Philippa Stevenson: In search of the Steptoe gene

The collecting mania of the Karamu (west of Hamilton) resident was revealed in all its glory last month by neighbour Jim Fulton in Waikato University's newsletter, On Campus.

By day Dew is a Waikato Management School lecturer in accounting, which seems a fairly wan occupation compared with the colourful accumulative activities of his leisure hours.

His acquisitions include more than 120 single or three-speed English bicycles, 35 1970s Iron Horse lawnmowers, 10 gramophone players (to play his ancient 78rpm records and cylinder recordings), old coins, ukuleles, vintage cars, scissors, paraffin lamps, keys, pocket watches, tricycles, wine corks (he doesn't drink wine) and telephones.

Why?

He told Fulton it was impossible "to impose a rational explanation on what is really an irrational mode of behaviour".

But that was the academic speaking, I find. At heart, his philosophy is Steptoesque.

"The central issue is that things are in poor condition and/or inexpensive, and must be able to be used," he says.

Early deprivation is a prime motivation. Bikes, for instance, were prohibitively expensive when he was a lad. He's made up for it, sparked on April 24, 1995 (he remembers the day) by a "magnificent 1937 BSA roadster" at the Hamilton refuse transfer station.

There is also a desire to conserve.

"These bicycles, the mowers, are so obviously still useful - they just need a bit of work. I think if I can postpone their extinction by a few years I've done something valuable."

Others have tried to explain the collecting bug. One woman analysed the hoarding habits of her Jewish grandmother, who fled persecution in Russia and spent years on the move.

"Collecting provides order in their lives and a bulwark against the chaos and terror of an uncertain world. It protects against the destruction of everything they've ever loved.

"Grandma's things made her feel safe. Though the world outside was a dangerous and continually changing place, she could still sit safely in her apartment at night 'putting together my things'."

Some people pay a fortune for things that often have little historical significance or intrinsic value except that they once belonged to someone famous. The bunfight over the auctioned belongings of former US First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis is an example.

Psychology Today magazine sought a reason. "It may have to do with how anonymous we all feel, but we have a hunger for connection with fame," speculated Richard Gottlieb, of the New York Psychoanalytic Institute and associate professor of psychiatry at Albert Einstein College of Medicine.

"At heart, collecting has to do with the prevention of loss, which is a universal and painful part of the human condition. It's an effort to stop time in its tracks, to hold on to things and the people that they symbolically represent; to make us feel less stricken and alone."

What about people who love to spring-clean any time of the year?

Even Dew finds that sending a mouldering pile of clutter on its way is cathartic. And his passions fade. He started collecting watches at the age of 7 but eventually called "time". When others join the craze and prices rise, he moves on to the next cheap but useful thing in need of repair.

After a decade he's still in the grip of his bicycle collection but keeps a lid on its size by (usually) parting with one bike when he gets another. And at least twice a year a good half of his bikes get a run in Karamu Cycle Club outings.

My chuck-out gene certainly seems to be dominant. For many years I considered collecting depictions of Don Quixote after being given a porcelain figurine. But it took more than 25 years for the "collection" to double, and then only courtesy of another gift.

But a latent collecting gene may lurk. Some time ago I was astounded to find I had an extraordinary collection of aprons. Without my noticing, pinnies had piled up that dated back to my grandmother, who's been dead nearly 30 years.

There were aprons my sister had at school, some of my mother's, and one of three delicate things my primary-school friends and I wore as waitresses in a fundraising teashop.

I went to throw them out but found I just couldn't. They lay in the far reaches of the linen cupboard - fond memories waiting to be recalled in floral prints, stripes and food stains.

Is anyone immune or could we all have a collecting gene just waiting to be kicked into life?