Apologies for the extended delay since the last newsletter - a combination of Everything On Fire work deadlines and the exhaustion of kids home 24/7 did a number on me. Following this, regular service will hopefully resume next week.
We all have hobbies. All are some aspect of obsession, and some are more socially-acceptable than others - usually because they represent competition, physical prowess or wealth. But, more to the point, some involve the accumulation of physical objects. What happens when those physical objects - let’s say a large collection of vintage toy robots - suddenly loses their lustre?
Well, then you’ve got a house full of vintage toy robots you can’t stand the sight of. You’re surrounded by your folly, day after day. Regret not just as a lingering, gnawing guilt, but as a physical manifestation - a wince whichever direction you look in. A prison of plastic shame. A sea of blank plastic faces, stubby cuboid limbs and, oh God, the guns - so many tiny guns.
Collection Fatigue is the demon that comes for anyone who’s been in this ridiculous game as long as I have. Sometimes sooner, sometimes later, sometimes briefly - and sometimes permanently. I’ve had at least four major bouts of it over the years, and countless briefer wobbles.
The feeling is almost indescribable - a hammer blow of cold horror of I see myself as I worry others do. Why do I own all this crap? What is wrong with me? How did I become the kind of person who owns dozens of tiny little guys with tiny little guns? And: how do I get rid of all of it immediately?
That latter question is the hardest to answer, if not philosophically then at least practically. For starters, like anything that circles the stinking drain of nostalgia, Transformers by and large have value. If they’re vintage ones in decent condition, they’re even accruing value at an alarming rate, as more and more of my generation hit their mid-life crises and yearn for their carefree yesterdays.
(Anecdotally, I’ve noticed growing interest in vintage Transformers from younger generations, curiously charmed by the aesthetics of forty years past - and perhaps even drawn to their tactility, in the ongoing age of digital ephemera that has similarly led to clickety-clack cassette players having a new moment in the sun).
In other words, bundling dozens of little plastic fellas into a bin bag and depositing them at the nearest chazza would be Truss-levels of financial recklessness. Which means instead, the fatigued collector needs to carefully assess condition, research prices, take dozens of photos and brave the long, arduous game of eBay. This is in itself enormously fatiguing, and so invariably results in a huge Pile of Shame that is never listed and never sold.
The good news is that Collector Fatigue tends to pass after a few weeks or months of crippling regret, and a certain sanguinity that This Is What I’m Like So Where’s The Harm? returns to negate the shame. The bad news is that this inevitably happens not because of a new found appreciation of what one already owns, but instead having one’s head turned by a new robot. Or, worse, a whole new line of robots. Fast forward a little and the problem has redoubled - not only have you still got all your old toys, but now you’ve got a whole tranche of new ones tumbling from your overstuffed shelves too.
So what’s the answer? Well, self-acceptance is one. If you’re a grown-ass adult who still likes toys, chances are that’s never truly going away. You can try to fight it if you have visions of being A Better Person, and I won’t pretend there isn’t merit in that. During the times in my life when toy robots haven’t been occupying a certain percentage of my thoughts, I’ve certainly been able to put more time and energy (and money, oh Christ the money) into arguably Higher Pursuits - exercise, film, books, etc etc.
But maybe this involved denying a certain part of myself. There’s a reason the interest always returns. I also have friends in this game, made only because of this game, and with whom I share a certain amount of worldview that I don’t with Normals. Including, importantly, the existential crisis about why we do this silly thing that we do - leavened with a genuine appreciation for it. I value that dearly.
The trick is balance - to maintain those ‘higher’ interests rather than allowing the acquisition of ever-more lumps of spiky plastic to become The Interest. The one, consuming thought at the expense of all others. M’learned Games Workshop fans will understand exactly what I mean here. So I strive to give myself to both the high and the low - my toy hobby feels that much more justifiable if I know I’m also using my brain and/or body for more edifying pursuits.
Another answer is being clear about what I (or you) actually enjoy about transforming robots, in order to prevent myself buying the unending flood of new releases purely for the sake of it. Is it the the puzzle, the tactility, the fascinatingly ungainly aesthetic of the earlier ones, or the superheroic proportions and poseability of modern ones? Or is it as effectively a painstakingly accurate statue of a bandy-legged cartoon character model you saw briefly on TV 40 years ago, and therefore the joy of transformation be damned?
I’ve been all over the place with these damned things, trying a bit of everything, and having had to do repeated purges when either my tastes suddenly changed or I realised that I simply no longer enjoyed line or look x, y or z. There’s been a lot of box-ticking in the past, trying to complete sub-lines or character rosters Just Because. It’d take too long before I realised the fun had stopped and compulsion had stepped into the breach - and that moment of realisation was invariably when Collection Fatigue got its hands around my throat.
It’s taken decades to understand accept that I don’t get much out of the cartoon statues or the hyper-mobile superhero-styled ones. I want those weird old blocky ones that had a couple of decades of looking outdated and dumb, but then developed a newly tantalising retro-futurist aesthetic. And oh, how they click. The new ones don’t do that, when you swivel an arm or tuck half a car onto their backs. Instead they squidge and smush into place, releasing no happy brain chemicals in the process.
So I know what I like, really. And I accept what I’m like, finally. Doesn’t mean I don’t get the occasional long, dark teatime of the soul when these things once again feel like a burden, and a stain on my repute.
But that brings me to my final answer: make sure you’re able to put all your toys away when you need to do. Mine all fit into one large cupboard, which I can close and lock, and pretend its content is entirely innocent. Pretend that I am a bright, shining person who doesn’t have this ridiculous interest. Had I rows and rows of glass cases, or a technicolour sprawl across every surface in the house… well, then I’d never be able to escape who I really am.