The Ethics Of Preservation

 LOCATION: SUNSHINE COAST, BC

   

 

At what point does caution become caustic?

Once upon a time, I had two miniature china tea sets. They were both ladybug themed, gifts from relatives, and both very precious to me. One set, from my maternal grandparents, was kept with the full-size dishes in a cabinet far out of my reach; I had to be granted parental permission just to touch them. The other set was entrusted to my care, but in my games, I always retained the same delicate caution. One day I returned from class to find that my brother, still too young for school, and his nanny had been playing with the set and had broken the handle off of the tiny milk jug. In my six-year-old wrath, I hid every dish so nobody save myself could again play with them – especially not without permission, and so incautiously.

More than a decade on, I rediscovered the sets in the bedroom of my adolescence, the tiny teacups forlornly awaiting my return in an unassuming wicker basket. About to shuttle the lot along to another storage space, I caught myself and reconsidered. My sister, ten years old at the time, would doubtlessly have been completely enamoured of the little dishes. But no, I thought, looking down at the handleless red-and-white milk jug, its jagged white scar a reminder of that long-ago incident. She’d probably break  them all.

But what good would my childhood china, printed with polka dots and ladybugs, serve abandoned and untouched as it was in under-bed storage? Certainly, the tea sets were safe from the carelessness of little fingers. But they were also deprived of the joy of play; or, to remove the personification, I was hoarding a childhood relic for no reason other than habit. Or, perhaps, nostalgia, selfishness, lack of trust – not qualities I’m particularly partial to. 

In essence, I was saving these memories – but disallowing the accumulation of additional memories. Instead of creating a shared heirloom between sisters, ringing with the laughter and Earl Grey (and occasional tear) of a playful childhood, I was clinging to something that no longer brought me joy without letting myself move on. This whole maudlin episode led to the (in hindsight, entirely inevitable) intra-personal examination of when preservation becomes rather toxic. I derive no personal satisfaction from keeping those ladybug sets closed up and untouched. Really, what right do I have to deny my sister such happiness – so given by a prop of imaginative play? I can certainly justify my ownership. But convincing myself that protection of a forgotten toy is more valuable than the joy of a child is less easily done.

– Entr’acte; or, To Consider –

A friend of mine inherited stacks of plates from her late grandmother some years ago. For a long time, this friend kept the plates secreted away in boxes, to be used only on special occasions. But these occasions never seemed to present themselves; the dishes, a physical reminder of a treasured family member, gently faded from memory. Until, upon rediscovering the box while cleaning, she considered that the dishes had been entrusted to her in order to be used – a broken plate is far less painful than realizing one has slowly forgotten an entire person. She now uses the plates at every meal and every dinner party and shares the memory of her grandmother with everyone who eats from those dishes.

At age eleven, I read a novel following a young boy’s discovery of an ancient Welsh artefact. One core theme of the book was the exploration of when, and whether, it is justifiable to remove such artefacts from public enjoyment. There is the anthropological approach of sealing off ancient objects in temperature- and humidity-controlled cases, only seen by specialized scientists and historians. Which, in many instances, is clearly the right thing to do. But in so doing, the public cannot study those aspects of history and culture at a physical level, nor experience the sheer joy of being in close proximity to objects shaped by ancient hands so much like ours.

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It is a curious case of ethics. I do not claim to have entirely formulated my opinion; perhaps – almost certainly – one’s approach must change per the situation. It is a discussion to ponder and explore in depth and at length. But I will leave you with one final item: I gave those miniature tea sets to my ten-year-old sister that day. Few things compare to watching a child’s face completely illuminate with pure happiness the way hers did upon receiving the gift. She gently unpacked and stored each one with the same care I once employed.

We had a tea party, just us two. And that day is now an irreplaceable memory I will cherish forever.

Photography by Annika Jordan.