I have never met an artist who did not dote on an artist supply catalogue. The most comprehensive catalogue can never be  thick enough.

Artists are also great hoarders. Like squirrels in Fall, painters hoard extra tubes of paint, save new and worn-out brushes, and store extra rolls of canvas. Printers hoard inks, store extra cans of chemicals, multiples of tools, and all varieties of paper. Collage artists fill shelves and binders with ephemera hoping they will find a use for them in the future. Extra supplies are stashed all over the studio.

I confess, I am a hoarder myself. I enjoy purchasing extra supplies. They cheer me up when my enthusiasm for work is waning.  I may already be well stocked or I may have no idea if or when I will use the item. Just the purchase of new supplies (and I include books) is proof of a renewed confidence in myself and in  work. Perhaps the insecurity of a life in art is made a little more secure by a surplus of materials? 

Case in point: pastels. I adore a pastel’s purity of color. For a few years, lacking space in my apartment for a painting easel, I drew on a table with pastels. When airborne pastel dust spread like a miasma throughout the apartment, leaving a black soot on books and surfaces, I was forced—they messed up everything—to put my pastels away in boxes and buried them in a cabinet. I couldn’t imagine needing them again. I used wax crayons instead. 

But you can never know the future. Best to keep the pastels, just in case.

About twenty years ago, while going through a pile of boxes in an upstate antique store, I came across a beat-up, dark brown wooden dovetail box, 14 by 17 inches, full of dry pastels. I knew immediately that they were old, probably late 19th century.  Strips of yellowish cotton, stained with pigment, protected the sticks. “Made in Dresden,” implied a European excellence and exoticism. My first thought was that the pastels were made from the very same pigments that the Impressionists and Degas used, some of which may no longer be available. Just being in possession of this ancient artifact made me feel linked to the past, and like an authentic artist.

I knew I wanted them, but did I actually need them? I had no plans to ever use pastels again. Would they just accumulate dust and take up valuable space? “O reason not the need,” cried King Lear. Why must “need” enter into a decision? Why shouldn’t I want something even if it is not needed? Do it! Seize the opportunity. If you don’t, you will regret it later. The chance may never come again.   

Without examining the heavy box or its contents further, I quickly and carefully carried it with two hands to the counter, giving myself no chance to reconsider.

Recently, while going through a cabinet full of supplies, looking for a stash of tubes of gouache, I discovered the box of pastels. They weren’t exactly lost, just ignored. Over the years, I had never actually opened the box or examined what was inside. I simply hoarded it, squirreled it away.

To my great joy and surprise, I found four wooden shelves of 120 pastels each or 480 colors. That is far more colors than I have ever used or might ever need.

Do I really need them? Maybe not. But if I weren’t a hoarder, I wouldn’t own this amazing set of pastels to marvel over and play with. 

So there!