You've been active as a collector for some time. What do you look for in an artwork, and how has your perspective on collecting evolved?
“I think it’s important to not try to define your collection too early - or to force it into a fixed identity. When I’m asked what I collect, I rarely have a straightforward answer. It’s not me being evasive, but because I genuinely don’t think about collecting in categorical terms. I collect what resonates - emotionally, intellectually, or sometimes just instinctively. Over time, my approach has become more intuitive and less concerned with trends or cohesion. I used to think collecting had to follow a particular logic or reflect a curatorial thesis. Now, I think of it more as a kind of diary - personal, fragmented, evolving. The works I live with remind me of conversations, encounters, and moments that I’ve shared with the people who inspire me.
One piece in my collection that means the most to me is a commissioned portrait of my cat, Pootie, by Joseph Jones, which my friend Daniel Malarkey helped me to acquire. On one level, it’s sentimental, but it also speaks to something larger. First of all, it’s an immense privilege to be able to commission a work by an artist. There’s something meaningful about that exchange: the trust, the interpretation, the permanence.
Moreover, I know this is an artwork I’ll look back on for many years, probably long after Pootie is gone. It may sound slightly morbid and also quite corny to say a painting makes me think of mortality. I’ve always felt uneasy about relying on digital archives; we don’t know which platforms will vanish, or which devices will become obsolete. A physical artwork, on the other hand, feels like the only sure and enduring way to preserve something - to protect it, care for it, and be continually reminded of its presence.
So while my collection may not follow a conventional path, it’s filled with things that carry emotional weight, and that feel, in different ways, like anchors in time.”