Trophies

Materialism is a subject inciting variable opinions all of which naturally begin with the salient ingredient of stuff.  Yet as tangible as those accoutrements, kit, tackle or apparatus may be, they very often signify a far greater meaning.  Materialism is after all a subject ripe with legendary persuasions stemming from the pyramids of the Egyptian pharaohs through the Bourbon dynasty of Louis XIV at Versailles past the stately country houses of England to the splendidour of wealth by the Americans in Newport, Rhode Island and Palm Beach, Florida.  Materialism suggests both a vulgar and an enviable attribution, immoderation and exhibition, statement and status, candidness and bluntness, shallowness and success. The variety of interpretation embraces even the more inscrutable definitions of art and rudimentary analytical theory.

For openers it has been asserted as a philosophic doctrine that nothing exists except matter and its movements and modifications; the doctrine that consciousness and will are wholly due to material agency. This to me is strictly the preserve of the armchair philosopher. Frankly I am mystified by the import of that particular assessment of materialism. My view of the matter is arguably similar but certainly more mundane in that I acknowledge the influence of stuff upon our thinking but only in what I consider an obvious way (that is, without the extension of meaning beyond the tactile measure). Any insinuation of materiality into my consciousness may at best be artistic and perhaps suggestive the way one is moved by the sight of  a particular painting or automobile.

Clouding the elevating metaphysical dogma is the more popular belief that materialism is predominantly a tendency to consider material possessions and physical comfort as more important than spiritual values. If however one were the Pope living at the Vatican this is a difficult posture to retail. The highly asceticized religious envionment of St. Augustine of Hippo is far removed.

The definition of materialism blossoms in the political vernacular: the Marxist theory for example (adopted as the official philosophy of the Soviet communists) that political and historical events result from the conflict of social forces and are interpretable as a series of contradictions and their solutions. The conflict is believed to be caused by material needs. This one is hard to argue with. Basically we all need things to survive. If it boils down to a conflict between haves and have-nots then the interpretation is plausible. Just last evening I was watching a documentary about Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. I learned for the first time that Arnaz came from an affluent family in Cuba. And that his family suffered instant deterioration upon the communist revolution. As much as one may despise the affluence and chance fortune of others, the murders of the Russian czars and their families has always seemed unnaturally excessive and brutal to me.

Late on the night of 16 July, Nicholas, Alexandra, their five children and four servants were ordered to dress quickly and go down to the cellar of the house in which they were being held. There, the family and servants were arranged in two rows for a photograph they were told was being taken to quell rumors that they had escaped. Suddenly, a dozen armed men burst into the room and gunned down the imperial family in a hail of gunfire. Those who were still breathing when the smoke cleared were stabbed to death.

Lately I have adopted a new take on materialism. Historically I had thought of materialism as a possessory matter only. It was an appetite like any other; that is, fuelled and perpetuated by need at best and indulgence at worse. I began to recognize my addiction late in life when for example I saw my possessions as redundant or repetitive, resembling a hardware store. The superfluity had overtaken any noticeable singularity of the stuff which had in turn dissolved into a background collection. I attempted to regain some restraint and modesty by engaging a number of auctioneers to eliminate what I suddenly fashioned were excessive or exhausted things. I also discerned that real estate (which we were contemporaneously unloading) required constant maintenance with related and less than digestible expenditure.

For a while following our process of downsizing this conversion from material surplusage was convenient and unremarkable. It always amused me nonetheless that I was so willingly able to bear the deprivation of what had once commanded such attraction and what had been so unhesitatly and rapidly sold.  We had in one instance lunched on the patio and watched a live auction of my stuff at the Windsor Arms hotel in Toronto. The speed of the auction was phenomenal.  I understand many of the buyers were working remotely.  It was a lesson in value.  Things of mine were popular but they all sold for less than I had paid (which I never considered a loss, just the price of enjoyment). But it illustrated to me the absurdity of having paid double for what was acquirable at half the price. And more damaging was the realization that the acquisitions were frequently merely experimental and had been grossly overstated. The real killer however was the bald acceptance that stuff doesn’t buy contentment (as I suppose I had once imagined it would). It was the start of my final translation of materialism.

The osmosis began only gradually.  For a period after the downsizing and the auctions I persisted in the acquisitive expression of materialism by buying replacement items – like pianos (an electric Korg keyboard instead of the salon grand Steinway); or jewellery (999 silver for the 18K gold); and paintings (living artists for Frederick S. Coburn and Henri Masson). That moderate transition exemplified what had been the unwitting evolution from antique to modern and then from collective to imperative.  The quelling imperative was what I found most sustainable and alluring; that is, stuff that fulfilled a purpose while satisfying the attraction. Living in a limited environment obliged me to relinquish what was not indipensable. It coincidentally forced me to abbreviate my material ambitions and make choices.  Some of this recasting was the result of old age whereby the mere prospect of evaporation diminishes the value of increased acquisition. Part of the progression is reflective of that wispy distillation of time; gradually we estrange ourselves from what is not critical and remain moored only to what speaks to us unquestionably.  I have for example a millefiori which I bought early one morning on Madison Avenue in New York City. We had wandered from the Waldorf Astoria where we were staying in search of a spot for breakfast.  The shop wasn’t yet open but I had mistakenly pried the door handle which inspired the shopkeeper to allow us in. It was a curious place, clearly devoted to the collector. To my credit I settled upon an item which is singular in its construction. It has forever retained its novelty in my mind along with a happy recollection of our airmless stroll on an autumn morning in New York City. Simple stories like that I can ascribe to almost every other item within our now contracted material domain.

It is an unpredicted corollary of this passage that I no longer see the necessity, nor have I the desire, for anything further. On the one hand it spells being at the end of the road (which, granted, is a small compliment); on the other hand, it is recognition of an indisputable reality.  To enlarge wildly upon the current assembly of things would be transparently neurotic. On a happier evaluation, I can sincerely report that I daily enjoy what things I have, including even the real radio I bought many years ago; or the cellarette for the wine we no longer drink but continue to buy for others; or the rugs from my grandparents’ home in Fredericton, New Brunswick; or the engraved bronze paperweight (meaningfully made by Don and Scott Downey of R&S Tool & Die in the Village of Pakenham and engraved by Anthony St. Dennis, Almonte who formerly worked for the British America Bank Note Company); the embossing seal; the collection of walkng sticks and umbrellas; the clocks; the watches and jewellery I wear now only on occasion; and of course the paintings.