Anderson Antiques
My mother first sparked my interest in art and collectibles. She was an avid collector – particularly of antique doll houses. That presented something of a dilemma when it came to display, given she had three sons and no daughters. Even though none of us expressed any interest in dolls or doll accessories, we all had antique doll houses in our bedrooms. It seemed a little odd at the time, but I was also intrigued by her passion for collecting, and the doll houses were wonderfully detailed and finely crafted; I really enjoyed studying them.
My father wasn’t a collector, but he researched potential purchases for my mother. And as I grew older, I became increasingly interested in the motivations for collecting, which typically grow out of a larger interest in history and culture. Art and collectibles are our most tangible physical connections to the past: we can look at them, hold them in our hands, and better understand what has happened, how we got to the present, and where we’re going.
My mother started taking me to auctions once my interest in collecting became apparent, and I was enthralled with the drama and tension inherent in the bidding process. And soon, I started collecting as well. At first, I concentrated on Bay Area baseball memorabilia, and for a very salient reason: as a child in the late 1940s, my father had been a batboy for the Oakland Oaks, a minor league team that played for the old Pacific Coast League. Casey Stengel was the general manager at the time and Billy Martin played second base, and I grew up with my dad’s stories about minor league personalities and high jinks.
Later, I expanded the scope of my baseball collection while simultaneously refining the focus: I collected items associated with the Oakland As and the Yankees, and concentrated particularly on Billy Martin. I found – and still find – baseball collecting educational and inspirational. It is a deeply subtle game, with virtually infinite strategic variations. Students of baseball are literally that – students of the most intellectually challenging game in sports. Many are writers, which is probably why there are more books about baseball than any other sport.
In fact, my own interest in baseball collecting has shifted to the literary end of the collectible spectrum as I’ve aged. These days, I mainly collect baseball books; I deeply enjoy reading them, and there are new ones every year to research, purchase – and especially, read and re-read.
Literature, in fact, is the basis for my most significant collection: Jack London first editions and memorabilia. I began collecting London shortly after I started collecting baseball, and my passion for London – for everything he represents to American literature, to Bay Area history – has only grown over the years. London was both larger than life and vulnerable, a man of profound artistic gifts and internal conflict. His humanity shines through everything he wrote, and he was a pivotal figure in the developing culture and economy of the Sonoma Valley, where I live. Collecting Jack London keeps me anchored to the landscapes that I knew as a boy, and that remain my home.
Though my passion for collecting didn’t abate through my twenties, the actual process of collecting did slow considerably. I was building a career, I was incredibly busy, and I didn’t really have a permanent home or office; there was no place where I could properly store, display, and enjoy any ambitious collection. That began to change by my late 20s, when I finally moved into a proper home and established my offices. I began collection London again, and I expanded my collecting purview to other areas, including Cuban art.
I first visited Cuba in the 1980s, and I was captivated by the transcendent natural beauty of the island and the warmth, charisma, generosity, and resilience of the Cuban people. The art that originates from the island reflects all these qualities of the land and its inhabitants, and I’m proud to be a patron. My Cuban collection also dovetails with my London collection: Jack visited Cuba during his honeymoon with his new bride, Charmain, and later wrote a short story with a Cuban setting.
I also have an extensive collection of Indian peace medals: 19th Century commemorative medals that were presented by U.S. Presidents to Native American chiefs or elders during peace negotiations. These medals were considered signal honors by the issuers and the recipients alike; they are historical markers of both Euro-American westward expansion and the tragedy of First Nations people who negotiated treaties in good faith, only to be deprived of their lands and freedom when the agreements were breached by the United States.
My collections at this point are diverse, but they all reflect issues or events that resonate with me personally. I don’t collect with an eye to my “living spaces.” Some collectors buy with decoration schemes in mind; the pieces are subsumed to a decorator’s vision, and they don’t speak to the personal passions, the aspirations – even the internal conflicts – of the collector. My philosophy of collecting lies 180 degrees opposite of that perspective. I must feel a deep affinity with a piece before I bid on it – it must speak to me. Sometimes it shouts; sometimes it whispers. But each piece has a message for me.
A statue I have at my ranch is a case in point. It’s a large, very heavy concrete casting of a smiling policeman. It’s about a hundred years old, and I bought it because my father was a policeman. He was an outstanding law enforcement officer: friendly, welcoming, watchful, intelligent, and committed to protecting the community. And this statue is a personification of those qualities. It “stands guard” at my ranch, and I think of my father every time I drive past it.
I am also an ardent collector of African American memorabilia and folk art. The struggle of the African American people is foundational to the history of this country, and it continues to this day. I have a wonderful painting in my office by XXX, who worked in [the mid-20th Century?]. It portrays an African American mother and her two children, standing outside a home with an eviction notice on the door. The look on their faces is devastating. This isn’t a work of great technical sophistication, and it’s mounted in a very simple frame – but it’s one of the most powerful paintings I’ve ever seen, and it stands as a testament to the great challenges and injustices African Americans face every day.
I also collect Jackie Robinson memorabilia. I have a long relationship with the Jackie Robinson Foundation, and I’ve had many conversations with Rachel Robinson, his widow. As the first African American player in Major League Baseball, Jackie stands as a transitional figure in the history of both American sports and civil rights. He’s a personal cynosure, a waypoint that guides me in my political and community work, my personal philosophy – and of course, in my collecting.
Another African American civil rights and sports great is represented in my collection: Muhammed Ali. I’m currently in the process of framing a series of index cards that Ali used to write out one of his speeches: a meditation on Islam, and why it was central to his life. The entire speech is written in toto, word for word, in Ali’s own hand. It’s a distillation of who he is as a human being, a testimony to his courage, faith, and honor. There has never been anyone in American sports who sacrificed as much as Ali. He gave up the heavyweight championship of the world for his beliefs, and he never wavered, never backtracked. My admiration for him is total, and those cards help me aspire to do what is right, not expedient.
Acquiring art and collectibles is relatively simple, but the internal process prior to collecting can be fraught. For me, it requires a deep internal dialogue. As I mentioned, I’ve established a personal connection with every piece that I’ve acquired; it’s almost as though I’m listening to its story, that I hear its voice. Pieces that interest me create a narrative that move me, that compel me to buy.
Once I find such a piece, there are two ways to approach the bid. I may decide that there’s a firm “x” that I can’t exceed, particularly on absentee auctions; if I decide on $500 and the bidding goes to $550, I’m resigned to losing the piece. There are also times when I’m absolutely determined to acquire a particular item, and at such times I’ll bid in live auction, maintaining a certain flexibility in my strategy. Live auctions can be intense, particularly if you’re in a hot bidding competition for an object that absolutely enthralls you. If you do obtain the piece, the chances are good that you’ve overpaid – but that doesn’t lessen the endorphin pump, the deep euphoria, that invariably results from the acquisition. The greatest rush, of course, is when you acquire something you love at a bargain price; those events are few and far between, but they’re all the more enjoyable for their rarity.
That said, every bidder carries a firm number in their head for every item they’re considering; to do otherwise invites extravagant overbidding – and invariably, regret. But the experienced collector learns to take the long view. If you lose a bid on an object one day, the chances of that very piece coming up at a future auction are good. Art and collectibles are a dynamic, every changing market, and pieces constantly circulate – and recirculate – through the collecting community.
Judicious collecting isn’t simply a matter of personal satisfaction, of course – it can also be a sound investment strategy. I’m fully aware that my collections are valuable, and I provide them the care and oversight I accord any investment. But in conjunction with personal enjoyment and asset appreciation, collecting entails great responsibility. Collectors don’t really own the art and historically significant objects they acquire – they pay for the privilege of holding them for a certain period of time. I believe collectors are more properly stewards of their collections rather than owners, and they’re obliged to protect the objects in their care for future collectors – and ultimately, for humankind.
