I'm not a collector, I lack the gene. If there is a group of anything in my house, it is an accident, and the group is usually of spatulas and boring.
I have an uncle who collects masks, another who collects books, my mother is a careful curator of amethyst jewelry, my father would like another piano or three, and my husband collects vintage Star Trek ornaments that is, he did, until I shamed him out of it. (I'm so sorry, honey, I didn't understand.)
Why four or five of the same thing, when the one suffices? Then I found a bowl at a flea market that spoke to me. It called out to me. It was 1930s yellow-ware with a thick lip and deep concavity, enough to raise three loaves of bread dough in. It transfixed me with its old fashioned femininity. All those bread-baking and biscuit-making women! My people!
I like what bowls mean. Plates don't embrace, but bowls do. They're open, giving, and yet also receptive. They make it look easy, but an excellent life's work would be trying to be like a bowl.