Collecting is a strange hobby. The desire to own an object is something that can only be explained by the love the owner of that object carries.
For me, the objects I have are only as good as the stories they carry. If the stories didn’t exist, the objects would not be here. They are starting points, doors that open our imagination to other worlds.
This silhouette, for example. The portrait of a young boy. It might not mean a lot if you don’t know that the artist who actually cut this silhouette was one of the greatest sleight-of-hand artists who ever lived: Dai Vernon.
During the day, he would go to Coney Island, open his stand, and perfect the art of silhouette cutting. But after the park was closed, Dai Vernon would spend the remaining hours of the day with a deck of cards in his hands, trying to master the simplest of the sleights to maximum precision.
Looking at this silhouette, I don’t see an unknown boy. I see Vernon himself, dreaming awake of what he wanted to be. And in every move of his scissors, he knew he was closer to his goal of becoming a master magician.
The collector sees something that might not even be there, considers the value that escapes others' perception, and maybe even sees what doesn't exist. Strangely, it's as if the object and the story create an illusion. That's the magic of collecting.