Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Horror Vacui
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
The back of my neck is damp, my hands jittery. Every which way I turn, I am turned towards temptation.
I’ve been here before. I know the symptoms. I am relapsing. I have horror vacui.
From 16th century tiles to modern ceramic artworks, the National Tile National Tile Museum in Lisbon—a decommissioned convent—is triggering my affliction. The artistry quickens my breath, flutters my stomach. I feel like an altar boy having impure thoughts about his favorite nun. The irony of lusting inside a former convent shames me.
I suffer from an uncontrollable need to fill my living spaces with art, artifacts, artistic souvenirs. My addiction—for what else can I call it?—is craving art objects, souvenirs, treasures from my travels.
Collector is the genteel word for hoarder. The rooms in my house—from the living room to the kitchen, from the bathroom to the halls—look like a garage sale.
I have imprisoned myself with masks, paintings, sculptures, relics, potshards, bits of cloth, old books, metal trays, glass beads, objects of no use. In the crammed, cranial crevices of my mind, I have an aesthetic fear of empty spaces. The concept of physical congestion, of shrinking space, means nothing to me.
In my living room, a ceremonial totem from Papua New Guinea stands ten-feet tall. A massive, eighty-pound Guatemalan mortar and pestle carved from a tree trunk takes two brawny men to lift. A full-sized rottweiler made from old Coca-Cola cans barks silently. An oil painting bought at a New York City street fair is shoved between a clutter of other paintings.
I am not a connoisseur of art. I know very little art history. I don’t collect or curate with a plan. My sickness is having art objects, souvenirs, treasures from my travels. Before every vacation, I think about getting help, but I can’t afford a therapist. I need the money for my next acquisition.
My collection—like a hostage photo—is proof of life. Confirmation I was where I was. A museum of my travels.
In their way, art and artifacts reveal the times and cultures in which they were born. Once acquired, they become part of my history, too. They hold the memories I create from when I traveled to visit them, rescue them, adopt them into my family.
The dearest possessions in my collection are in conversation with me. Indigenous cultures believe that inanimate objects have a soul, a spirit. When an artwork speaks to me, it is alive with personality. I am connected with it. Emotionally bonded to it.
How human they seem. Like the best of friends, as I grow they grow with me, developing dimension and depth. More trustworthy, more reliable, more present than some people I know.
From the tile museum, the fifteen-minute underground Metro ride to the chic Chiado district lasts forever. I enter D'Orey Azulejos, Lisbon’s premier antique tile dealer. My eyes tumble from one treasure to the next, from single tiles to wall murals, from ceramic bowls to figurines. My wallet trembles.
My eyes fixate on a blue-and-white tile image of a hunter on horseback. My mouth is dry, my palms moist. I murmur, “How much?”
