Compulsive hoarding can be defined as an obsessive-compulsive disorder. That doesn’t mean that all hoarding is a disorder, however. Moreover, there are distinctions to be drawn between “hoarding,” accumulating and the more positively connoted “collecting.”

These differentiations were among the issues discussed during a recent panel discussion sponsored by the Center for Humanities at the Graduate Center of the City University of New York.

Most of us never think much about why we collect or accumulate things, we just do. Wouldn’t you know, however, there’s something called “thing theory” and there are lots of people, five on this panel alone, collecting theories on why we collect things.

From Wikipedia, Thing theory is a branch of critical theory that focuses on the role of things in literature and culture. It borrows from Heidegger's distinction between objects and things, whereby an object becomes a thing when it is somehow made to stand out against the backdrop of the world it exists in.

Collections of these things range across a broad spectrum and can be anything from belly button lint to paintings. One of the first quotes of the evening may not fully explain the why of the collecting, but can give some sense of reason for it. “How can you fault someone for figuring out how to be happy.”

In listening to the talks, I couldn’t help but wonder whether collecting and accumulating were somehow different. I recalled a chapter in book, a copy of which I initially notices in a display case in the Winterthur Museum and later purchased, The Charm of the Antique.

The book, published in 1914, explores a number of charms including the charm of acquisition, the charm of the thing you didn’t get, the charm of specializing, the charm of the unexpected and finally the charm of posession. It’s this final charm I suspect the panelists would find most interesting. It touches on the differentiation between hoarding and collecting and the collector who hoardes.

The collector who possesses to hoard has always existed and will always exist. “What toil did honest Curio take, what strict inquiries did he make”—thus sang Matt Prior many a generation ago, for collecting seems to bethe satisfyingof a natural instinct and has always had a vogue; and Prior goes on: “’Tis found, oan O his happy lot! ‘Tis bought, locked up, and lies forgot.”

In the chapter titled “The Charm of the Thing You didn’t Get,” the author touches more on the topic.

There are times when you see an article, and admire its charm, but do not acquire it because you really have enough of that particular kind of thing. Of what use is another tall clock or sideboard if you really have no need for it! There are, indeed, some enthusiasts who cannot resist the appeal of another and another so long as they have the space to crowd them. But that is accumulating rather than collecting; and between accumulating and collecting there is a difference. The lure of mere accumulation is strong, because of its being based on a very strong love for the old, but the collector should realise that not only does he keep the treasure from other collectors without any real advantage to himself, but that by crowding and cluttering his house he defeats the main purpose of collecting and home-making, which is, having the house look its very best—which it cannot do if antiques are jammed into every corner—or even stored like cordwood, as we know of forty four-post beds being kept!

The book then describes an aspect of collecting I am recently familiar with. Having packed your own home, you continually lend things to friends and family to keep until you have a bigger house (or send them to storage).

It is exasperating to find people clinging to antiques with no appreciation of what they really are but with stubborn determination to hold them because other people would like to have them; but even in such cases the charm of the things themselves is felt by the collector who doesn’t get them from the dog in the manger.

When panelist Judith Pascoe, Professor of English at the University of Iowa, passed around a scrap book with samples of stitching patterns some person from the past had meticulously assembled, one attendee came close to scolding her ascing about the lines between collecting and preservation. Pascoe replied that she had herself dealt with this issue and made a consious decision to pass around the real object being discussed because, while care and preservation was important, if it can’t be used and learned from by living people, “what good is it?”

One of the reasons for collecting described by the panel is the immortalization of the self. This is undoubtedly the case for many of the big collectors of art, Like Henry Clay Frick in the Gilded Age and Alice Walton today. For the regular collector, the book touches on what to do with the furniture for the future and suggests that giving it to museums is often a misguided effort. “Merely to throw ones things at the nearest museum may be just as foolish as to make a bonfire of them; but, on the other hand, there is no finer destination than an excellent museum that needs them.” Founding your own museum of course is a different issue entirely.

Yet another issue touched on was the value in a thing itself vs. the value of the provenance. That brought to mind a recent old masters exhibit at the Met arranged not chronologically or by artist, but by who had donated the paintings.

I’ve personally started several collections over the years, and in most cases I have disposed of those collections only to start collecting something else. Most recently it’s stereoview cards from a particular photographer, and secondarily glass slides. Sometimes we collect things for what they symbolize. One participant spoke of days when gays and lesbians had to be more discreet and used object and patterns in their homes to define express themselves. It turns out there’s someone working on a book about this evry subject.

At one point I was collecting postcards, mostly of well-known buildings like Grand Central Terminal and the Empire State Building. My friend commented that I should seek out rare cards, not these common ones. To me rare cards weren't interesting. These common cards symbolized New York, the place I knew I wanted to one day live. Today the cards are in storage, and I am here pondering my long-ago reason for their purchase.

At one weak juncture of my life I purchased a "Hello Kitty" toaster. It was such an oddity, not only the bright plastic design, but the cat shaped burn marks it produced on the toast. My toaster may have been the first time the culture of Japan was to officially enter my homespace, but hardly the first time the culture has enjoyed significant influence on American culture and design.

While Japan is long known to have an interest in all things American, the long lines yesterday at an exhibit of the work of Japanese artist Takashi Murakami was testament to the continued interest in all things Japanese in the U.S. The current show at the Brooklyn Museum show includes more than ninety works in various media that span the artist’s entire career, installed in more than 18,500 square feet of gallery space.

Born in Tokyo in 1962, Murakami is one of the most influential and acclaimed artists to have emerged from Asia in the late twentieth century, creating a wide-ranging body of work that consciously bridges fine art, design, animation, fashion, and popular culture.

I haven't at this point found my personal connection to Murakami, it may take an oddity of a consumer appliance to do that. In fact, I haven't yet spent the time to actually see the exhibit. Instead I headed to the fifth floor, where a number of paintings and decorative arts tell a larger story of the longstanding influence of Japan and other Asian countries on design and culture in the U.S.

There an 1864 quote that would prove prophetic is displayed from James Jackson Jarvis from The Art Idea "We are a composite people. Our knowledge is eclectic... It remains then for us to be as eclectic in our art as in the rest of our civilization."

In the 1870s and 1880s, works by William Merritt Chase, Herter Brothers and others would embrace the far east. One of the best places to get a taste for this is the Brooklyn Museum.

It's not the first time a far-away culture came to influence American art and design. A fascination with Egypt prevailed earlier in the 19th Century, as did the influence of ancient Greece which some may argue has not subsided.

Today's world is far removed from the time of William Merritt Chase and the Herter Brothers. In an international marketplace few cultures are that far removed. Before mass production the influence of design was unable to fully penetrate the population. Today a far greater segment of the population is within reach of say a "Hello Kitty" toaster than a Herter Brothers cabinet in its day. Murakami seems to have appeal to one who may purchase a $5,000 handbag and a simple mouse pad (gift shop items including a sunflower pillow--brought the response of 'he certainly is a businessman' from my friend.)

It’s generally understood that the century mark defines an object as an antique. We all know, however that artistic value is not acquired by age. While most of us refer to our hobby as antique collecting, what most of us really seek is not just age, but the artistic values of an old object.

To be fair, age is an important attribute. From sophisticated New York, Boston and Philadelphia furniture to Kentucky, Pennsylvania and Ohio folk art, age brings a personal connection to the creator of an object and the people who had known it.

That personal component, the connection of an object to its maker is one that has been lost on objects that came into being from a machine rather than through the hands of a craftsman. While many machine-made objects have weathered the hundred years it takes them to come to be defined as an antique, they are still without that very personal connection to the past. They have age and connection with a time and place, but no individual connection with the person who made them.

It’s hard to relate to a time when the artist-craftsman was the source of most of consumer goods produced. The closest we come today is having objects by a noted designer. This is the model that most people alive today relate to, and perhaps one of the reasons it’s commonly observed that younger generations are not interested in antique collecting. While it’s easy to be aware of the “old” of an object, the appreciation of the art of it is not apparent as even the process in which these objects came into being is foreign.

Mass production has existed for most of our lifetimes, our parents and even grandparents lifetimes. The would-be collector is left with no obvious way to distinguish an object with age and artistic value from one that has merely acquired age. The differentiation is a learned ability and one the modern consumer is not accustomed to investing time in.

Most of the objects in homes today were not crafted by an individual. They are not of a unique design. They say even less about the craftsman who designed them then about the consumer who bought them and are more likely to be discarded than be in the homes of future generations.

The one exception is art. Despite the influence of Andy Warhol, while mass production has almost completely infiltrated the furniture market, the process has failed to diminish an appreciation of wall art among a broad segment of the public. Those who don’t realize they can have a real painting in their home have been to a museum to appreciate art.

The task before us who would like to see more collections in homes in addition to museums is to enhance the awareness of art as something we can not only appreciate, but should aspire to have adorn our walls. More, art is not limited to the wall. It can be found in our furniture and other home décor.

The limited definition of an antique as an object that has simply accumulated a hundred years may be one that prevents the hobby from being fully appreciated by younger generations. It is the universal appreciation for art that can change that.