When I was a kid, our weekends were spent taking road trips to tiny little towns to hit the smattering of antique stores in the region. We spent endless summer weekends at countryside auctions and estate sales. My parents both loved collecting and had a penchant for chippy, weathered items that told a story.
The only thing I liked about those weekend outings were the sloppy joes, homemade brownies and Kool-Aid that were served at every single auction; and that we’d usually get to stop at the DQ for an ice cream treat at some point on those long country drives.
Other than the food, antiquing to me felt like a colossal waste of time. Why not just go to the mall – it’s a much shorter drive and you don’t have to spend all day waiting until the item you want finally comes up for bidding – only to potentially get outbid by some other random person who wanted the same thing. It made zero sense to me.
Plus, every dresser in our house had drawers that got stuck when you opened them and not a single cupboard door ever shut completely. Why on earth would you not simply buy new? No warps, no stains, no chips, no problems.
As I got older, I started to understand my parent’s antique obsession. I would go to peoples’ houses and be struck by an unfamiliar sterility, a coolness that just didn’t feel as interesting, as inviting.
Those homes weren’t telling me a story.
I had grown so used to my cozy and collected childhood home – old mingling with new, assembled and layered over time – that anything else just felt … incomplete.
Today, nothing speaks to me more than a ‘collected’ space – where new furniture co-mingles with antiques, where old dishes are mixed and matched with modern ones. To me, new items look more beautiful when they’re juxtaposed with items that are a tad timeworn. There’s a richness that comes from the combination of the two that, to me, simply can’t be beat.
“Collect things you love, that are authentic to you, and your house becomes your story.” - Erin Flett
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