There are those who go through life unencumbered by ‘stuff’. Their houses are minimalist, clean, white spaces free from clutter. The past, for them, does not live within objects. Instead of being locked moments, frozen in time inside mementos or souvenirs, the memories they hold dear are carried around within them wherever they go. They see no need for any external, physical reminders.
I am not one of these people. If I were to live out my daydream, pack up and head off into the sunset (January has this effect on me), it wouldn’t be with one suitcase. It would be with a rent-a-van crammed full of trinket boxes, old letters, photo albums, diaries and notelets. I am compelled to cover any clear surface with photos, postcards and keepsakes, and would easily destroy the aura of calm in a minimalist home with what can only be described as a ‘Victorian chic’ design scheme, known alternatively as ‘endless clutter’. Sentimental fool that I am, I keep just about everything that can be imbued with meaning, from old wedding invitations to fortune cookie messages.
Treasuring the seemingly worthless paraphernalia of life which others would toss in the bin without hesitation is all part of an ongoing struggle to hold on to every moment of the past. I fear that if I don’t regularly see visual reminders of my memories, they will fade away into the dusty corners of my mind before disappearing forever. The thing is, ‘stuff’ is bound to get lost or forgotten about just as easily as memories are. Belongings, once considered precious or even essential to explaining one’s identity, end up lying untouched on neglected bookshelves or in overstuffed drawers. The struggle to cling on to the past in such minute detail is all in vain because we are ever changing, and so are the possessions we deem important.
Although keeping objects and things as memories incarnate is a largely futile exercise, it does make for good entertainment. Finding lost treasures is like travelling back in time and leaping over the vast chasm which has opened up between the ‘you’ of then and the ‘you’ of now. Don’t we all enjoy a short wallow in sickly sweet nostalgia? Looking at old photographs which elicit both joy at memories recalled and simultaneous melancholy at the fact they are long gone? In my case, they also elicit overwhelming sadness at the brutal fringe I had in the 90’s -- why, mother?
A major room clear out and de-clutter -- always traumatic for a hoarder like myself -- has meant that I’ve been consumed by a bout of nostalgia recently. I’ve emptied drawers, tipped out boxes and cleared shelves which had lain dormant for years. In the process, I couldn’t help but pause to hold items in my palm, read old notebooks from cover to cover and open up photo albums. I tried on a hundred-year-old rings worn, perhaps every day, by distant relatives, the metal now re-warmed by my fingers instead of theirs. Like Proust’s madeleine, what I found transported me back to a specific moment in time in an instant.
I revelled in this saccharine nostalgia for a little longer than I probably should have before deciding what to keep and what to dispose of. I began to ask myself whether my once cherished possessions can really have meant so much if I allowed them to get lost in the first place. In the spirit of the New Year and all of its clichés, I have resolved to live in the moment and let memories settle, reappear and disappear freely rather than keeping them, museum style, in the form of objects. I will be keeping nice postcards though. And cards. And maybe some ticket stubs. New Year, new me? We’ll see.
I am not one of these people. If I were to live out my daydream, pack up and head off into the sunset (January has this effect on me), it wouldn’t be with one suitcase. It would be with a rent-a-van crammed full of trinket boxes, old letters, photo albums, diaries and notelets. I am compelled to cover any clear surface with photos, postcards and keepsakes, and would easily destroy the aura of calm in a minimalist home with what can only be described as a ‘Victorian chic’ design scheme, known alternatively as ‘endless clutter’. Sentimental fool that I am, I keep just about everything that can be imbued with meaning, from old wedding invitations to fortune cookie messages.
Treasuring the seemingly worthless paraphernalia of life which others would toss in the bin without hesitation is all part of an ongoing struggle to hold on to every moment of the past. I fear that if I don’t regularly see visual reminders of my memories, they will fade away into the dusty corners of my mind before disappearing forever. The thing is, ‘stuff’ is bound to get lost or forgotten about just as easily as memories are. Belongings, once considered precious or even essential to explaining one’s identity, end up lying untouched on neglected bookshelves or in overstuffed drawers. The struggle to cling on to the past in such minute detail is all in vain because we are ever changing, and so are the possessions we deem important.
Although keeping objects and things as memories incarnate is a largely futile exercise, it does make for good entertainment. Finding lost treasures is like travelling back in time and leaping over the vast chasm which has opened up between the ‘you’ of then and the ‘you’ of now. Don’t we all enjoy a short wallow in sickly sweet nostalgia? Looking at old photographs which elicit both joy at memories recalled and simultaneous melancholy at the fact they are long gone? In my case, they also elicit overwhelming sadness at the brutal fringe I had in the 90’s -- why, mother?
A major room clear out and de-clutter -- always traumatic for a hoarder like myself -- has meant that I’ve been consumed by a bout of nostalgia recently. I’ve emptied drawers, tipped out boxes and cleared shelves which had lain dormant for years. In the process, I couldn’t help but pause to hold items in my palm, read old notebooks from cover to cover and open up photo albums. I tried on a hundred-year-old rings worn, perhaps every day, by distant relatives, the metal now re-warmed by my fingers instead of theirs. Like Proust’s madeleine, what I found transported me back to a specific moment in time in an instant.
I revelled in this saccharine nostalgia for a little longer than I probably should have before deciding what to keep and what to dispose of. I began to ask myself whether my once cherished possessions can really have meant so much if I allowed them to get lost in the first place. In the spirit of the New Year and all of its clichés, I have resolved to live in the moment and let memories settle, reappear and disappear freely rather than keeping them, museum style, in the form of objects. I will be keeping nice postcards though. And cards. And maybe some ticket stubs. New Year, new me? We’ll see.
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