Storyobjects

I was always fascinated by old objects. Growing up there was never a shortage of old things to discover. Because in the East, people were less likely to declutter and throw them out. You might use it one day, or you might need to repurpose it for something you couldn’t get at the moment, or you might trade it for something you needed. But to be honest – the way I remember it – not a lot of people treasured „old things“. Antiques or going antiquing just was not even a concept.

I, on the other hand, would go treasure hunting in the attic of the house of my parents’ business; in the enormous, maze-like basement of that same house; in our attic at home; and in my grandparents’ attic and barn. I loved opening boxes and chests that were covered in decade-old dust, finding things so dirty that I had to clean them first before I knew what it was.

When I was a teenager I had a bookshelf with all the books pushed to the back, so I could align those little rescued treasures in front of them. In order to fill the shelf with books, first of all, I would gather the best books my parents’ library had to offer, buy some new ones with the bookstore gift certificates I received instead of presents, or I would spend hours upon hours in second-hand bookshops until I finally found what I was looking for. I also remember spending whole afternoons at the Buchhandlung Albert Steen looking at almost every book and out the window.

I did treasure all those little vases, bowls, antique toys, souvenirs, and old books immensely. Siebenstein and Löwenzahn were some of my favorite shows. The main characters of both programs were also collectors of old things. They saw beauty in objects others had discarded.

I wanted to be just like them. I loved my old gems.

But why? Why was I so emotionally attached to them? I have been thinking about this question for a long time, and finally realized that I loved them for their potential stories. I was fascinated by the secrets they held and all the things they might have seen. Of course, if they were family heirlooms, their value tripled, because those stories connect directly to me.

When I wrote stories as a pre-teen it was perceived as cute and quirky. I was never encouraged to write, let alone reassured that writing could be a career. Maybe my collections were a way of not risking embarrassment or being talked out of dreams. I wasn’t writing, yet I still collected stories. No one seemed to mind me accumulating ancient junk after all.

Today, I don’t need to collect physical treasures anymore.