The DNA of collector

I am forever fascinated by the collecting mind, no matter what it is that draws one’s fancy — comic books, coins, postage stamps, match boxes, dinky cars, film memorabilia, antique cars — because they all have something in common: passion, knowledge, competitiveness, something that sets one apart from the herd. Even among them, the art collector is a distinctive breed because of an absence of defined absolutes that lend value to the objects of one’s desire. With art, so much is subjective — no matter what experts say — that it is not unusual to spend quite extraordinary values on something one covets without being able to justify it. How much would you pay for the Mona Lisa, for instance? Such works are priceless because they have the ability to draw eyeballs and footfalls; no wonder the Louvre Abu Dhabi (or its promoter) paid $450 million for Leonardo da Vinci’s Salvatore Mundi. It makes a great marketing case study, how a single object can be a museum’s greatest draw while also overwhelming a collection to its detriment.

Private collectors are a different breed. Some may want to share their collection with the public, but most don’t like to open their doors to anybody but the closest family or friends (and sometimes not even those). The taxman bogey is another reason we have such few role models or inspiring stories about collectors in India. 

I am fascinated by the compulsive urge that makes up a collector’s DNA. What drives them to acquire as they do? Why are most of them the only ones in their family to have this impulse? When did the bug first bite them? In a country such as India where everything from information to provenance can prove a stumbling block, where do they find their information, and what happens when they make mistakes? Is one’s collection necessarily an “investment”, and why is that such a bad word anyway? I read an interview recently about a Western collector having grown up in a house surrounded by art. Her remark, that it was just as important to have art in one’s house as it was to have a bed, will find poor resonance in India. Yet, a house without art is like a house without books — sterile and without personality.

The painting of Mona Lisa

One thing I do find puzzling is why collectors resist diversity with such ferocity. True, most collectors have their individual focus and interests, but art has the ability to transcend time and space to ensconce itself comfortably anywhere, breaking down barriers of history and geography. Who says that antique sculpture and contemporary art cannot establish a dialogue? Particularly in India, where members of an extended or joint family share varied interests, it is this ability to combine textiles, antiquities, collectibles and what we narrow-mindedly define as art, that creates a comfortable, lived-in atmosphere that an insular collection might not offer. Inclusion, rather than exclusion, is a trait to be admired, though a great collection may require editing to wean out anything that does not stand the test of quality or longevity. I admire collectors who can bridge the divide between the modern and the contemporary with such panache that you don't notice the gap. 

Culturally, in a country such as India, various genres and time periods share a common heritage. If we are proud to claim its continuity in other aspects of our lives, why deny it when it comes to art? Should we not aspire to unite disparate elements that segue so well together as to ensure that the miniature and the modern master share the same common ancestry and expression? That overview is what is currently missing in conversations around collecting in India. 

Kishore Singh is a Delhi-based writer and art critic. These views are personal and do not reflect those of the organisation with which he is associated