The relationship with the private collector is always simpler than that between the interior designer as client and the dealer. A very obvious reason- the dealer’s stock has to, effectively, be sold twice- once to the interior designer, and then resold by the interior designer to their client. Mind you, this can always be simplified by the client themselves shopping with the interior designer. In our experience, this actually happens with refreshing frequency, and decisions are often reached on the spot.

Still, the interior designer is the vector for decision making, and the relationships we regularly establish with collectors occur with designers with a disappointing infrequency. In fact, we often feel like interlopers, as, perhaps we are, and, consequently, when we have designers and their clients in our galleries, we never, and I mean never, get between them. We try very hard to let the designers do their work, and speak only when spoken to. The scar on my lower lip testifies to how often I’ve nearly bit it through in an effort to keep quiet.

Mind you, we’ve got some truly great designer clients. Elissa Cullman has been one of our favorites since we first worked together several years ago.  Ellie’s firm is a rarity these days, as she uses period pieces exclusively. Her work is distinctive and bold, and not suffused with effects that diminish the statement made by each of the fine pieces she uses. With all that, Ellie’s work, like the lady herself, always has embedded in it a sense of fun. Not surprising, Ellie’s clients are at the very highest end of the market, with Ellie spending considerable time educating the client about what to expect to pay for the best quality. Still and all, with all of Ellie’s clients, they want to make certain that what they’re buying represents value for money. I can’t speak for any other dealer, but in terms of Chappell & McCullar, Ellie has never inquired about anything in our inventory she hasn’t subsequently placed. Good quality and value for money.

As we’ve written about in earlier blogs, we are careful about our pricing, but not everything in our stock is in everybody’s budget. Frankly, in any initial conversation with a designer, when they inquire about a certain type of item, we always ask about their client’s budget. When the designer responds with some kind of non-answer like ‘Money is no object,’ what they really mean to say is ‘I haven’t had the guts to discuss money with my client, and want you, Mr. Antiques Dealer, to be the bad guy.’ This requires a bit of searching the memory but odds on, we have never had a sale to any designer that told us money is no object. We are here to tell you, money is always an object.

The ‘money is no object’ designer budget more broadly indicates that the designer really doesn’t know their client. Just because a client has a lot of money, what we have to sell has to, within the breadth of someone’s experience, represent value for money. The best interior designers know what their client finds valuable. This is said with complete value neutrality- red walls and chintz fabric may represent a better use of funds than the purchase of a piece of Georgian furniture.

Poor old Joe Nye is doubtless becoming tired of our using him as exemplar gratis, but, in terms of knowing his clients’ minds, Joe is nearly unerring. As well as preparing budgets, Joe also provides his clients ‘good-better-best’ choices when it comes to materials, including antiques. Joe frequently engages us to expand this kind of discussion, and involving us to explain to his clients how pricing relates to quality.

When we opened to the public almost 6 years ago, our assumption was that, driven by our advertising effort and that we were in the midst of an established antiques venue, we’d have the odd browser who liked something, it fit into the their budget, and presumably their home, as well, and they would purchase it. Nothing exotic- we are a retail establishment, and all our stock is offered for sale.

What surprised me, though, was how much engagement with the public was necessary to accomplish each sale. No- ‘necessary’ is not really the right way to express this, as it implies that we found this aspect burdensome, which we never have. Sounds verbose, but ‘concomitant’ is the better term, in that, in the sales process, buyers unfailingly wanted at a minimum for us to tell them the merits of the piece, the buyer would want at a minimum to tell us the space in which the piece was intended, and there then has always followed a synthesized dialog between us and the buyer about the merits of the piece in the space. This sort of palaver to effect a sale certainly sounds like a classic, nearly stylized case of a meeting of the minds, an essential element of any contract. What’s more, this meeting of the minds results incidentally in our getting to know the buyer, their getting to know us, and, with their siting something purchased from us in an intimate setting- their own home- negotiating a sale likewise takes on a level of extraordinary but not too surprising intimacy.

It is seldom that the sale to a collector doesn’t result in our going out and directing the putting into place of the purchased item- always with the eager concurrence of the collector-buyer. Collectors are always looking to make additional purchases, and never don’t want to discuss with us what they are looking for. Keith and I have spent some of the most pleasant afternoons in the homes of new buyers, following them from room to room as they happily discus the merits of their existing collection, and providing a wish list for future purchases. Often, we deliver pieces that, when put in place, look like they were made for the space. It still surprises me how often this happens, though as a believer in synchronicity, it shouldn’t. We only rarely have a collector who makes a single spot purchase- one purchase always leads to others.

An amazing level of affinity manifests itself when we make a sale- and, ultimately, although the collector must make the first affirmative move by entering our gallery space, Keith and I must, it seems, have an enormous amount of influence in likewise choosing the collector. They like us- our look, our intellect, our overall way of doing business, and we typically like our collector customers for many of the same reasons. This is certainly something Joseph Duveen understood- he chose his clients as much as his clients chose the artwork. Can you imagine Gainsborough’s ‘Blue Boy’ anywhere else but in the collection of Henry and Arabella Huntington? I doubt that Joseph Duveen could imagine anything else, either.

Tomorrow, a move away from private collectors to a discussion about our interior design clients.

A large portion of Joseph Duveen’s time, as detailed in Meryl Secrest’s fairly recent biography, was spent in traveling to and spending considerable time with his stable of clients. Duveen’s halcyon days in the first quarter of the last century meant, of course, that he had almost constant access to the magnates of the time. Henry and Arabella Huntington, Henry Clay Frick, Andrew Mellon, William Randolph Hearst, and even J.P. Morgan were his intimates. This always surprised me, in that, though Duveen was one at the highest levels, he still was, basically, a shopkeeper, whose galleries were open to anyone who happened to walk in the door. And, frankly, they did. Although impressive, Duveen’s galleries in London, Paris, and New York were very visible and accessible without appointment. Rather gilded examples, but shops all the same.

Why, then, could he deal on terms of such equality and intimacy with men, and women, whose wealth and influence must certainly have dwarfed his own? Further, how could Duveen’s relationship with these people have achieved such a primacy that time could always be carved out of their schedules to see him?

Even with a tenure of only six years in this business, answers to these questions have gradually begun to declare themselves. What we’ve found is that, in the first instance, maintaining a gallery open to the public in an active venue like Jackson Square or Kensington Church Street is the best advertisement a gallery owner can have, along with regular, posted hours. Beyond that, Keith and I are early arrivers- between 7.30 and 8 AM on most mornings, and when we arrive, the lights go on and the sandwich board is placed on the sidewalk- we are open for business. Don’t I just wish I could name the people who have come in to our galleries for the very first time in the early morning!

But once inside, of course, the visitor has to be struck by the material that is offered. Even lesser works must articulate with the more spectacular. This is key, and also something Duveen was aware of. He wasn’t the only dealer, and neither are we, and we certainly realize that very item must have a compelling reason for inclusion in our inventory. We never comment on a colleague’s material, but Duveen was not shy about openly criticizing the inferior quality of other dealer’s stock in trade, with the result that he was in frequent litigation. When he did say something complimentary about an item offered by another dealer, his compliment was always tempered with the statement ‘Of course, it isn’t a Duveen.’

He did, ostensibly, mean to communicate to clients that anything purchased from another dealer was, at best, second rate. Was this the reason that the likes of Henry Clay Frick, whose ruthlessness in crushing the Homestead Steel strike made him one of most hated men in America, purchased so much material from Duveen? Frankly, Frick was more than a little hard nosed, and I very much doubt a bit of Duveen’s bluster would have influenced Frick very much.

Obliquely, though, Frick et al did buy, both literally and figuratively, what Duveen was selling- they were buying a Duveen look. We’ve found ourselves that collectors rarely buy only one item from us- they buy many, over a course of years. Duveen would certainly claim it was testimony to his ability to acquire the best material and use his reputation to then induce his clients to make a purchase, but ultimately, what his clients bought was Duveen’s taste. And, at the end of the day, although it may manifest itself in the purchase of objects of varying types, that is what our collector clients are buying from us. I’ll further flesh out my ideas about the dynamics between dealer and client/collector in tomorrow’s blog.

Looking at my blog entries for the last several weeks, the focus, or should I say sub-focus, well, let’s say that some significant emphasis has been placed on the interior design trade. Truly, with our antiques show experience, knowing- and yes, this sounds tiresome and will leave the subject alone for at least a week- the best shows are designer led and designer driven. Yesterday, for example, we had a real up-and-comer visit our galleries, Santa Monica-based designer Jeffrey Alan Marks.  His visit was a follow-on from his visit to our show booth a couple of weeks ago in Los Angeles, and, we all hope, this marks the beginning of an ongoing collaboration.

Upon our initial opening  six years ago, our galleries focused (that word again! What a fixation on optics- I must have been frightened at birth by an optometrist) on the collector community. And why not? That was our experience in London, where our entire effort was taken up by likeminded collectors- ‘like minded’, in that our sales were limited to those people who, upon seeing something appealing in our own home, would charge us to find a similar object and commit to purchase it if we did. To this very day, we continue to use our own home as adjunct gallery space, typically featuring our collection of British modernist art and, disparate as it might sound, a rotating exhibit of our collection of Japanese woodblock prints. Interestingly, as much as our public face is pointed toward the design community, our private one continues to be almost exclusively directed toward the collector. While our galleries at Jackson Square are available to the design trade, our own home, just as it was in London, seems only to be the province of the collector.

This isn’t too surprising, as our home is something of a haven for intimacy. As Keith and I started out as collectors, we seem, naturally enough, to have a particular affinity for other collectors, and they with us. Mind you, we’ve forged some terrific alliances with a number of interior designers, but none of those acquaintances seem to be of the same nature as collector clients most of whom we would count, and they us, as friends.

It’s interesting, as much time as we spend courting designer business, we’ve begun doing this not entirely of our own volition, but in response to the inexorable movement of our business within the ambit of the design world. The prevailing wisdom is that, with a dearth of time, individuals who would love to develop a level of connoisseurship about the sort of material we offer, simply don’t have the time to do so. These erstwhile connoisseurs, then, find the interior designer is able to do at least part of what they have not the opportunity to do for themselves.

With all that, I have to say, our largest sales this year have been to collectors, and, given who some of these people are, it does however challenge the notion that high profile folk don’t have the time to become connoisseurs. My mother always told me that you find time to do the things you really want, and so it is with some of our better collector clients, a couple of whom have extraordinary demands on their time. One of them, who was kind enough to visit us at the Los Angeles show, is a fashion maven whose own line of couture has an international reach, with boutiques all over the world. Another valued client is one of the nation’s senior bankers who visits us on nearly every trip he makes to the coast. If these people don’t have demands on their time, who then does? Mind you, we make a point of calling on these people at their own homes from time to time. Frankly, this was one of Joseph Duveen’s favorite things to do, and it is ours, as well. Sorry to so truncate, but tomorrow, some additional thoughts on collectors.

We don’t hear ‘How much is it?’ fractionally as often as ‘Is it in original condition?’ Presumably this is Les and Leigh Keno’s personal legacy, by way of ‘The Antiques Roadshow’, to all antiques dealers. Frankly, given the muddy appearance of many of the items over which some dealers and collectors wax eloquent, I now sometimes think French polishing has a lot to recommend it.

Not really… In fact, what the Kenos are trying to communicate is that original condition means that a furniture item has not been either altered or improperly restored. Pardon my Anglo-Saxon, but the vernacular term we use for bad restoration is ‘buggered’. This can mean, variously, a poor use of materials, using, say, a plastic varnish over a proper shellac and wax finish, or a piece that has been completely stripped by chemical and mechanical means down to the raw wood, or the ‘improvement’ of a period piece with, for example, the addition of marquetry and inlay where none existed before, or, tragically and too often seen, a combination of all of the above.

Frankly, our mantra is the littlest possible restoration is the best restoration. Certainly for English furniture, the best pieces were meant by their makers to be shiny and brightly colored. Two or three hundred years of use, and natural oxidation, always do their work, and nothing, even under optimum conditions, will look exactly as it did when it first entered the dwelling of the original purchaser. We are, as we speak, working on the paint finish of a wonderful Regency period chair, whose original decoration is still largely intact- together with 200 years worth of furniture wax, soot, and poor retouchings. Even with painted furniture, the term ‘patination’ is frequently used, a catch-all meant to lionize, rather than apologize for, the effects of age. As I think about it, Keith McCullar’s birthday is coming up- I think I’ll tell him, by way of compliment on his natal day, that he’s becoming nicely patinated.

The point of all this is, despite the frequency of the query ‘Is it in original condition?’ the question rarely indicates what the buyer really wants to know- nor does it imply particular criteria for a buyer’s purchase. While we like minimal restoration, we also like pieces that show well. For an antiques dealer, there is just the slightest commercial imperative- we do have to sell something from time to time, and pieces with a tired, ‘original’ appearance do not have much commercial appeal. This is the irony, of course- a prospective buyer might ask about original condition, but then actually find more appealing, to the point of purchasing, something with some restoration. There is nothing wrong with this, because, when asking about original condition, what they really mean to ask is ‘Is this piece in serviceable condition, and how close is it to how it originally looked?’ When we acquire items for inventory, condition is critical, as we want to accomplish any required restoration to put it in saleable condition without having to reinvent the appearance of the piece in our workshop. Consequently, when asked about original condition, we nearly always are able to respond- ‘We’ve had to do very little to it.’ This has always proven to be a satisfactory response.  In fact, our own rules about  condition and restoration pretty generally accord with the vetting guidelines of the better antiques shows: a piece must be substantially the same as when new- very little restoration, but not necessarily in unrestored ‘original’ condition, and it must also be ‘show worthy’, that is, of pleasing, saleable appearance. Maybe that’s what I’ll tell Keith on his birthday- that he’s passed vetting and is of show worthy appearance.