the trinket obsession

on the meaning behind blind boxes, trinket trails, and figurine fanaticism

‘I like your little guys,’ remarks my best friend’s boyfriend upon entering my flat. I have not even a moment’s doubt what he’s referring to: moving to Manchester has facilitated a trinket buying obsession with no discernible end. We are surrounded by little guys in my home — a Smiski practises yoga, standing in tree pose, next to my Emily Henry collection; a frowning Hirono is encaged in a castle next to Wuthering Heights; a Jelly Cat orange sits astride a collection of Wendy Cope’s poetry and an avocado accompanies my cooking books; Peach Riot figures stand defiantly in front of my work monitor on the table and against the vase on my shelves… We are outnumbered, wherever we turn.

For over two decades, really the only thing I struggled to not buy too much of was books. And I didn’t necessarily struggle with this — my mum has always said you can’t have too many books. Our house overflows with shelves of books in every room, kitchen, living room, dining room, bedrooms, study. It was only in my final year of university, due to my tight budget and Edinburgh’s glorious bookshop opulence, that I had to put myself on a book buying ban. Following these years of minimalism in every realm except books, rarely buying new clothes, keeping makeup far beyond its expiry dates, and a strict rotation of plain neutral-coloured bedsheets, I started to adorn my life with extra, functionless little trinkets.

I look down today at how I leave the house, beads trailing off my AirPods and my keys, stickers suffocating my kindle, a dreaming Sonny Angel poking its head over the top of my phone, and a crocheted aubergine dangling off the zip of my bag. For a lot of my life I never could have imagined this level of trinket entrenchment in my everyday items, would have been deeply annoyed by the extra bulk and clacking. But now it’s not only normal, it’s a welcome daily accompaniment.

For someone like me, already obsessed with hanging tiny pretty things from every material item I can, blind boxes present a self control challenge. At the weekend, I frequently fight the urge to go hunting for my favourite designs. And it’s hard to explain what trinkets mean to me without sounding completely in the clutches of late stage capitalism, that laughs in the face of me saving up another £15 of my hard-earned money for another tiny toy I’m supposed to be too old or too serious for. But if I were to try, I would say that arranging and placing these figures in my home, these ornaments that are so pretty without a shred of practicality, feels a tiny bit closer to true freedom of enjoyment. Each week I trade thirty seven and a half hours that should be my own in order to fund basic necessities, like food, electricity and a roof over my head. To hand over money I have made to keep me alive, for something that will benefit me in no material way, then feels dissident, in its own small way. Even buying things like lip balm, which is an investment into my appearance, regardless of whether I like the smell or the colour, doesn’t feel as flippantly joyful as buying trinkets. Trinkets are totally unattached to any kind of aim or purpose, ulterior or otherwise, they are simply there for me to look at.

Every day as I work from home at my 9-5, I stare at two members of a pop punk band, Frankie and Poppy: Peach Riot figures, designed by Libby Frame.

Somehow, looking at them posing confidently in front of my monitor, my work feels less like the only thing I have. I feel like joy and creativity and making things, including weird things lots of people don’t like — like Labubus! — is more possible than when I just stare at a plain black monitor connected to an HP laptop. Isn’t that what art is for? These two little figurines make me feel like I might do something to get me closer to what I want, like maybe I’ll finally act braver than I am.

My favourite trinket of all, though, is the Nyota in my bedroom who stands next to my rose quartz crystal tree, named ‘Dream’. She is dressed in a suitably whimsical outfit, a blue dress with pastel coloured splotches, and looks up, holding a big yellow star in outstretched hands. I put her next to me when I write because she reminds me of the importance of dreams and to keep reaching for them. She reminds me that I am anything in my dreams. Maybe you think it’s strange or silly to assign such meaning to a mass-produced piece of plastic. But I find it to be a part of ritualising my life. Loving these objects I’ve collected day after day, not immediately looking to the next purchase, helps me to keep beauty and, to some extent, frivolity alive. Both of which are important for a soul that still values devotion over discipline.¹

Yes, I can acknowledge the problem with trinket collecting as a trend, with people buying things they don’t even like just because celebrities also own them, and we’ve been brainwashed into thinking that brings us closer to them, and closer to luxury. There is also certainly a problem with influencers and TikTokers doing ‘no budget’ hauls or buying hundreds of dollars’ worth of blind boxes multiple times a week. So this is not me advocating for overconsuming useless objects that will only end up in the landfill, but rather, for moderate consumption and extreme enjoyment of beautiful but useless objects you may want to adorn your life with.

Because for many of us who enjoy the sheer uselessness of trinkets, those of us who spread them across our flats and attach them to our bags, keys, devices and clothes, we buy these items in an attempt to stay connected to the parts of ourselves that dream: that appreciate beauty for the sake of beauty, that want to stay rooted to the child version of themselves. The younger me saw no limits. She knew she would be an author, and she didn’t doubt herself or her abilities. And I think the adult me who buys tiny figurines and charms and beads is closer to her than the utilitarian one who will only buy just exactly what she needs.

The useless is beautiful because it is less real than the useful, which enjoys a continuing and lasting existence; while the marvellously useless, the gloriously infinitesimal, remains where it is, never goes beyond being what it is, and lives free and independent. The useless and the futile create intervals of humble aesthetic in our real lives. The mere insignificant existence of a pin stuck in a piece of ribbon provokes in my soul all manner of dreams and wondrous delights! I pity those who do not recognise the importance of such things!

Fernando Pessoa, “The Book of Disquiet”

1. This idea of artists needing devotion rather than discipline comes from @glitterbones’ TikTok: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNd3E8q5b/