My Favorite Place

The first day of M200, upon realizing the Bloomington Antique Mall was listed on the schedule as a field trip site, I was flooded with a range of emotions. The first glance excited me, since the Antique Mall is my very favorite place in the lovely city of Bloomington. Immediately following this excitement, I became hesitant, feeling an unmerited protectiveness of “my” space. I did not want just anyone knowing about it. This place is too special to be visited out of obligation and with no appreciation. For these reasons, I was glad that this was a solo visit.

I love the Bloomington Antique Mall. I love that I can be alone there, away from campus and the fast pace of student life. It is filled with stories and memories and vacant of deadlines and pressure. I love that every time I check out, it takes several minutes longer than it would at any grocery or store in the mall, as tags are physically cut and taped to receipts and items are carefully wrapped. I love the familiarity of the space, the process of saying goodbye to old vendors, wondering if they took business elsewhere or simply ran out of things to sell. I love secretly judging new vendors who fill empty booths, evaluating whether or not they seen to promote an environment of authenticity or if they are just jumping on the vintage trend with new objects made to look old. When I need fabric on the cheap, I wind quickly down the stairs, making a beeline for the bucket of fabric under a clothes rack. When I needed white gloves for a costume, up I went, straight to the drawer of gloves by the window and under a rotating display of jewelry. I know the mall, and it knows me.

This weekend, I visited the Antique Mall for the first time in about a month. First thing upon climbing the stairs, I quietly grieved the loss of a vendor who had taken with the rest of his or her objects a set of summery glasses that I had been eyeing for several months, but had never brought myself to buy and store in my college kid cabinets full of Pizza X cups. More spaces had changed in a short time than I expected, but such is the nature of such a place as more objects become antique every day. The Beanie Babies get to me every time, as I stare my childhood in the face and it stares back with the label of “antique.”

Like Hohn expressed in his lovely, poetic article titled “A Romance of Rust,” I do not necessarily belong to the antique scene, and am more of an observer than participator. I am from a suburban background, and my limited twenty years of experience with the items of this planet have not equipped me with knowledge about many items I encounter in antique situations. I participate in my own small way, having given new life to an old calendar, snack dishes that now decorate my kitchen cabinets, beautiful globe book ends, a woven purse, and various pieces of jewelry, among other items from the Bloomington Antique Mall.

I am a lover of museums. Despite my love, I can relate to Dana’s reflections on “The Gloom of the Museum.” I choose to believe that, in many cases, the journey holds more joys than the destination. Process is more important than arrival. The items in museums have arrived. There they sit perpetually, venturing only back into storage or to the next museum to sit. To me, antique malls offer a more optimistic, less gloomy life for objects. They are a step in the journey of objects, allowing extended life in a new place, with a new owner, and maybe for a new purpose. I view the museum/antique mall divide as the difference between being famous versus loved. Certainly there is value to fame, to being on display like an object in a museum, and it can be used for good, but I would much rather be unknown to most and have a private, active life, loved by those close to me.

I relate to Finn, who in “How to Look at Everything” writes of the eye of the soul. I have been known to fall in love upon sight with objects of little monetary value, sometimes bringing them home and intertwining our lives, and sometimes stepping back and realizing how many possessions already bless and burden me. I realize, too, like the authors of the newspaper articles in the reading for week 6, that this burden of blessing does not end with me, but will eventually extend to those assigned the task of sorting and finding homes for my things when I’m gone. So sometimes, the desires of my eyes are refused by the comforting logic that my dearest treasures are not physical at all. Like Pablo Neruda in his poem quoted in Finn’s “Things, Common and Uncommon,” I too love things and the stories they tell. May I always love the stories more than the items.