The memories of my childhood are imbued with the dust of dirt roads and Northern Ontario thrift stores. In the heat of summer, while other kids played soccer or had swimming lessons, I was crammed in an old Honda hatchback inhaling the sweet, second-hand smoke of Medallion cigarettes. My mother was on a mission seeking out every antique shop, flea market, and garage sale within a 100-kilometre radius of our country home. This is how I learnt to become a collector extraordinaire.
“Look, a bear!” I’d shout, pointing to the trees, hoping to distract her from the crooked, faded sign on the other side of the road, which said, “Antiques and Collectibles 30 miles ahead.” But my mother had an uncanny sixth sense for dilapidated things.
I knew that even a celebration of polar bears wouldn’t save me. It meant spending four hours inside a decrepit barn discussing the finer points of Majolica or the many merits of an art deco compact mirror. All I could do was pray for a box of vintage Playboys or O-Pee-Chee hockey cards.
No escaping my mom’s antiques
Back at home, there was no escape. The house was a shrine to her collection. Each room had its theme: Victorian, folk art, kitsch, primitive… it was like walking through the back rooms of Sotheby’s. Even my bedroom was beyond my control, with high shelves displaying antique toys and ancient stuffed animals. No pictures of friends on the walls, just old Victorian prints of children playing on cobblestone roads.
I once tried to pin up some of my track-and-field ribbons, but my mother considered it bad taste and quickly intervened. “Sweetheart, I think it’s best if we keep those in the closet. Have you ever considered collecting timeworn trophies? In the library, beside the opium bed, there is an old sterling fox hunt cup that would go very well in here.”
After school, I would walk to my mom’s small antique store, in downtown Sudbury, Ontario. I’d sit beside the fireplace doing my homework, watching the characters come and go. I can still picture Darold Dickie in his cowboy boots, white linen suit, fedora, and missing front teeth, trading my mom fresh deer meat for Edwardian chairs.
And then there was John Huntsberger, a collector of Staffordshire figures, who would roll a joint on the glass of the costume jewellery display case, spark it up with a 1920s Dunhill lighter, and then crack open the front door a few inches for my sake.
My own journey to becoming a collector extraordinaire
I longed for normalcy, for Walmarts, Costcos, and Dollar Stores, for things that were made after the Great Depression, things that had batteries and actual warranties. I swore I’d never become a collector. But, of course, we can’t change our DNA, and mine was steeped in hoarding genes, pretentiousness, and obscurity.
For as long as possible, I held off. But by my early adulthood I was spending what little money I had on first-edition Hemingway novels, 1950s Montblanc fountain pens, mechanical military watches, and whatever else would fit into my measly one-bedroom apartment.
Eventually, I found my way to turn-of-the-century brass microscopes, bridging my passion for collecting with my career as a scientist. In my various travels as an academic, I’ve spent hundreds of hours wandering the hallways and basements of biology departments, sniffing out rickety cabinets where vintage scopes love to hide.
I regularly seek old silver-back professors and casually poke my head into their labs: “I don’t suppose you have any old, obsolete scientific equipment lying around?” Often a grizzled grunt is followed by a tiny smile, “Follow me, young man, I have hordes of it!”
From microscopes to Leica cameras
Naturally, my love of microscopes led me towards the brand Leitz Wetzlar, which in turn exposed me to the world of 35mm film cameras and photography. Leica cameras are a collector’s catnip. They have it all: history, romance, patina, luxury, craftsmanship, nuance…
Indeed, they had me at hello, and my bank account said goodbye. Most importantly, you can still use vintage cameras to capture memories and make art. This echoes one of the most important collecting lessons I took from my mother: buy things that you can actually enjoy.
Growing up, there were no safes in my house. If it was too expensive to wear, use, or display, it wasn’t worth having.
Still collecting…
My mom is now over eighty years old and is still a collector extraordinaire. She lives in a one-floor apartment above Peacocks Antiques Vintage in Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia (about a ten-minute drive from Lunenburg, a UNESCO World Heritage site).
If you stop by the shop, it will likely be closed. She spends most of her time in her bedroom, sorting and curating her world-class collection of costume jewellery. When I talk to her about camera collecting, she’s usually quite receptive.
However, she does roll her eyes at the modern-day limited editions costing tens of thousands of dollars. But when I show her, for example, a chrome Leica M3 with a dual-range Summicron, she understands the appeal, but makes a point to say: “Darling, it’s a very pretty camera, but you know I’ve never really had a thing for mid-century modern. That boxy one you brought over the other day, the art deco rollei-poly-something-or-other, now that’s a camera!”
If you enjoyed this article and would like to see more of my photos, you can find me at Leica Fotografie International and Instagram.