My neighbor and friend, Joyce Markovics, an award-winning writer of non-fiction children’s books, is also a passionate collector and wonderful storyteller. My husband Doug is also a passionate collector and arranger of objects. Accumulating things implies that there is a place, a safe place for them, like a home. As a child of parents who were on the run from pogroms, collecting anything is considered excess baggage or potentially dangerous. My mother’s justification for this, ​“You come into this world with nothing, and you leave with nothing.” It took me a while to understand Joyce’s and Doug’s comfort and joy in their hunt, discovery and willingness to reveal themselves through their finds. Rochelle Udell

A friend once told me, ​“When you look for turtles, you find turtles.” I​’ve broadened my search to include stuff I don​’t even know I​’m looking for. Things — especially old and curious objects — speak to me. First, they whisper ever so slightly. Then, they sternly call my name. Finally, they scream like a siren, and I happily succumb. I find these things at rummage sales, thrift shops and, if I​’m particularly lucky, on the curb. It​’s like the objects want me as much as I want them. I believe they want to tell me their stories. They want me to feel the heft of their history.

During the summer of 2021 with the pandemic raging, I was in Port Jervis, New York, with my husband and a group of artist and art-loving friends, including Claire, our dear pal who works at an art gallery. We ventured into town. On the main drag was an antique shop going out of business. I could see the objects inside in harmonious disarray. I begged our friends to stop. My husband rolled his eyes. Inside, I swan-dove into the clutter. Our friends did the same, albeit in a more reserved fashion. Soon enough, we had all gathered around a group of ratty photo albums. Flipping them open was a revelation. They contained hundreds of dazzling pencil drawings of elf-like creatures, women​’s faces and geometric birds on scraps of newspaper, magazines and old cards. They cried out to me with a loud shriek. Each was signed Dorothy F. Foster in lovely cursive script on a strip of masking tape. Dorothy, as it turns out, was a necktie designer who never married, wore straw hats no matter the weather and created thousands of otherworldly drawings. My friends and I scoured through the albums, each selecting our favorites. I paid around $30 for a dozen drawings and framed them as soon as I got home. 

Fast forward several months: Claire, as it turns out, is the associate director at an ​“outsider” art gallery called Fleisher/Ollman in Philadelphia. She ended up acquiring the entire collection of Dorothy​’s drawings, which are now the buzz of the outsider art world. In fact, one of the drawings adorns the poster for this year​’s Outsider Art Fair. And Dorothy​’s pieces are now selling for thousands of dollars. 

The fact that people see the value in Dorothy​’s art is wonderful. It​’s too bad that Dorothy herself never received such recognition while she was alive. My takeaway from the experience is this: If an object speaks to you and you can afford it, buy it. But please don​’t buy it because you think it​’s valuable, buy it because it calls you — ever so loudly and persistently — to share its story. 

Note: You can help build a child’s library with Joyce Markovics’ books. The latest series on Black Moviemaker’s, a collaboration with Alrick A. Brown, can be found on Amazon.

Associated article and site: https://www.outsiderartfair.com, https://www.inquirer.com/arts/fleisher-ollman-outsider-art-dorothy-foster-20230125.html