Hoarding Broken

When I was seven, I stood by a basket of toys for sale.

My grandfather said I could pick one and being the sort of person that loved everything, and despite the fact they were essentially identical, I ran my hands through them for some time as I decided which one I would take home. These days, you’d barely call them toys – they consisted of a pair of googly eyes attached to a strip of dyed sheep’s skin and they ‘crawled’ along when you stroked them.

I took the one with a google missing from its eye. The little black dot that rolls around beneath the plastic dome. I took it because it was different. I took it because I didn’t think anyone else would appreciate it.

Maybe this explains a lot about the kind of things I collect and save now.

Perfection in imperfection

Stories in scars.

Beauty in broken.

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Chipped all over and glued back together in three places, this plaster girl with a distant gaze and great eyebrows asked me to take her home.

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On the left, the dome-girl with no hand. Top right, a mouldy watercolour to be cleaned and reframed. Bottom right, a print (circa 1910) in a damaged frame.

I don’t necessarily restore the pieces I save. Broken is more honest.

Sometimes, broken is better.

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6 thoughts on “Hoarding Broken

  1. I like the old, used, and broken things too. My daughter was always the same with her chosen toys, picking the ones with missing eye, bedraggled bow, the one no one else would love. ๐Ÿ™‚ ..Thanks for sharing your photos.

  2. You know, I do that with plants. I have to really fight the urge to get the saddest looking one of the lot. I have this thing, thinking I can nurture it back to health.

    I suspect it is the same for you, except instead of plants, you are nurturing memories, and the โ€œmisfits.โ€ ๐Ÿ™‚

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