacts of our own making—we are, in essence, gathering pieces of the world that we can call our own. They become extensions of ourselves, repositories for our memories, our dreams, our desires.
There is a shadow side to this instinct. The line between collecting and hoarding is thin, and it is easy to cross. What begins as a passion can quickly become an obsession. We start to define ourselves not by who we are, but by what we possess. Our collections, once symbols of our creativity and curiosity, become prisons of our own making. We lose sight of the world beyond the things we've amassed, forgetting that the true value of an object lies not in its ownership, but in the experience it represents.
I see this duality in the act of creation itself. Every piece I make is a manifestation of my thoughts, my feelings, my view of the world. But once it is created, it is no longer just mine—it becomes part of a larger narrative, one that includes the viewer, the collector, and the society that gives it context. The moment an artwork is collected, it enters into a new relationship, one where its meaning can shift and evolve, shaped by the hands that hold it and the spaces it inhabits.
But there is a danger in this, too. When we focus too much on the collection of things—whether they be objects, experiences, or even ideas—we risk losing the essence of what it means to be human. We become so consumed with the act of possessing that we forget the importance of letting go. True artistry, I believe, lies not in the accumulation of things, but in the ability to create and then release, to share what we have made with the world, and to allow it to take on a life of its own.
In the end, the things we collect—whether as artists or as individuals—are but fleeting reflections of the world around us. They are windows into our souls, yes, but they are also mirrors, reflecting back the society in which we live. To collect is to participate in a dialogue with the past, the present, and the future. This dialogue is most powerful when it is open, fluid, and ever-changing. The true art of collecting, then, is not in the gathering of things, but in the recognition of their impermanence, and in the willingness to let them go when the time is right.
I wrote a very short story about 'The Collectors' collecting these object below - have a look.
The Collectors
The Collectors had wandered the vastness of the cosmos for eons, driven by an ancient compulsion whose origins were lost to time. They had traversed galaxies, slipping silently between the stars, always in search of the rare and the unique. Their journey was endless, their purpose singular: to collect.
They had gathered objects of staggering variety—comets carved from frozen gases, asteroid belts rich with ancient minerals, and the swirling clouds of gas giants whose vibrant hues spoke of alien atmospheres. They had also harvested the more elusive and strange: sentient storms that whispered secrets across the void, echoes of long-dead civilizations, and other entities that defied easy understanding.
Their journey brought them to Earth. This world offered a unique combination of both material and immaterial treasures. It was brimming with objects of history, culture, and nature—ancient relics buried beneath the earth, monuments that had stood the test of time, and artifacts infused with the passage of countless generations. Yet it also pulsed with the immaterial—the souls of the departed, ghosts lingering in forgotten places, and creatures spun from the threads of human myth and legend.
As they began their work, the Collectors were driven not just by an alien instinct but by something deeply familiar to humanity—a desire to impose order on chaos, to gather and possess the beauty and strangeness of the universe. They collected not merely for utility, but for something far more profound. Each object they took held a story, a memory, a moment in time they wished to capture and hold close.
But in their endless quest, they were blind to the dangers of their own compulsion. The line between collecting and hoarding is thin, and it is easy to cross. What began as a cosmic passion had long ago become an obsession. The Collectors defined themselves not by who they were, but by what they possessed. The worlds they took, the beings they captured, once symbols of their curiosity and creativity, became prisons of their own making. They lost sight of the universe beyond the things they had amassed, forgetting that the true value of an object lies not in its ownership, but in the experience it represents.
When they reached Earth, their first focus was on the material. A beam reached down to a remote lighthouse perched on a cliff, its light cutting through the fog and storm, guiding ships to safety. The structure, weathered by time yet resilient, was lifted, along with the rocky outcrop it stood on, into the air. The lighthouse shrank as it ascended, reducing to the size of a trinket before being stored within the ship. There, it would forever shine its light across an eternal sea, preserved as a symbol of a civilization that once was.
Their gaze then shifted to a small sailing ship navigating the waters below. The vessel, with its sails billowing against the wind, carried a crew unaware of the cosmic forces now fixated on them. The ship was lifted from the sea by another beam, the water cascading from its hull as it rose into the sky. It, too, was miniaturized and stored within the Collectors’ vessel, placed beside the lighthouse, where it would drift eternally on a frozen ocean, the crew forever locked in their final journey.
The Collectors then turned their attention to the realms where the boundaries between the physical and the imagined blurred. They delved into the stories that had shaped the minds of Earth’s inhabitants, reaching into the collective consciousness to find creatures of myth and legend. Among them, they found dragons—beings of fire and flight, born not of flesh and bone, but of tales passed down through generations. These dragons, though they existed only in the imagination, were as real to the Collectors as the material objects they had harvested.
A beam reached into the fabric of these stories, pulling a dragon from its mythical lair and into the cold reality of the Collectors’ ship. The creature roared in defiance, its fiery breath illuminating the darkness as it was drawn upward. But the dragon’s resistance was futile; it was placed within a chamber where it would soar eternally over mountains that existed only in the minds of long-dead storytellers, its fire forever frozen in the act of creation.
The Collectors moved on, harvesting the ghosts of the departed—souls that wandered the earth, tethered to places where they had once lived and died. These spectral beings were drawn into the ship, their final thoughts and memories captured and stored within crystalline orbs, each one a miniature world unto itself. The orbs were placed in a chamber bathed in the dim light of distant stars, where the ghosts would linger forever, unaware of their new existence as part of the Collectors’ vast archive.
But the Collectors were blind to the impermanence of their collection. The things they gathered—whether material objects or immaterial souls—were but fleeting reflections of a world that was ever-changing. They did not see that the act of possessing could become a prison, not only for those they collected but for themselves.
As they reached deeper into Earth, they prepared to take the final, most vital piece—the core of the planet itself. But the core, infused with the spirit of the Earth, resisted, flaring with a force that threatened to consume the Collectors and their ship. In that moment, the Collectors faced the ultimate truth: the danger of their endless need to collect, to possess, and to control.
When the core exploded, consuming the ship and scattering the Collectors’ vast collection into the void, it was a moment of both destruction and creation. The energy from the core, combined with the relics and souls, coalesced to form new stars, new worlds, new life. The Collectors, driven by their compulsion, had inadvertently given birth to something new. Their end became a new beginning, their collection a foundation for a universe renewed.
In the cold, empty spaces between the stars, the remnants of the Collectors’ work lingered—a reminder that true artistry, true life, lies not in the accumulation of things, but in the recognition of their impermanence, and in the willingness to let them go.