The worst part of being a collector is to preserve the pieces, because, no matter how well you think you laid them up, afterwards you don’t remember anymore where they are, you miss them and desperate not finding them when you want to see them again or show them to friends who come to visit.
The best of being a collector is that you feel like a hunter, who travels in the search of new pieces to get, in my own case not of big pieces but those reduced dimensions works that I can transport in my suitcase, or even in the pockets, so I don’t beat down big mammals to hang their heads on the wall, instead I get delicate butterflies to click in showcases and glass boxes.
The first work in my collection was a painting of Charris, 10×10 centimeters , “siracusa” was it named if I’m not wrong, because I never can remember properly the title; since I have it is always there hung, wherever it might be, I like to see it and moreover, it doesn’t get lost. That’s why I decided to have my small collection at sight and I ordered this project: a house with to travel with, to search, to see, to buy, to keep and share my things.
And this is what they made me:
A rolling house, of fast seven square meters, but with the world at its feet, that doesn’t adapt to any exact place, but that fits well at any place, that is of a “gipsy-chic” style, they tell me, and in which I feel as an hermit crab that has occupied a strange caracole in whose inside, as if it were a nacre shell that wraps it all, my whole world is reflected.
(Ernst Hunter, collector)
