A friend invited us to take a look at his book collection. He's a baker, funny and somewhat cynical and the proverbial tumultuous soul under a calm surface. He and his wife have a cozy apartment, clearly meant to be temporary, some favorite objects on both sides and a lot of DIY that gives the place character and warmth. My GF has been collecting in the past, but it was always accompanied by a feeling of guilt, sometimes strong, sometimes minor, though always present. Where are you going to put this? Do you really need that? Shouldn't you just save your money? Incomprehension is the passion's death knoll. When he started showing us his books, thoughts immediately clicked into place for her. An entire room dedicated to the object of admiration. The collection itself becomes an expression of individuality and a valid component of interior design. We have never seen our friend G so energetic! His paints the most vivid picture of his life by way of the different series of books and illustrations in his possession, entire periods of life codified in the completion of a series or limited edition print. He knows all about the authors, artists and publishing houses as well as the content. After a while my head starts to spin. His interest lies in popular editions of sci-fi, horror and fantasy, in the giallo, the B-movie, the popular paperback written by author-collectives. It is not my world but here I truly feel that whatever someone spends time with becomes a mirror of their soul. One of the best experiences in life is meeting a person who has built a place for herself out her objects of attachment. I learn about the concept of the [[Detective of the Occult]], [[Alvim Correa]] who gave us the familiar image of H.G. Wells' Tripod, that [[H. P. Lovecraft]] wrote poems too. But as we turn endlessly through the ranks of impeccable books, I cannot help but notice the ineluctable comfy chair that looks like it was picked up from a drop-off point for undesired furniture. Here it makes perfect sense. "I come here to read and re-read", G says." I also love different movies than my wife", pointing to the TV in a corner, before we ping-pong our opinions of Blade Runner, Alien and John Carpenter or Dario Argento's Profondo Rosso. As we leave the room, my astonishment touches one last time the rows of neatly aligned books which in this room more than anywhere else, are the living friends of a fellow human being. The movie collection, the accordion lodged between. I have never been collecting physical objects and never considered the idea of a physical space of refuge. While I like being alone with my thoughts, which I undeniably amassed and curated over time, I do not so much have a happy place than hints of happiness. If text is printed well on a screen while I'm writing for instance, I'm happy. Music from stories or periods of life is important. Rewatching a game I decided would be with me for as long as I live. My GF has regained her passion for collecting almost immediately. Then it hits me: only once has she openly claimed space for objects she loved against the tides of derision, gently ironic or outspokenly critical alike. The objects were paintings, the artist "paints exactly how I feel". She would sit down surrounded by huge canvases of immense meaning, notebooks and cartels strewn about. I think she never felt belonging so strongly to claim space from reality and I had never seen her so complete. People like us often struggle with believing in reality. It is always a blurred concept that challenges the simplistic beauty of our ideas and seems unnecessary. It is non-negotiable of course, which is why settling space with externalizations of your own meaning, objects you associate with parts of yourself, is probably the ultimate medicine against existential malaise. In a space of your making, you have no choice but to be real, on one level with things that exist along side you while supporting, rather than challenging your own sense of self. One of the results of the newly lit flame for collecting was a haul of old cultural journals, "Le Monde illustre". When I saw the huge, squared photo of what must be the [[Triborough Bridge (JFK Bridge)]] under construction, I got goosebumps. An iconic part of an iconic city when it was just getting started. There are other issues showing the [[Empire State Building]] almost finished and most of [[Manhatten]] still a forest of scaffolding. You look at the page and hear the sonic fumes of clarinets whirling amidst the rumble of hammers and machines. I wanted to read it in [[Le Palais Coffee Shop]] because it is in itself a window to the past. Now I know the quotes for the Bank of Algier or the Suez company, the health benefits of Ovomaltine, [[Janniot]]'s fine work newly opened [[Exposition Coloniale Internationale 1931]] on the [[Palais de la Porte Doree]]. Authors supported by the Academie Francaise or a suggestion for your "phono": a new carving of the Donauwalzer. The world a hundred years ago sounds surprisingly similar to ours, although the large construction projects, the birth of entire cities, the shared belief in progress seems to have been the main focus, not an afterthought of doom.