Collections collect collectors. It doesn’t work the other way around.
A certain object misses its own kind and communicates that to some person who surrounds it with rhyming items; these become at first a quorum, then a selective, addictive madness.
Other boys of 7 owned leather satchels full of marbles. But marbles themselves somehow left me cold. So I assembled multiple marble bags. Something about them spoke to me. “How many do you think you’ll finally need, son?” my father asked, sounding concerned. I arranged my Top 10 best along a windowsill and invited family to a private viewing. They didn’t get it.
Photos by Frank Hunter