> A reflection on something I’ve been calling “object stories”—and what, exactly, the object of those stories might be.
The idea has been simmering for a long time now. It began, in part, through my involvement with art curation. During my time working with Primitive Science, an amazing theatre group here in London in the 90's, I met Claire while she was working a project called The Museum Of, a kind of curatorial initiative that echoed other projects I encountered around that time (and later). One of the most notable among them was the Museum of Broken Relationships. There seemed to be a small wave of experimental, heartfelt museums like these — spaces made not of paintings and sculptures, but of artefacts charged with personal meaning.
More recently, the concept became especially vivid — and emotionally powerful — for me under unexpectedly difficult circumstances. I was in Berlin, helping a friend clear out her mother’s flat. Her mother had spent much of her youth travelling across Indonesia, trading in local markets, hopping from island to island, and collecting curious and beautiful objects with a keen eye and heart. The flat, however, told a different story —i t was stacked to the ceiling with these relics from her life, objects from her daughter's childhood, and even things belonging to people she'd known and loved.
The result was a home that had become more mausoleum than living space — a testimony not only to a life lived richly but to lives of many others, too. And with all these things came their stories. As people age, objects take on powerful emotional weight. A mug, a hat, a photograph—each becomes a vessel, an echo of memory. No one wants to see them thrown in the bin. Some hope to pass them down to children—or if the children don’t want them, then someone, anyone, who can understand and care.
As her generation drew to a close, friends and neighbours had begun to pass away. Some knew the end was near and entrusted her with their precious possessions — asking her to care for them, find a home for them, or perhaps simply keep their stories alive in some way. Others, after a funeral, had their sons or daughters hand over boxes of belongings, saying, “You look after things. We don’t know what to do with this.”
It was during the COVID-19 pandemic that this idea really began to take shape for me. The notion of a museum of these objects, or perhaps more accurately, a memorial for objects with stories. I spoke to many people about it, hoping to spark a project, but, as so often happens in life, the idea floated without ever quite finding tangible form. Everyone I spoke to seemed to love the notion, but few were able to step forward to build it.
Then things shifted—quietly, almost unexpectedly — when I decided to return to my own flat. As I began the process of settling in, I noticed my own objects speaking to me. Objects from my childhood, from travels, from parents long past and still present. I realised I was in the perfect position to begin building a digital archive, starting with my own collection, and most importantly, my mother’s.
She’s 87 now, and she has always had this delightful impulse to pass things on—objects accompanied by long, winding stories. For her recent birthday, just two days ago, I decided to give her a different kind of gift: the start of a digital archive, a website I built to host recordings of her telling the stories behind some of these well-loved objects. Initially, I meant to only record audio, but the setting that day was lovely, so I shot video too. We laughed, talked, and captured pieces of her world. You can find the beginning of the archive at moira.bovil.me 
The beauty of this method is that it offers a form of preservation. Even if the physical objects are lost—broken, discarded, or sold—their stories can live on. Digitally, they require no space yet hold priceless meaning. They could be heard not just tomorrow or next year, but even hundreds of years in the future—by great-grandchildren, or anyone curious enough to listen. With modern hosting and digital archiving, it’s possible to preserve these stories affordably and reliably.
This practice could become a small ritual in the process of dying. Just as we have funerals for people, we could have memorials for their objects—the everyday things that carried the imprint of a life. In such a world, a child or friend might “adopt” an object—taking on both the item and its story—or those same objects might end up at a second-hand market or flea market, where someone entirely unknown picks it up.
And perhaps, as technology evolves, we needn't rely on barcodes or QR codes to honour these objects. Instead, one day soon, you might simply hold your phone up to a curious item, and through artificial intelligence and contextual recognition, it will say to you, “Ah, that’s your mum’s clay pot.”
One sentimental example still makes me smile—it’s a story we titled Throwaway Pot. This tiny, unfired clay teacup came from my mother’s trip to India, when she was already in her eighties. It’s delicate and would crumble with use, but she brought it home, full of joy and meaning. Capturing that memory—on film and in words—was a small act of reverence. Perhaps no one else in the family knows the story behind that pot. But now it’s there. It exists. Even if the object is lost, a piece of it survives. A flicker of life retained for those who come later.
This, in essence, is what I mean by “object stories”. The phrase still makes me laugh a little. It sounds clinical, cold even. But the reality couldn’t be further from that. These are love letters to the everyday; small, quiet monuments to our lives, told one object at a time.
# See - June's Early Journey - Language Professor - Ghandi Visits - Stories of Things and Objects with Stories