Why We Collect
Collecting isn't withdrawal. It's engagement with the world.
Posted February 2, 2026 | Reviewed by Jessica Schrader
During a recent visit, my brother and sister had an argument. Voices were raised. Both were defiant.
The source of their disagreement: how many items are needed to constitute a “collection”? My brother, a collector of many things, insisted that one must have at least six items of the same sort. With six, he stressed , one gets a fuller picture of the matter at hand. Elements can be arranged in pleasing and informative ways. Smaller displays can be “curated.”
My sister, more a saver than a collector, maintained that three, or even two, items are enough. A small group suggests that one is clear what they are doing and that they are ready to acquire more of these things if they choose. At any rate, the gathering is something purposeful, not just an accumulation.
A consultation of machine-based summaries on the internet—I refuse to call these AI —suggests my sister is closer to the typical understanding. People who collect do so with the intent of identifying, arranging, and saving. They know what they have and why they have it. They take pride in those possessions. Indeed, those objects become part of their lifestyle and identity .
All this raises the issue of why so many of us have collections. Neuroscientist and collecting scholar Shirley Mueller notes that nearly 40% of us collect one thing or another. Very few of these collections—guitars, hubcaps, theater programs, teacups, and the like—exist for strictly utilitarian purposes. We maintain them for other reasons. Let’s consider some of those—presented as types of collectors—below.
Many of us believe that our collections have monetary value. We cherish the idea that they are worth more than what we paid for them and that this value continues to rise. That mindset is central to the “investor.”
Investors are those who understand collecting to be wealth-building. For them, value means market profit. Investors promote the view that unused items (perhaps in their original packaging) are better than ones that are “worn.” A complete collection of something is worth more than its individual parts. Items that have been owned, touched, or just signed by famous people are worth more than those without “provenance.”
In Georg Simmel’s great essay on “exchange,” he maintains that things are worth what others are willing to pay for them. Value is a relational matter, where people surrender something of worth to get something even dearer to them. In settled economies, many goods acquire a fixed, publicly circulated price. But other items—especially rare goods like vintage automobiles, exquisite jewelry, or artwork from famous painters—float.
Commonly, investors aggressively hype the value of what they possess. The rest of us lie in wait, hoping one day our patience will be rewarded.
The preceding viewpoint is anathema to both my brother and sister. Their treasured objects will never be sold but instead passed on to family or to others who appreciate the objects as they do.
Profoundly, objects are not just material things; they are conduits to other human beings—creators, distributors, and possessors. They make us ponder the historical circumstances in which the item was made. A fancy necklace gets us thinking about the unknown lady who wore it. An antique pair of children’s shoes forces imagining of the life that was once rising in its powers and now is decades gone.
Collections from our ancestors accentuate these feelings. Inevitably, we reminisce about how those relatives displayed and used them. We sense the paradox that momentary creations survive while their human creators vanish.
As we hold those objects, we glimpse immortality. And memories occasioned by the object—perhaps the little shop where we bought it, the eccentric man who sold it, or the stormy weather that day—illuminate the life course.
For most, treasured collections aren’t things to be hidden in a drawer. They are to be displayed, proudly. Our collection of beer mugs, perhaps from around the world, is to have its own shelf. Campaign buttons belong on a prominently placed board. Guitars must be mounted on a wall, not buried in their cases.
We do this mostly so we can be heartened by our own accomplishments, making plain a challenging (and sometimes costly) process of gathering. But we also do it for visitors to our home. They should understand who we are, what we value, and what powers of discernment we possess.
To be clear, we don’t present these items haphazardly. Carefully, we select the rooms, walls, and cases. We fiddle with the arrangements. We think hard about how a new treasure will “fit” amidst the ones we already possess.
Nor should you be surprised that we think our hard-won collection—perhaps, troll dolls or ceramic frogs—is beautiful. For us, collecting is a process of aesthetic realization. And we take much pleasure in revealing its intricacies to the world.
When we were kids, my brother and I collected baseball cards. Never storing them carefully, we put them into their respective teams, secured by rubber bands. So assorted, players were laid out in on-field positions on the living room rug. Games were played; favorite players caressed. Hated ones got the abuse they deserved. Still possessing the cards, neither my brother nor I regret the enthusiastic handling. Those love marks are mementos of happy times.
My own children acted similarly toward their toys: Beanie Babies, Ninja Turtles, Legos, and the like. Tags were snipped off, packaging discarded, pieces dumped together into large bins. Everything investors say you shouldn’t do.
The point, of course, is that collections are not static forms; they are passports to experience. Friends who collect wine drink those bottles at special occasions; guitarists take their trophies off the wall and play them. These collectors would say that each of their treasures is different and that using it—even playing with it—is the best way to comprehend those idiosyncrasies.
It’s common to think of collecting as something individuals do, a personal enterprise that both extends and fortifies the self.
However, collecting is also a social activity, a way of engaging with other people. Routinely, we travel with friends to obtain desired items; we interact with sellers and customers in stores: we trade stories about what we have and want. Indeed, the process of “shopping” is often more important than its professed goal.
Collecting is also a community-building enterprise, a gathering of like-minded aficionados. Sitting in a lawn chair beside our prized possessions at a show or swap-meet, we acknowledge that belonging. Perhaps we become known as the person who owns an especially rare item that others want. People ask to buy it—or just see it. At such times. our “real” job or family ties mean nothing; collector status is all.
I believe that for most people, collecting combines these styles and motives. Taken together, they reveal that collectors should not be seen as obsessives retreating into sheltered, self-imposed environments. Instead, curious about the world and its wonderful offerings, they want to hold, savor, and share what they have learned.
Mueller, S. (2021). “Collectors Categorized: How Each One is Different.” www.psychologytoday.com . Posted June 12, 2021.
Mueller, S. (2020). “Collecting: An Urge that’s Hard to Resist.” www.psychologytoday.com . Posted October 29, 2020.
Simmel, G. (1971). “Exchange.” Pp. 43-69 in Georg Simmel: On Individuality and Social Forms. D. Levine, editor. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
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Thomas Henricks, Ph.D., is Danieley Professor of Sociology and Distinguished University Professor at Elon University.
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This article is part of the Bringwise Psychology Journal — daily insights on human behavior, mental health, and personal growth.