Gimme Shelter

Ever since I can remember, I've found a strange sort of safety in objects.

I get that from my mother. She had exquisite taste, carefully cultivated after her dirt poor childhood in post war-Germany finally gave way to the economic opportunity of her newly-adopted homeland. Mom never spent indiscriminately nor lavishly, but her purchases (with one exception) were always surprising for their beauty, their craftsmanship, and their potential for increasing in value.

Above: The ugly ass exception to my mother's impeccable taste.
You can read the whole ugly ass story here.

Growing up, I often accompanied my mother on her weekend pilgrimages to flea markets, antique shops, and estate sales. She was the kind of woman who also regularly talked her way into people's attics and basements. Once, on our way back from her picking me up from school, she came to a screeching halt in front of a nearby house. She got out of the car, rapped on the front door, and within minutes, a puzzled but obliging woman led her into the home's side yard. My mother pointed to what looked like one of those winged chairs from the 1950s, only one made entirely out of metal mesh. How much did she want for it, my mother asked? The woman shrugged. Nothing. They were going to throw it out with that week's garbage. My mother could have it. It turned out to be a Bertoia.

To my mother, these objects of hers had meaning beyond their immediate usefulness or beauty. They had history. They told stories. They were to be respected and treasured and cared for.

For better or worse, I believed her, absorbed her philosophy, and continue to scour not just antique shops and garage sales, but also eBay, Goodwill on-line, and sometimes even Craig's List, all in the pursuit of my own particular passions. I am also the keeper of several of my mother's collections, some of which I use and take great delight in (the old pawn Navajo jewelry, her ginormous collection of Fire King Jadeite Restaurant Ware that not even Martha Stewart can touch) and some of which have become a certain kind of burden (do you know how crazy ass expensive it is to replace a cracked 9" dinner plate in Stig Lindberg's Bersa pattern?).

Above: The Mid Century Modern china pattern that ate Moi's bank account.

Right before she died, mom was also starting to develop a taste for vintage rhinestone jewelry. There's not much of it, but I'll never wear it, so off it goes. I need the room. For something else. Exactly what, I haven't yet decided. But you can bet it's out there. Calling my name.

Boxer, if you heart these pins, they are yours. Just say the word.

P.S. I know this necklace isn't rhinestone, but I've put it in here anyway because it's so damn bizarre. It's too hippiefied for me to ever consider wrapping around my neck, but someone, somewhere, just might love it.