Magopinaciophile, or But Why do we Collect?
I’m obsessed with collecting. I’ve collect raunchy massage parlour ads, lost identity photos, sand, stamps, stickers, witch-doctor flyers… the list goes on. I would like to say that this is an original idea, but it probably stems from watching Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain as a child. In it, Nino, Amélie’s love interest, collects “little things, little nothings that make up everyday life.” The character was inspired by Michel Folco, a french writer and photographer, who spent the early 1980s scavenging the Parisian metro for discarded identity photos. He wanted to understand why people threw away these images of themselves. He was particularly intrigued by a recurring character: a young man who’s (seemingly flawless) photo could be found, torn into pieces, next to every Parisian photomaton, throughout several months. He wondered if this was a peculiar pre-suicide ritual, or a ghost’s desperate attempt to avoid disappearing. Reality was a lot less magical: the young man was simply the photo-booth technician, taking a photo to check if the machine worked. Upon this discovery, Folco gave up on his hobby, disgusted by the banality of reality. Collecting has a magic to it: it’s a ritual between us and our ‘things’. When I walk around, I collect what I see. I too, have a ritual, a method: I take a photo, and tidy it into my phone’s ‘chance encounter’ folder. Eventually, I’ll scroll through it, feeling very proud of my growing collection, and wondering how I can use these encounters.
Magopinaciophile, or But Why do we Collect?
I’m obsessed with collecting. I’ve collect raunchy massage parlour ads, lost identity photos, sand, stamps, stickers, witch-doctor flyers… the list goes on. I would like to say that this is an original idea, but it probably stems from watching Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain as a child. In it, Nino, Amélie’s love interest, collects “little things, little nothings that make up everyday life.” (Konbini, 2021). This includes footsteps in cement, recordings of strange laughs, and abandoned ‘photomaton’ (photo-booth) photos. The character was inspired by Michel Folco, a french writer and photographer, who spent the early 1980s scavenging the Parisian metro for discarded identity photos. He wanted to understand why people threw away these images of themselves. He was particularly intrigued by a recurring character: a young man who’s (seemingly flawless) photo could be found, torn into pieces, next to every Parisian photomaton, throughout several months. He wondered if this was a peculiar pre-suicide ritual, or a ghost’s desperate attempt to avoid disappearing. Reality was a lot less magical: the young man was simply the photo-booth technician, taking a photo to check if the machine worked. Upon this discovery, Folco gave up on his hobby, disgusted by the banality of reality. (Teulé, 1989) Just as Folco described, collecting has a magic to it: it’s a ritual between us and our ‘things’. When I walk around, I collect what I see. I too, have a ritual, a method: I take a photo, and tidy it into my phone’s ‘chance encounter’ folder. Eventually, I’ll scroll through it, feeling very proud of my growing collection, and wondering how I can use these encounters.