Week 93 - Death Stalks the Hall

I took my little black dog out for a walk. She always sits sweetly and patiently at the lights. She trots along obediently and ever so slightly swaggering she crosses the road and scampers off into the churchyard. She runs and leaps with puppyish enthusiasm despite being a mature 2 years old. She chases the squirrels and rushes blindly after the pigeons. She sniffs and is sniffed and it is all very innocent and charming. This morning she spots a flock of blackbirds and rushes. They scatter screaming in indignation - but one is a bit lame. It hops rather than flies off. A short but lethal dance ensues as the black bird narrowly escapes the dog again and again - and then she strikes. The pretty gentle silk-coated spaniel bites down hard on the neck of the blackbird. She twitches and twitches and each time the dog holds on harder and more lethally. Death is the inevitable conclu-sion. I arrive on the scene too late to stop the initial strike; I watch from afar, it is like a ballet being performed on a stage. I debated for a second and decided to let nature take its course. Separating them would have left the bird mortally wounded and it seemed the better of the potential evils to let her to finish her kill. She was effective. I put the bird in the bin and we went home. The dog was breathing hard; the intensity of the moment clearly making her heart beat fast. 

After this morning drama I headed off to the Olympia Winter Antique Fair where I am exhibiting for the first time. It is an odd thing to say - as I have been an exhibitor at Olympia countless times as a scion of Mallett, but this is the first one with my name over the door. The winter Olympia has shrunk over the years, from its heyday when it covered the main floor and the balcony. It is down to just over 100 stands, which is still a big fair, but it feels small and intimate. It is a beautiful fair too. Simply built it has a neo-classical white design, which compliments the magnificent white ironwork of the building. The dealers have a collegiate air and everyone is very encouraging and helpful. The opening is low key with a few glasses of near toxic sweet Prosecco, which encourages one and all to remain sober. Sales do happen and the dealers seem not too gloomy. My neighbour Roger Lamb is dapper and charming. Medium height with well cut grey suits and hair. He sells traditional old school English furniture. He is pretty old school himself. But he does it with a weather eye to modern taste. He has eschewed damask silk for modern un-patterned fabrics and this renders the Georgian mahogany and walnut much more contemporary. In addition he is commercial. His prices are low and he is happy to take a short profit. He may not be a Young Turk but he is
totally young in his outlook. As I watched my black dog kill I worried that it was an omen or a symbol of the demise of our trade. But it was not true - here before me is the future. I am optimistic be-cause I can see that the wheel does not have to re-invented it can be re-upholstered instead. 

But the transition is hard and amongst my friends death is closer than ever. Recently, two great figures in the trade have died, coincidentally both called Paul. Paul Johnson from Ireland, who was the pre-eminent dealer in 18th century Irish furniture and Paul Tomasso, father of the Tomasso brothers who are titans in the world of great sculpture. The trade is greatly diminished and a little less interesting following their passing. The sad mood of the moment is enhanced by the weather in London, which has been very peculiar. It has been unseasonably very warm and the skies are blue. But Nature is not fooled and the leaves are brown and make a lovely rustle as you brush through them on the grass. The pavements look like they have been printed with leaves as the damp leaves marks when the leaves are tidied away. But now suddenly it is getting cold and the rain is tumbling. The season change echoes the departed and seems a herald to a change across the market too. The sales in NY at the Haughton fair and in the auctions were erratic and patchy and that is not encouraging. There the mid term elections maybe acted as a distraction. But the omens are that there will be another lurch downwards. Here in London the contemporary art world seems still strong but even there is a new air of wariness abroad. A change is in the air here too. Again the untimely but natural death in the park seams portentous. This is the natural way of things and though one can intervene it is ultimately useless, what must be must be. But Roger Lamb is hope for us all. They say that Antique dealing is the second 'oldest' profession. We will survive, find a way and some will flourish.

Back at the fair the night is falling and the interior glow of the fair takes over from Natural light and a wintery twinkle takes over. Next door a fair called the Spirit of Christmas is opening and crowds and crowds are queuing up to buy early Christmas cheer. The buzz washes through and cold optimism pervades.

Week 92 - Quo Vadis?

It is a strange moment. I do not know where to go or what to see. There is so much going on that it seems easier to stay in bed and pull the covers up over my head and sing nursery rhymes. Frieze is in town and it has two identities - Frieze and Frieze Masters. In Berkeley Square Patrick Perrin has his launch PAD. Elsewhere private gallery shows and public exhibitions are opening like untimely spring flowers all over town. Coupled with this my alma mater Mallett has been sold to Stanley Gibbons, the group founded around the stamp people, but which now owns the auction house Dreweatts Bloomsbury, Baldwins and Apex. The difficult and challenging times that Mallett have faced over the last half-decade are entering a new chapter. This is all taking place in my backyard, so to speak. But there are even more excitements and temptations for foreign travel. Across the pond in our art world twin city of New York there is the auction of the Kentshire gallery. In addition, pushing through the notoriously heavy doors of the 7th Regiment Armory on Park Avenue you will encounter the International Fair hosted by the (appropriately) veteran fair organisers Brian and Anna Haughton. 

So I am in bed and I don't know who to see or who to visit. I am flummoxed whether I should take a plane or mount my bicycle and head up to the west end. New York is the biggest pull. Back in time the principals of the business Fred and Bob used to come to London every couple of months. They bought widely from every dealer spreading good will and the dollar to happy recipients. Bob has thinning black hair and a charming calm demeanour and Fred has bushy once brown, now grey wavy hair and is full of febrile energy and NY sardonic humour. Bob's children have headed west to California and are movers and shakers in the film business, or so I gather. Fred is married to Marcie and they produced two children Mathew -sensible, steady, but fun too; and Carrie - one of the most original women to grace the planet. She has one of those imaginations that you know could go anywhere and a sense of business that would scare a Rothschild. These two have come into the antique trade. Kentshire has changed however; like so many of their generation the guys found that the English furniture and decorative objects gig had become too much of a grind - they sold their huge downtown building and all their stock is going to be sold at Sotheby's. Meanwhile their wives had founded a jewellery emporium, which flourishes. Carrie and Mathew trade now in the rocks and precious metals world and Bob and Fred are sitting back. In my early days in Mallett I often sold to them; in my mid years I got to know the second generation; latterly I have come to respect and admire them as they carry the baton on into the future. I would love to be present as the hammer comes down on the past and the next phase springs phoenix-like from the last lot. 

But that is not all, Mallett are exhibiting at the International show. They dropped out last year and now return, but the main interest for the onlooker is the gossip about the takeover. If they have fabulous things and make eye-watering sales it would be wonderful but everyone will want to find out about their future. But I am compelled to stay in London, though the urge to fly is strong I cannot resist Frieze Masters, its contemporary forebear and the satellite PAD. 

I visit PAD late, have a quick canter round and a brief discussion with Francois Laffanour of Galerie Downtown. He always puts on a spectacular show of 20th century design masters and this is no exception. We both vet Miami Basel Design and he is impressively charming at all times, as well as being on of the pre-eminent dealers in his field. He is content with business but not thrilled - the mood of the fair. Upstairs I am attending the launch dinner of the Art Book, a new magazine created and published by Oscar Humphries - my least reliable friend. The wine flows and Patrick Perrin is very supportive. The food is eccentric - backed potato and caviar as the main course. But it is delicious and clever - a bit like Oscar. The magazine is amazingly beautiful and heavy and we stagger out into the night flexing our biceps to bear it home. 

Frieze is visited by the world and it has its own particular identity being both international and very British. It is the secret fact of Frieze that it is a great place to start collecting. The works are mainly quite reasonably priced, under £10,000; and carefully curated by the management team, so you do get a good chance of buying a future star. Frieze masters is totally different - here the great works get a discrete and elegant display. There are Old Master pictures, Sculpture, Antiquities, a smattering of Tribal and Asian art and the occasional photograph - Hans Kraus, everyone's favourite early photography dealer, for example. There is no Jewellery and no furniture so it does not compare or compete with Masterpiece or even TEFAF. It is a serious show with serious works and it does not really have anything to do with Frieze down the road except for a few of the hot shot contemporary dealers who get the chance to show work which is older than 10 years. 

I did get out of bed and in the end my bicycle served me well.

Week 91 - LAPADA, Battersea and Rome

In Berkeley Square you normally admire the trees, the tired bedraggled grass, and the stoic office workers stalwartly enjoying fresh air, whilst cars and trucks go round and round, circling like lions around Christians in the Colosseum. But at this time of year the pattern is disrupted by the landing of a massive tent, like a space ship, on the north side of the square. The tent serves as home to the LAPADA fair first and then the PAD fair will follow. The former is the flagship for the provincial dealers and they wave the flag doggedly, confidently asserting the value and significance of the local dealer. There is a smattering of the London trade too, together with slightly forlorn and lost looking international dealers - they look like travellers who have caught the wrong train and are doing their best to get home. The look of the fair is very chic as Stabilo - the builders of TEFAF and Masterpiece - have built it. White autumnal leaves adorn the carpet, and the ever elegant director Mieka stalks the floor ministering to the wants and needs of her clients, visitors and press. The mood amongst the trade is wary but optimistic and as the opening day passes so does the spread of little red measles dots indicating business is underway. I don't stay long as I find the dominant black decor slightly funereal but my friends are happy enough. 

Further south in Battersea Park the Decorative Fair is open. This is a charming fair full of activity and life, animated particularly by sleeping, strolling and barking dogs. Furniture is always being carried in and out as no dealer wants to leave sold items on their stand. The flow makes the whole room feel very lovely and there is a buzz - possibly deceptive, as chests of drawers on the move and the occasional sofa do not necessarily indicate a mass of sales. But the crowd is welcoming and there is a trolley that rolls around guided by cheerful Australian girls selling champagne and cocktails. The feeling is very much one of a party. I am tempted by a few items and naturally I gravitate towards Ferdinando Jewels. Louise is sharing with Nick Wells, one my alumni from the university of Mallett. Their stand looks well and as per usual Louise is mobbed by women trying things on. 

My flat has been transformed into a workshop as a keen young man called Oscar comes round and transforms the black and tarnished objects bought in the south of France into shiny silver things. Cleaning silver is hard work but the results are magical. The deep grey and black becomes a precious metal and the craftsman's original design emerges from the gloom like a butterfly from its chrysalis. Oscar sits in the garden, his hands black with cleaning products and the grime from the objects. His mood is good because, though the work is hard, the results are visible and rewarding. 

A day wrestling with London Transport and Ryanair and we are in Rome. Sitting in front of us on the plane is a large man with a straggly beard. He drinks double vodkas throughout the flight, each time with a different fizzy drink mixer. He begins quiet behind his over-scale sunglasses, but gradually the alcohol warms him and he starts chatting to and joking with the small fair-haired air-hostess. By the end of the two and a half hour flight he is garrulous and waxes grandiloquent on the joy and speed of international travel. He laughs loudly and we are all a little awkward but thank-fully we have just landed and we disembark swiftly. On the ground he lets out a quick roar of excitement at having arrived and the start of his Roman adventure. I share his pleasure, his thrill, and his wonder at the miracle of being able to wake up in London and to watch the sunset in Rome. We are very lucky and the fact that this time it took an exuberant drunken Chilean living in Kingston-upon-Thames to bring it home to me, it is all true. Dinner at Da Fortunato beside my favourite building in the world, the Pantheon. The oppressive, unforgiving lighting which is such a classic of old school Italian restaurants becomes unimportant as a plate of Parma ham arrives still slightly warm from the slicing machine. This is accompanied by warm fluffy stuffed fiori di zucchini and a small football of milky Mozzarella. Falanghina white wine and dark red Aglianico del Vulture add a volcanic soil minerality to our dining which wakes us up for our pepper and black truffle pasta and keeps us going until the last mouthful of the beef tagliata that rounds off our meal. A shared bowl of those succulent jewels of the forest, wild strawberries, and all that remains is the walk home via the best ice cream shop in Rome - Giolitti. Two tiny scoops - one of pistachio and one of blackberry sorbet - and then bed, contemplating the wisdom of the Chilean. 

The Palazzo Venezia is home to the Rome Biennale. The palazzo is only partially obscured by the fair and its magnificence creeps out at the corners and when you look up the ceilings. The history of any building in Rome is a tapestry of information but this building is both an erstwhile papal residence and was also used by Mussolini, whose presence can be felt everywhere. Many of his most important speeches were delivered from the balcony to crowds in the piazza below, and the exhibitors are keen to recount tales of where he kept and engaged with his numerous girlfriends. The fair is mixed in style with a smattering from every epoch and style. Some of the Italian Masterpiece exhibitors show here. Most claim to exhibit for reasons of loyalty to their capital rather than pure commerce. But as you would expect, elegance abounds, with fine pieces in every room - the mood is fundamentally buoyant. One exhibitor I spoke to had come not anticipating much but had sold eight paintings. As they often say, "You won't win the lottery if you don't buy a ticket."

Week - 90 - The Paris Biennale to Beziers

Paris wakes up the art world's Autumn season every two years. 2014 is one of those years. On the 9th of September there is a huge and fancy dinner for the VIPs, yours truly not invited once again. And on the 10th at 6.30 the normal preview crowd gather to enjoy the much anticipated glamour of this capital city art show.

But Paris is not just about the Biennale - the whole city of art and design sparkles in the early autumn sun and shows proliferate. My friend Sylvain, who has an exquisite gallery on the Quai Voltaire, is putting his best foot forward with a gathering of Meissen porcelain. Over on the Right Bank in the Faubourg St Honore, Philippe Perrin is showing photography and polished steel furniture, whilst next door Marella Rossi, the charming daughter of the legendary Jean Marie Rossi, has a mixed show with tribal art and has recreated a room from a film-making collector's home. Down the road the ever energetic Benjamin Steinitz has a one-man show of the Art Nouveau cabinet maker Le Lievre. Back over the river and Nicolas and Alexis Kugel have a spectacular show of silver-gilt pieces from Strasbourg dating from the 16th to the 18th centuries. The city buzzes with excitement as everyone gossips about who is doing what and where. We rush from one much vaunted event to another, passing by Sotheby's and Christie's on the way. There is a palpable sense of the market rousing itself from its slothful summer recess and everyone is now raring to go and get down to the serious work of buying and selling.

Feeling a little naughty I decided to arrive at the preview at 6.45 rather than be there on the dot of the opening time. I presumed that this would allow the crowd to enter and I could therefore stroll in without the burden of queuing. What a mistake. The line was horrendous. It snaked right round from the front of the Grand Palais past the corner and almost around to the back. It is not often you see such a dressed-up crowd being kept waiting, kicking their high heels. Nearly an hour later the aficionados were finally let in. You cannot compare any venue to the Grand Palais which is simply majestic - a festival of glass and iron, it swoops and swirls with captivating verve. Any show has a challenge matching up to these surroundings. The look of the Biennale changes every iteration and some years it is truly spectacular. In 2012 the central area was dominated by a massive Montgolfier-style balloon. This year the feeling was more muted. The theme was garden pavilions, each stand decorated with a white trellis against a green ground. The carpet was green too with patriotic fleur-de-lys amid subsidiary scrolls. However, the Ruinart champagne flowed like the Seine and the snacks were copious, innovative and delicious. Pretty and elegant waiters popped up hither and thither with micro work stations from which they dispensed morsels of foie gras or finely chopped aubergine on a leaf of crispy parmesan-infused pastry. The preview crowd began their progress in a demure fashion but sadly as the evening progressed so the event descended into the familiar scrabble for delights from the caterers.

As as been the pattern over the last few fairs, jewels dominate with all the big names parading their wares. This year the laurels for the most talked-about show went to the Hong Kong maverick Wallace Chan who brought pieces of extreme fantasy and eye-watering extravagance. It will be a long time before I forget the the white jade model of a fisherman draped in rags of 24 carot gold and bearing his catch of ruby and diamond encrusted fish. Garnishing this drama are a few traditional dealers in furniture, paintings, sculpture and and antiquities but they seem peripheral, an adjunct - not the main attraction. I did see many masterpieces; Chenel put on a superb and dramatic display of white marble from ancient Greece and Rome. Gismondi brought some breathtaking examples of Pietra Dura, quite the best I have seen in Years. The dealers crowded round gasping in awe. It was also always a treat to see the dealers Kraemer who have some of the finest French furniture on the market and who very rarely show at fairs apart from this one.

Weary with opulence we headed off to the Brasserie Lipp where the show ceded prominence to a simple meal in this legendary place. Dark red wine from near Beaune, called St Joseph, accompanied by foie gras, delicate sweet small oysters followed by a robust and hearty steak tartare. Good discussion ranging over the joys of Paris and we were sent off into the night for rest.

A few days pass and I find myself at the other great trade awakening. The south of France plays host four times a year to the confluence of brocante fairs at Beziers, Avignon and Montpellier. Each one has probably over a 1000 dealers stalling out their wares and Beziers kicks off with two days of hard sell. Everyone gathers early looking for the bargain that will invigorate and stir up their Autumn trading. The bustle begins at 8 and the hurly-burly of the buyers' hustling and the traders' unpacking ensues for 3 hours and then calm is restored; lunch and culture follows. This pattern is repeated over the next few days at the other venues. Everyone sells and everyone buys and equally everyone complains that business is not what it used to be.

I buy something straight away; it is quite useless but I feel it serves as a symbolic act, you have to start somewhere and the bent, rusty plant stand is like my entry ticket. I can move on from there, and I do. This is not to say I do not fritter away more euros but there are also useful and commercial temptations and I make regular trips to the friendly on-site shippers carrying objects to be wrapped up and trucked over to London.

So, the season has begun, and now I have to knuckle down to the grind of selling - not just the fun of spending money.

Week - 89 - Four Exhibitions and a Dog

 

I have a bad habit. This is that I end up seeing exhibitions as they are on the brink of closing. For some reason I cannot go either at the start or the middle of the run; there has to be an element of drama - I need to be about to miss it. I therefore found myself rushing to see the Matisse cutouts at the Tate Modern, the Folk Art at Tate Britain, the Marina Abramovic at the Serpentine along with the annual pavilion there, as well as a show at the Science Museum by Joshua Sofaer called the Rubbish Collection.

The only downside to the adventure was that I have gone down with a beastly condition called Labyrinthitis. This affliction of the ear renders you off balance and subject to waves of spiraling dizziness that last only a few seconds at a time but have the knack of making you fall over or feel intense nausea, rather like the worst expression of travel sickness.

So off I set careering around both physically and in my head. The blockbuster Matisse show was my first stop. My technique with shows of this sort is to walk through to the end briskly and then saunter back and start again properly. I do this because it is hard to concentrate straight away and the walk through gives me a sense of the scale and therefore how much time and concentration I need to engage. This show was tricky as there were over 10 rooms of work, but the art is very decorative and bold in scale and execution. So it does not encourage close scrutiny. Matisse creat an impression? or an atmosphere. His cutouts seem more about ideas and concepts of shape, colour and mood than they are about individual precise 'paintings'. It was therefore easy to spend a couple of hours soaking up the warmth, wit and energy of the artist's last years and though my head span from time to time, that somehow felt strangely appropriate.

At home we revived ourselves with a mozzarella, tomato and avocado salad arranged on a plate bought recently in France. The long narrow white pottery platter adorned with the bright Southern colours of red, green and the ivory of milky cheese challenged the cold pre-autumnal drizzle out-side and gave a pleasant follow-on from the warmth of Matisse.

Back out again we hurried to the Folk show. The gallery was quiet and virtually empty, except for an earnest looking girl assiduously drawing in a sketch pad and an elderly couple who shouted at length about all the exhibits they looked at; I assumed because their hearing was on the blink. Browsing round I was struck by the easy charm that everything expressed. There were decorative naive items and functional items from shops and the two sat comfortably together. There were only three rooms and there were too many aspects overlooked for the show to be truly authoritative but it was good to see that a friend and Masterpiece exhibitor Robert Young had lent some things as had an ex client from my Mallett days Mona Perlhagen. So I felt connected however spuriously. It was also good to see this show at Tate Britain thereby placing this work at the heart of the British artistic establishment.

Next stop Kensington to visit the Rubbish Collection. I was only seeing the second half of this show. It had begun with a month gathering all the rubbish coming out of the museum . Visitors had helped sort through the effluent and everything including the drains was observed, sorted and noted. In the second half the artist had made beautiful arrangements of the viable stuff and it was located in the back and basement of the museum. It was a very strong, precise and beautiful confluence of randomness; the detritus was fascinating and you left shocked by the waste, and the elegant order in equal measure.

Up the road to Marina Abramovic. She has become the Grand Dame of performance art and having completed a marathon performance at Moma in NY in 2010, where she stared into people's eyes all day for 3 months. She has now let herself in for a show at the Serpentine Galleries called 512 hours. For this period she will interact and instruct her audience. There is no work, just her and the visitors and a few props. It was brave, she could have been on her own bored in the gallery for a long time. Needless to say there was a long queue. This is where Mosca the dog comes in. She is not good at queuing quietly and she immediately made friends with our neighbours by sniffing, nudging and generally looking winsome. She is an addict however and her addiction is pigeons. The park is fill of pigeons and she kept straining on her lead to race off and chase after them. Her eyes narrow and her nose points and there is almost no stopping her. So I left the queue and gave her a canter round. We admired the soon to be removed sculptural piece by the Swiss artists Fischli and Weiss 'Rock on top of Another Rock', thankfully described as an "ironic" work, and then walked over to the equestrian statue by GF watts called 'Physical Energy'. Looking round you can see that the park is a harmonious tapestry of formally arranged art and gardens - down every avenue there is natural or cultural interest. I came back with a slightly less jumpy dog, and luckily no pigeon deaths on my conscience.

Finally we made it into the show leaving Mosca to make friends with other exhibition visitors and the attentive guards. Watches and telephones removed and placed in lockers, headphones worn, we entered the three rooms where the action was taking place. There was a sitting-on-folding-chairs-in-three-rows room, a standing-with-your-eyes-shut-on-a-podium room and a walking-up-and-down-slowly room. Having no technology and almost immediately being asked to stand on the podium and shut my eyes I lost touch with the passage of time. I kept my eyes shut until asked to move and then I sat for a while in a chair. Later I was cross- legged in a corner watching the walking and became mesmerised as the artist entered and led a couple by the hand very slowly and meaningfully across the room. I began to notice that there were subsidiary actions taking place too. The artist went up to people and asked them to perform specific small tasks. Counting rice and sit-ting or standing facing the wall or in a corner were two activities that I observed but there were certainly others I missed. Eventually I left and slipping back into my technology I realised that two hours had gone by rather than the 45 minutes I had anticipated. Needless to say the parking war-dens had taken full advantage of this oversight, but it was worth the fine.

Week - 88 - Buying in France - Sort of.

The joy of the vide grenier is the serendipity of who and what you may encounter. As the locals display their wares along the street you never know whether you will find outgrown children's clothes, works of art, outmoded gardening tools or fresh fruit and vegetable. At Brion-sur-Ource at the weekend I met a man who sold it all. His open-backed estate car poured forth an astonishing display of delights. In the generosity and variety of what he offered he reminded me of thequack doctors selling moonshine or hair tonic in the American West of legend. But he did not look like those quick and smooth-talking salesmen in their top hats and striped trousers. He was of medium stature with short grey hair - cut at number 3, I guess - and clear grey eyes which sparkled and twinkled with amusement and intelligence. Below his bench he had cartons of myrtilles and potatoes, in the midst of which were a couple of discreet small plastic bottles. After a short chat and the purchase of some surprising violet-coloured potatoes he waved the bottle under my nose,'What is this?' he asked. I rocked back - whatever it was it was hugely alcoholic. Many wild guesses later he revealed that it was his home-made cherry spirit, Kirsch. We chatted away and I went on to buy a nearly empty gas cylinder and a broken double gas burner -  why I do not know. I had my reasons at the time. He then asked, sotto voce, if I was interested in buying his probably lethal Kirsch. 'Yes!' I replied eagerly, as much for the cultural experience as for the opportunity of going prematurely blind. I was convinced that my 12 euros were going to make me the proud owner of a recycled half litre Evian water bottle three-quarters full. But no - from the car he pulled a roll of old newspaper and swiftly bundled the contents into my scruffy plastic bag. Pressing a warning finger to his lips,  'Tell no one!' He adjured - if the authorities found out about his still he could face the full weight of the law and he was keen to avoid such eventuality. I gave him my word that not a soul - not even my mother - would know the source of the mysterious home brewed nectar. When I looked carefully at the bottle hours later having got it safely home, I found that the newspaper wrapping was from 2002 and the bottle itself was wax sealed in 1992. I feel certain it will absolutely delicious, but I hardly dare break the seal, it feels very precious.

Next my eye fell on a small wooden crate. It was crammed with little bottles full of sands of different colours and textures. There were some simple small jars of the sort you might keep spices or herbs in, and then there were larger bottles which were once supermarket fruit juice bottles. Each container had a handwritten label with the name of a beach, island or country. Some were domestic and some were exotic. Around twenty holidays were hereby recorded, a synopsis of his life over the last quarter century. What had started as a methodical hobby with special bottles and carefully written labels had descended into hasty scooping of sand into a fruit juice bottle and a cursory scribble. I asked him why he was selling them; his reply was that he just did not have room for them. I did not press him but my guess was that, feeling he felt guilty and self-reproachful about his lazy later plastic bottles he had hidden the whole lot away and now was purging himself of the entire shooting match. I bought them, thinking I would brutally jettison the contents and use the nice jars for their original purpose. But now I own them, I feel oddly protective of this neglected obsession - it tells such a fascinating story.    

Having spent an hour or so immersing myself in the itinerant life of this small-town Renaissance man I walked back to the car with my treasures and spotted a charming naïf painting of a fallow deer leaping over a hedge. It cost considerably more than the 12 euros which still clung on in my pocket so the trader kindly agreed to hold it with a deposit so I could collect later from his house, having replenished my coffers. We drove up to his mill which was beyond ramshackle and for sale. His mother greeted us warmly - too warmly it turned out. She never took a breath for the next hour, the entire length of our stay. Half fascinated, half overwhelmed, we heard about her husband - dearly departed; her daughter - sadly overweight, unlike herself, who had managed to keep her figure. We heard about her childhood as the daughter of a high-ranking officer, and her youth pampered and cared for by a troop of staff. We heard about her adult life in Brussels where she had kept two shops - both very successful. We heard about her genius devoted son whose talent for design was sans pareil and how he had made her a room that was fit for a princess. Accompanied by this stream of autobiography we toured the house which was very much a work in progress but full of touches of real imagination and originality. Each finished room was fashioned out of recycled pieces and cunningly re-employed broken things. It turns out this represents the philosophy of the dealer. He finds the greatest beauty in pieces that are shadows or ghosts of themselves in their pomp. He managed to endow these elements used out of context with a certain magic, akin to the Dadaist perception that a work art could be defined as such by the artists choice to call it so. In the end it was a wrench to leave this place so full of metaphysical objects and the mother who was a Happening in her own right.  

On the way home we stopped at a little market to buy some cheese and saw a little van doing tastings of Crémant (the Burgundian variant on Champagne). The crowd round M. Noirot was jovial as the day was in full swing and many a 'taste' had been imbibed by one and all. We elbowed our way to the counter and the maestro swung into action. Tasting his 'a manuel' and his 'a machine' rosé traditionelle, and blanc de blancs. We were already in a festive mood and the smooth talk and smoother Crémant inspired us to believe that we had never tasted anything better. A purchase was made and 12 bottles added to our motley assortment in the car. Finally, shopping completed, we were tempted away from a kitchen lunch to the local cafe-restaurant of Marie-Lou. For 37 years she has been serving a 'menu'. Her husband has passed on and a local helps her do the lunchtime shift, but she still cooks and serves. Bent over with work and age she beetles around the tables at high speed providing us with smooth, duck liver pâté enrobed in yellow fat and a basket of discs of delicious fresh baguette. Then comes a perfect steak-frites, a grill-lined surface with succulent pink meat within, and a lovely trail of blood to help usher the chips down our throats. A carafe ofchilled rosé de Provence is completed with the last mouthful of île flottante and the day is about done. Until tomorrow that is.  

Week - 87 - Bruton and Chard, Art and Black Pudding

 

Bruton in Somerset seems always to have been an 'arty' town. There are lots of young folk about because the town has a number of schools. There is the legendary Sexey's which is a Church of England co-ed state boarding school and the starting point of many lewd - and too often repeated - jokes. Then there is Bruton School for Girls and King's Bruton as well as a primary school. This means that a broad cross-section of society has taken up residence in and around the town. There is the expected and usual contingent of indigenous and retired country people but there is also a buoyant community of 'Yummy Mummies', Chelsea tractors and the owners of loud voices thronging the high street. Of course, the tractors are genuinely at home here but that seems almost to be by accident. Some dear friends of mine live here too, who used to live in Stockwell. They moved out in order to return Richard to his roots, whilst Helena, who is a successful writer, can work anywhere. For some years Richard was the leading light in Bruton's contemporary art scene :he had run a gallery in London but having moved to the country he concentrated on developing his own conceptual work and painting... but then it all changed. Hauser & Wirth came, saw and conquered. The company is one of the big dogs in the global contemporary art scene. Their residency began when the owners bought a weekend house there, and then they set up a few artists' retreat spaces and a restaurant. The restaurant is a very successful, award-winning one called 'At The Chapel' unexpectedly not dog-friendly, despite the fact that in the country so many people have dogs, including the gallery principals - or so I am told - and the internal space is so open and airy that friendly hounds could be easily accommodated. They have now gone maximal by buying and redeveloping Durslade Farm to be a gallery complex. It is possibly this is the herald of or an expression of a change in the trade. Whilst the farm/gallery will attract many local visitors one suspects that the majority of the business will be done via the virtual world and mainly deal-closing is likely to be accomplished on site. Therefore this is an upscale warehouse - a hub, a bucolic centre of operations and not a straightforward selling space. Within the development everything has been made immaculate. There is something very Continental about the detail of what has been accomplished there; it is hard to describe exactly what that means but it relates to the fact that though they have obviously taken huge care to be sensitive culturally and historically in all they have done, the end result lacks the amateurish ramshackle nature you always encounter with an English project. This place is perfect - perhaps even a little cold - and that makes it strangely un-English.

It is a very exciting thing for the locals to have a thriving art gallery in their midst and it is the buzz of the town, and beyond. The car park at the new gallery complex is crowded as we drive in and you immediately get the sense and scale of visiting a publicly-funded gallery or house. There is also a sense of shock and surprise as you approach, as from afar you spot a giant shiny bucket and neon writing on the walls of the farmhouse.

Walking in and directed by a London-style gallery assistant I embark on a wander around the beautifully appointed circuit of buildings and admire the playful though thoughtful work of the artist Phyllida Barlow. I then saw the wonderful, wild, boldly colourful but controlled garden being installed by Piet Oudolf, and now nearly ready. I took a break and sat under a canopy to drink a superb Bloody Mary - spicy, cold, super-fresh tasting and enhanced with a splash of sherry, provided by the Roth Bar & Grill. The bar itself is a fantasy of salvage by the artist team Bjorn and Oddur Roth; it has a controlled chaos to it that was for me the perfect backdrop for a bar - a space where calm and mayhem are natural bedfellows.

It was really inspiring to visit the Hauser & Wirth project because they are obviously committed both to Bruton and to offering an inclusive and nurturing experience for their artists and visitors. Eventually, feeling nurtured, we had to leave and head west to a part of Somerset that has not been touched by this magic wand. Though we had consumed an afternoon cocktail, food had not played a part in the day as yet and as we drove back home through the town of Chard we were inspired to drop in on the Portuguese restaurant-cafe in the high street. Still aglow with Bruton glamour and style a slight feeling of negative anticipation washed over me as we entered Saraiva's. Two men with scrappy beards and baseball caps were talking loudly in Portuguese, leaning on a high glass counter and drinking beer from bottles, accompanied by strange pastries - presumably members of the relatively new Portuguese community which has grown up around Chard's factories, which produce food and Henry hoovers. We seemed to have passed through a magic portal into a foreign land. The sense that we were fish out of water soon passed though as the owner and the two drinkers got together to both welcome us and work out what we might like to eat. We were ushered to the back room where brightly varnished chairs and tables and the melodious bubbling of a vast aquarium awaited us. There we were brought classic grainy deep black coffee and what were like calzone pizzas filled with ham and melted cheese. We wolfed these down delighted in equal measure by both the unfamiliarity and the taste. Leaving happy, our sugar levels restored, we espied some black pudding and swiftly bought it. They call it 'Morcilla' and it differs from the English version in that it contains rice and much more spice. That night we feasted on this delicacy, together with calves liver, red onions and crispy wedges of potato. It was all good but the Morcilla stole the show.

Sitting back wiping meat juices from my mouth I reflected on the contrasts of the day. Durslade Farm, according to the blurb provided, has been a model but working farm for over 1000 years. In addition the new owners are creating a farm shop which will offer organic produce made there. The art that they are presenting is at the very forefront of modernity and yet through a combination of the setting and the connection with the town and its community there is an arc joining the past with a very contemporary vision of the present. Impressive though this is there is also something perhaps even more marvellous to celebrate. A few miles away in Chard the multicultural nature of Britain today expresses itself in a culinary triumph. Here it is appreciated and valued differently, but it is just as good somehow just as innovative as the Bruton creative, a twist on the norm or the expected. But this is poor Somerset, the other is rich and privileged - and they both have much to say and to offer. It is not a question of better or worse simply a microcosm of diversity.

All images blogger's own

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

Week - 86 - Another sort of show

After the fandango of Masterpiece you might think that I would avoid any sort of tented show. But I found myself inextricably drawn into the web of the Wambrook Flower Show. It was celebrating its 100th anniversary. Masterpiece is only 5 years old. So I embarked on this visit with a sense of respect for their history. But immediate adjustments were necessary. At our show we sell 'stands' (though what our American dealers buy are 'booths'); I am used to this terminology and inadvertently, almost on autopilot, I focus in on the 'stand' as I walked in: the 'guess how many logs are in this huge sack for £1' was the first thing I saw. However, the large man sitting in a folding aluminium chair beside the huge sack was guarding the 'stall'. There is a status issue here - the stall is the humble country cousin of the other two. Here is a chalk board and a folding chair and the worrying possibility that if I correctly guessed how many logs were in the sack I would have to find a way of getting them all home. There is almost no comparison to the luxurious offerings in London and yet there it is - the juxtaposition is there. I paid my pound and offered 137 as a random option. It turned out that the correct answer was 342, thank goodness! On past the logs and through an arch into a courtyard with a barn at one end. The lady organisers of the Flower Show were controlling the tea and cakes - no coffee. Or rather a spoonful of 'instant' with tepid water from the samovar was an option, but not one to be taken seriously. Tea and cakes successfully accomplished I moved into the body of the show. In my mind I saw echoes of our sponsors and partners corridor before the glamorous shock of entering the the main arena. Here a folk and country band was playing before a horseshoe of stalls offering a panoply of country and local options. Advice on soil quality - or Wambrook Flower Show tea towels. There was a jovial fellow in a floppy white hat offering for £1 the option of writing my name on a card and putting it in his bucket. At the end of the day a card would be drawn and the name would win half the money. Sounded like fun so he got a £1 too. Then the raffle and the tombola got their dues from me. Walking between the two sides of the horseshoe I was reminded of the Charge of the Light Brigade facing the Turkish guns in the Crimea. I did not stand a chance either, but leaping the cannons at the end I did make it into the barn to admire the flowers, vegetables and handicrafts.

Here the arrangements of 'gardens on a plate or tray' caught my attention as they were either perfunctory or intensely detailed. One even had a miniature tarpaulin covered with miniature tyres in a lego farmyard; no doubt there is one behind the farm on which the young artist lives. Certain exhibits were impressive, others were not. I was very impressed by the number of entrants to the bucket of compost category. I was unimpressed by the fathers and sons baking competition. You have rarely seen a larger collection of almost flat, brick-like, unappetising loaves. The courgettes and green bean displays were oddly compelling as were the rows of eggs, each one with an egg broken onto a saucer to show the limpid white and pert yolk. One egg had a small white blemish on the yolk and was completely out of the prizes, almost a pariah. But almost everyone seemed to be a prize winner of one sort or another. At the end of the day there was a lengthy prize giving ceremony where the locals whooped or wept over the results. What was new to me was the discovery that if you win several prizes in any given category you qualify for a cup. So there were winners and furthermore cup winners. Many children won prizes for drawings or for finding stinging nettles of unfeasible size. They all received little brown prize envelopes heavy with 50p pieces. As they walked up beaming with pride and local celebrity they glowed with excitement. It was lovely to watch. Having thankfully won nothing but now being the proud owner of various chutneys, jams and a ceremonial tea towel I left Wambrook a wiser man.  

Back in London I spent invigorating 15 hours at 'Little House' by Curzon St. I was there for more than 'all day', beginning at breakfast time and finally leaving around midnight. The staff were amused to see me shift around during the day. The place consists only two main rooms and these fashion three spaces. There is a sitting area, a bar and a restaurant. Breakfast - really several double espressos - was taken in the company of my friend Jordi, a hugely enthusiastic and ambitious sculpture and paintings dealer. He wants to create a brand and we were strategising about how I might help him achieve that. It is invigorating talking to people who have so much energy and optimism. He is fashionably bearded and does not sit still, at only 35 years old I would be amazed if he does not become the 'brand' he wants to be. It will certainly not be for want of effort. There follows a short pause and I move to the restaurant for lunch. Here I am joined by Philip who is also full of ideas and creativity about how to inject more cash into the art world. He wants to build a fund to help dealers buy collections. This sort of financial service could provide a genuine alternative to those wishing to selling groups of pieces, the dealer can compete with an auction house. He is a keen competitive sailor and that acts as a indicator of his attitude to risk, he is not reckless but he wants and needs risk. We eat sensibly and drink modestly but I notice that the Butterscotch Delight is back on the menu and I try the test out on him. He is thin and energetic and though he can resist the temptation of the carafe of delicious Gavi de Gavi he cannot resist sharing the nostalgic pudding with its bitter sweet crunchy caramel biscuit topping its lush foamy brownness. Again, there is the chance that we might work on a project together. He leaves and I take a walk around the block for fresh air, and to admire the summer around Berkeley Square. Returning, I ensconce myself in my favourite corner at a round table close to an open window and pass an hour or so playing with my ipad, ostensibly sending and answering a few emails, but actually trying to look busy before my friends Jane and Philip arrive. Jane is head of Christie's education and Philip is in charge of a business called the Map House - no need to explain what they sell. I have known these two for just shy of 30 years: we used to meet on Monday nights at Christies South Ken, where we would view the sales before gathering at the now defunct Luigi Malone's next door. We would drink and gossip, and Luigi himself would on occasion bring round grilled chipolatas or a tray of Potcheen shots fresh from the potato field. Occasionally we would discuss business. This evening our families and holidays are discussed and we manage to consume a few strong drinks - a bracing Aperol Spritz followed by more sensible but equally delicious Picpoul de Pinet. The sun sets and we are feeling quite mellow as my sons Vladimir and Inigo arrive. They are both in holiday mode as school and university terms have been over for a while and they are now in the full swing of summer. We finish the evening and my day at Little House with succulent grilled meat accompanied by salty, oily chips and warm spinach doused in lemon juice and olive oil. I have had a day of planning and adventure; I have met with my past, andI end with hope and expectation for a future outside of my control - my children!

Week - 85 - The Dangerous Roads of London and the West Country

 

As the Tour de France surges forward and the occasional pile-up is reported in the English news, so the domestic daily version of this annual gladiatorial struggle invades my experience. I have had to attend various morning meetings and therefore I have been compelled to travel with the commuters. Every day during rush hour cyclists herd and jostle at every traffic light and push off in a fashion more akin to Brownian motion than the order of Newton. It is not only an homage to the Tour but in parallel it provides an outlet for the English obsession with fancy dress. Nearly every cyclist has his or her particular outfit. Lycra plays a leading role in this drama along with a solid dis-regard for looking nice - and an unfortunate ignorance of their garb's transparency when stretched. Seemingly everyone is taking part in a race as they wear branded sports clothing and a confusing array of tight fitting outfits. Cars are expected to line up, one behind another, and at traffic lights they wait patiently for a comforting and encouraging green light to usher them on their way. No such convention applies for the peloton hovering at the lights. Some balance rocking backwards and forwards with their arms and legs contorted on their 'fixies', others ride their bicycles onto the pavement and cycle on, still others ignore the interdiction offered by a red light completely. As a cyclist you never know from which side a fellow competitor may approach. Rush hour in London on a bicycle is chaos, and quite a challenge.

Nonetheless it is the only way to travel in the city, cars cost a fortune and public transport is fine unless you have an appointment, in which case it is just not reliable enough due to cancellations and traffic. Astride a bicycle you have the freedom of the road and barring punctures a guaranteed arrival time. A day on the road returns you home throbbing with a sense of the Roman ideal of 'Mens sana in corpore sano'. Both your body and your mind have been stretched and are in harmony.

Some may question the safety of riding a bicycle in London, but for me the least safe place to travel is by car on country roads. The local denizens hurtle along narrow lanes with high bushy hedges on both sides.

They force you to drive off the road or into a hedge to avoid a collision. This happens several times an hour and is very wearing, every blind corner brings hot fear and cold sweat as the next bucolic racing driver may be just around the corner. I am spending time reconnoitering in Honiton and at the antiques centre at Exeter airport. The former is a pretty village in Devon famed for its numerous antique shops - the town's website proudly announces that there are over 20 - the shops are all arranged along the high st, At one end there is the BADA member Roderick Butler, who has a very pretty, perfectly manicured stone house and garden with his shop located in a barn beside it. I walk in looking very scruffy. The older gentleman manning the shop looks up disconsolately from his newspaper. I don't think it is Mr Butler himself, this man has the air of a Dickensian clerk, tall, thin wispy haired and in my imagination bowed by years of unrecognised servitude. He proffers access to the two showrooms, 'Fine furniture' or 'Oak and Walnut'. A few minutes suffice to cast an eye round the rooms, the stock is well presented and all worthy but there is nothing here for me. I give thanks and bid my host farewell.

As I make my progress along the street I find my attention being drawn to the appetising looking savoury pie shop, the butcher, the fishmonger etc. I cannot seem to get inspired by any of the so-called antiques I see. The shops increasingly become a blur as each one is visited and offers tiny room after tiny room crammed with small objects. The staff types vary from loud large women smoking to skinny, worried, silent and slightly sullen looking boys and all points in between.

One shop has devoted itself to becoming a pink boudoir full of dolls, children's furniture and dummies dressed in vintage costume. Lace parasols punctuate each room, and little notices helpfully guiding ones taste are positioned around judiciously. I exit as swiftly as is seemly. In the end I buy a few pies and some dressed crab and head on to Exeter.

On my way I am pulled over by the police. They ask me if I will participate in a survey. As I am not being arrested for a transgression I am only too delighted to oblige. A young man comes over. Question 1: Could I have the postcode of the place I have come from? Answer: Um - sorry I don't know, but it's in a village called Buckland St Mary. The questioner looks disappointed and embarrassed on my behalf but presses on with Question 2: Could I have the postcode of the place you are going to? Answer: Um - sorry I don't know. Somewhere near Exeter airport. Questioner looks shocked but scribbles something down. Question 3: Did you know that this is an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty? He says this with a weary disappointed air, as if my failure to suitably answer the previous two questions clearly indicate that I would not have a clue about the fact that this in area described with capital letters. I answer, Yes, as brightly as I can; trying to compensate for my earlier inadequacy, but actually lying to boot! Of course, I realise that the region is lovely lush and rolling, but I was not aware that it had a certificate to prove it. I get a desultory 'Okay and am sent on my way more confused than anything else.

Just beyond the main entrance to Exeter airport are a group of warehouses full of furniture and objects for sale. An enterprising group - in recognition of both their proximity to the airport and the paucity of antiques buyers - they have sublet their accumulated parking spaces as low cost long term parking for holiday makers. Visiting these shops is quite surreal as the approach is interrupted by a parade of people pulling heavy luggage over the uneven road surfaces. Families bickering after a long car journey lend a strange backdrop to the old school dealing within the sheds. This is how it used to be. Large quantities of 'stuff', no sense of arrangement or scholarship, this is what used to be called 'shipping goods'. In the past dealers from the USA would call by and fill containers for onward shipment, buying 20 or 30 items at a time from a favoured few and when the container was full it would be shipped and emptied and the hungry trade would return for more. In the hey day of this sort of dealing the successful would fill three or more containers a year. Those days are long gone but the style persists in little pockets though these become fewer and fewer each year. They are dinosaurs aware of their imminent extinction. But it is fun to walk round and there are opportunities amid the hurly burly. I pass a comfortable hour browsing and pondering who I could find to buy a late 19th century octagonal table by Jackson and Graham or a Yew wood drop leaf table from the mid 18th century. I end up not buying anything but I can see that in time an opportunity will present itself. Along the way I was very pleased to be reminded of one of my favourite catalogue entries. I saw once a lot described as: Two stuffed crocodiles - one wired for electricity. Sitting on a table there by Exeter airport was a wired for electricity crocodile, perhaps even the same one!

I drive back avoiding, as far as possible, small roads thinking about where I might go next for shopping opportunities in Somerset and its neighbouring counties.

Week - 84 - Season Finale

The dust is rising as the last few struts are removed and packed up for onward travel,The Dutch are licking their wounds following another World Cup penalty shoot-out failure, and a disconsolate mood hangs over the dry bare ground revealed by the vanished Masterpiece 'Evolution' tent like a miasma. Elsewhere the last throw of the dice is being prepared. The Christie's and Sotheby's decorative arts departments are presenting sales - in one case "Treasures" and in the other "Exceptional": they have both previously had a go at titles which reference Masterpiece but this year they are baulking at such obvious coat-tail attachment. The writing has been on the wall for some time with regard to the status of these departments at the two Leviathan of auctioneering. Since contemporary and post-war sales have begun to nudge towards a billion dollars for their key weeks and a decorative arts sale can only generate a measly few million, the result is that the latter have been be relegated to the dog end of the season. This year the fancy sales have are in the second week in July, a point when the smart crowd have already left for their holidays. This ignominy is not reserved for those struggling to sell furniture and sculpture but has trickled down to the OMP (Old Master Paintings, everything has an acronym these days ) too. When we started Masterpiece we were put under huge pressure to move our dates earlier to the traditional slot for fairs at the beginning of June. This year I was collared by a number of dealers from England and Europe wanting us to move the show on into the middle of July. How times have changed!

Off to the salerooms, at Sotheby's there is the Northumberland collection to enrich the sales. They are selling around 80 lots during 2014 to raise funds following disastrous flood damage around a block of flats in Newcastle and the subsequent costly repairs: a selection has been made from Alnwick and from Syon. I am put in mind of the film Toy Story III, a tale in which once loved and cherished toys are sent off to a new life. The chosen Northumberland pieces, had they similarly come to life, must have felt very sad - not worthy of being retained after such long and loyal service. These lots are garnishing a number of sales throughout the year, where in the old days there would have been a single-owner sale and a big catalogue full of biography and architectural background. Now, Clive Aslet (editor-at-large for Country Life ) has written a piece for the Sotheby's magazine and that's that. At Christie's they just have to make do with their traditional methods of business getting, having no single name to enhance or bolster interest. Nonetheless, when the gavel finally falls on the last lots Christie's has achieved a total around £31 million whilst Sotheby's trails at £23.5 million. My figures are rounded as I cannot be doing with long numbers and decimal points. The totals are quite impressive, of course, but we are talking about 100 lots spread over two sales and items representing a range of styles, periods and disciplines. At Masterpiece we had 160-odd stands and each one had around 100 pieces, -some many more, some a few less, but it is a fair broad-brush figure. We are looking at in excess of 16,000 items available for examination, discussion and sale. It is no wonder that fairs are making such a big impact on the market.

For a few days and for a last gasp of the season, however, the salerooms draw in the local and interested crowds. Pieces are taken apart and pored over and the buzz of enthusiasm gives the viewing days a very infectious energy. It is also a delightful opportunity to meet and chat with friends and colleagues. I went through Sotheby's very fast but not without meeting Joao Magalaes, my erstwhile colleague from Mallett with the unpronounceable Portuguese name. A direct descendant of Magellan, the early 16th-century circumnavigator, he is now a key figure in the furniture department. But that is not my main interest. He and his feisty and wonderful wife - who has been re-christened Zinha by Joao - have had a baby. The child is fresh into the world and whilst he is keen to guide me towards a rare automaton clock what engages me is excitedly finding out how mother and baby are getting on.

Friday evening is filled by catching the end of the William Kent show at the V&A. The museum stays open until 9.30 pm on Fridays and it is amazing to see how the galleries throb with people at this unusual hour. I pass through and stand in awe before the fantasy and imagination of Kent. He resides in my memory as being the symbol of the British Baroque. This is my furniture bias speaking, were I an architecture buff I would be rhapsodising about Palladio, and various houses stand out- Chiswick, Houghton and Holkham to name but three. His work epitomises the rich Italianate style of the early 18th century, but here on show is more than that grandeur. For me the great revelation was Kent's whimsy and charm - time and again he filled his designs and drawings with bonkers details that both leaven and enhance the more serious and more familiar side of his work. The exhibition captures and expresses briefly the important details, and brings out his astonishing versatility. It was an excellent exhibition but perhaps we could have been spared the sound effects of birds tweeting when we were admiring his garden pieces; I have to surmise that curators have no faith in our ability to recognise or imagine the setting a piece might have been intended for.

On Sunday an eccentric outing. Some friends from Germany had booked tickets for Don Giovanni at Glyndebourne. The problem was that Germany had made it to the final of the World Cup, and the events were now clashing. They have two sons who love them very much but were not prepared to sacrifice the World Cup final. So, during the long interval following Act I the boys were to gobble down a delicious picnic, gargle a few glasses of champagne and head by taxi and train to London and a German-themed pub where they were planning to see in victory accompanied by their compatriots and a few steins. This is where I came in as I was invited to attend the picnic and use the second half tickets - so to speak. Sitting in the foyer watching the first half had its charm and the music poured through the walls lending a soundtrack to the attractive fresh faced young waiting folk who were bustling about preparing for the onslaught of the interval. There were jokes and broken glasses and a considerable amount of flirting as Don Giovanni made his way towards his nemesis via murder, parties and attempted seduction. The interval was announced by on-stage pyrotechnics which I enjoyed on the foyer's TV screen. Then the picnic, the boys rushed off, and we installed ourselves in glory in their warm seats, which were magnificent. The great man sang his way into hell and we trooped out thrilled. Leaving the theatre I ran into an old client of mine who briefly and shockingly told me of the death and forthcoming funeral of Ina Lindemann. Ina was a kind generous and supremely gentle designer-decorator who I had worked with via Mallett for the last 20 years. I knew she had been struck down with cancer but I had thought she was in remission. It took my breath and good spirits away to hear of her death. There are many ruthless brutal people in this business for whom few would weep, but Ina was without doubt one of the good guys. The world I work in is much the poorer for her loss. I was speechless for a while and my friends were puzzled by my sudden lugubriousness. But the sun set picturesquely as we began the drive back to London and my mood lifted. Our discussion of the performance was punctuated by updates from the boys on the progress of the match. Just as London hove into view we learned that Germany were the World Champions. It was an amazing evening. German and Italian and Glyndebourne itself, a sort of fantasy quintessence of Englishness. A night to remember and cherish despite the loss of dear Ina.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

Week - 83 - Masterpiece to Milan

The temptation to live for a week in a world where Ruinart Champagne flows like water (or Coca Cola) whilst eating every meal in Le Caprice was one that I failed to resist. This was my last Masterpiece fair and I thought that as my involvement, other than as a shareholder, was coming to an end, the dealers and the press would have had enough of me. But this seemed not the case, and every day I ate a delicious lunch in excellent company looking out over the terrace and through the trees towards the permanent Wren buildings whilst sitting in a pop-up version. Taxi drivers still drop people off at the entrance baffled by the sudden appearance from nowhere of a vast 17th century building.

The flow of the week began with the patrons and curators' evening on Tuesday night. 700-odd visitors from around the world have the freedom to roam gently and quietly around the fair before having supper as the sun set over the Royal Hospital. It was a lovely start to the fair and my first glass of Ruinart was a joy. This champagne is so crisp, bright and full of minerals that it is like a tonic. Of course the alcohol content helps, but it is such a delightful cold bubbly essence of Spring. Many more followed. Supper of crispy duck with watermelon, and then the signature Caprice burger. Brown fluffy chips accompanied the pink grilled flesh in a sublime demonstration of why burgers are served with chips.

Wednesday was the formal preview day and 6500 people passed through the fair over 10 hours. They all seemed to stay and stay and the aisles become hard to navigate as the fever to consume intensified. The poor waiters flew around trying to get to corners of the fair where a drink and a canapé had not been seen for a while, but business was done, the red dots marking the sold items began to proliferate, and the dealers generally looked pleased, if a little weary.

fter this, the days followed in a steady pattern, beginning with a flurry of visitors and getting busier and busier as the hours passed. It is a strange truth that Masterpiece is the only fair in the world which is at its fullest in the last hour. Traditionally and internationally the final hour of a fair is quiet and the dealers pass the time gossiping and drinking. But not here. Around Scott's bar, which is at the centre of the fair, the crowds accumulated and a festive celebratory air dominated. This continued right up until the last minute of the last day. But it is not all about food and drink, the serious buyers come from all round the world as do those new to the market. Some visit simply to learn and enjoy the collegiate collaborative spirit of the dealers. 35,000 over 8 days.

The fair finished on Wednesday and as soon as the last visitor left, the clearing and packing begins. This process is as extraordinary as the build. Within minutes the fantasy of perfection which is Masterpiece begins to fade. The bar is dismantled as the jewellery dealers pack to leave. By midnight the fair is a ghost of itself and by lunchtime the next day everyone has packed up and left, leaving the walls to be dismantled and parcelled up for their next stop on the seemingly endless conveyor belt of art fairs.

I say goodbye to as many people as I can, and head off home. Sitting in my kitchen, the whole fleeting experience of Masterpiece passes through my mind and I try to order and remember how the days have passed. It is both a 100 metre dash and a marathon rolled into one. Once again it is over in a trice having taken a year to create. One slow blink and it is gone.

On Friday I make for Milan. I have always wanted to go to the opera at La Scala and that ambition was about to be achieved. Tickets were hard to buy but I was saved by Mattia and his staff at Robertaebasta, who queued up and bought them for us. Their help didn't stop there, as during the fair I frequently called by their stand asking about restaurants; in the end they booked places for each of our three nights. Milan is well represented at Masterpiece: We have Bottegantica with 19th-century pictures, Carlo Eleuteri with jewels and silver, Giorgio Gallo for furniture and Roberto Caiati with Old Master pictures, not forgetting our friends at Robertaebasta, of course, who sell the best of 20th-century Italian design. So each representative was visited during the fair for culinary or cultural advice.

Our tickets for La Scala were for Saturday night so we had the pleasure of spending a day wandering around Milan. We ticked one box by visiting the Brera art gallery, filled with treasures both familiar and new. But the unexpected joy was discovering a thread woven through many of our visits by the Art Deco Milanese architect Piero Portaluppi. We began by touring his gem of a house built for the Necchi Campiglio families. Light, airy and open; designed with a sense of fun and a luxurious attention to detail, the library alone was worth the visit with the balance of comfortable spaces, books and precious objects brilliantly achieved. It was followed by a visit to the Poldi Pezzoli house which houses, amongst innumerable treasures, Portaluppi's collection of over 2000 sundials, which gave us an insight into his obsession with the action of light, together with his cunning use of historic references and antiques in his interiors. Fortuitously one of the restaurants we were sent to turned out to be located in one his most famous buildings overlooking the Duomo and opposite the Galleria. It seemed as if everywhere we went there was a reference to or an echo of his life and work.

Dressed up in our finery we proceeded to La Scala. The opera house is a magnificent flourish of white and gold, wit, at its centre a mad gilt chandelier which has at its core tiers of glass and gold as you would expect, but swirling around are octopus-like arms sweeping out in all directions with what seem like glass cereal bowls as terminals. The Opera house was 'rebuilt' in 1946 after being bombed in the war - I expect it was created then. The stalls are surrounded by tiers of boxes, each having two front seats with standing room behind. You feel immediately transported back to the 19th century and the early days of the opera house: one imagines people popping in and out, visiting and chatting and the music/performance becoming a subsidiary event to the social opera taking place all around. But we are well behaved and we stay quietly in our seats, with two enthusiasts standing behind us getting as close as they could - rather than being annoying, they added to the historic atmosphere. The interval brought us Prosecco in the high-ceilinged, colonnaded, ballroom-like bar, the Ridotto Arturo Toscanini. No bell, but the lights dim to send you back to your box. Cosi Fan Tutte was in modern dress and the dark side of the story came out strongly as the manipulation of the young lovers was made prominent. The music seemed to echo the lack of a wholehearted loving reconciliation. We left to have a late supper and a debate about the production.

All the meals we ate were perfect, beginning at Risacca 6 where we tasted warm delicate soft shredded calamari and a risotto di mare which was dark and salty with a hint of celery adding interest to the shellfish hidden within the perfect al dente nest of rice. At the Osteria Di Brera we were plied with wonderful deep -fried puffy pillows of parmesan. And at the extraordinary restaurant in the Portaluppi building, Giacomo Arengario, which overlooks the newly cleaned gleaming white gothic fantasy Duomo, we tasted guazetta in a spicy tomato sauce. We finished this culinary adventure by spending our last two hours before flying home at the Fioraio Bianchi (a restaurant disguised as a flower shop) eating a robust intense pasta of sardines and dried cod's roe, and involtini of swordfish wrapped in a herb-rich breadcrumb crust. A last glass of icy prosecco and we were on our way to the airport and back to reality.

Week - 82 - Build to Bang

 

Arriving on site in high viz with my steel-toe-capped boots, there is a frenetic energy crackling in the atmosphere. The exhibitors' own contractors arrive on Wednesday to join the already numerous Stabilo staff, they have two days to prepare before the gates are opened on Saturday morning for the exhibitors themselves who arrive en masse and under pressure. By Sunday night everything has to be ready for the vetting committees to begin their adjudication on Monday morning. So from Tuesday morning, when I get back from Basel, until Sunday night it is a race against the clock. 160 dealers, each one feeling important and each with a vision of their stand as the picture of perfection rushes and presses to get the attention of the various contractors. Electricians, wall-paperers, joiners and carpet-layers run around like creatures possessed, working as swiftly as they can and fending off the many who hover hoping to be their next job. The fair is built by the Dutch firm Stabilo, and as an extra nuance to the general fever there is a certain buzz about the progress of the Netherlands football team in the World Cup in far-off Brazil. Beginning the competition as outsiders they are having an excitingly good run. I see one guy with a noisy buzzing jigsaw sending up a cloud of sawdust as he cuts out a board from a massive slab of plywood to support a giant photograph of the World Cup. Stabilo cannot work when a match is on so we encounter a couple of unanticipated and significant delays.

Out in Ranelagh Gardens, to the east of our giant tent, they are trucking in and laying out the exhibition of monumental sculpture by Philip King, curated and fashioned by the Thomas Dane gallery. Bright and bold colours sit unexpectedly comfortably amongst the trees and bushes of the gardens. Dynamic yet serene, lyrical yet muscular, the works are duly buffed up and labelled in anticipation of next week's crowds. I have a minor palpitation when I hear over the walkie talkies that one of the delivery people has dropped one of the sculptures. It turns out that this is simply an in-house way of saying that it has been successfully placed - so no harm done, except to my nerves. I see Philip in the gardens enjoying the feel of the grass under his feet, his paint-daubed crocs have been kicked off and he is emotionally connecting with his pieces which in a few works span his entire career, thus far.

The office is frantic too: the team move on site on Friday. Computers have to be packed up and files sorted. Though it is an annual move, it is never easy and there are always countless things to be both remembered and stowed. I try to stay out of everyone's way but it is impossible not to be sucked into the gathering excitement and swept onwards by the sense of hurry and rush.

Back on site the vast kitchens are being installed. Enormous shiny metal ovens and grills are slowly placed alongside cavernous fridges and massive food-preparation tables. It is hard to take in the scale of the display - and this is just back of house, behind the scenes. Other areas take shape, with decking laid on the terrace and carpets throughout the interior.

Saturday morning bright and early and in floods the art itself. Like insects swarming over a newly killed animal so do brightly-coloured t-shirts cover the double football pitch that is Masterpiece and astonishingly quickly packing cases are broached and delectable pieces from the dawn of art to the present day emerge blinking and sometimes twinkling into the sunlight. I meet Tony Fell from Holt in Norfolk, whose romantic swept back hair and flowery shirt give him the air of someone on holiday rather than a person preparing for a week of intense conversations and selling. He unpacks a white-painted George III console table, a fresh piece of stock which takes pride of place on his stand. He steps back to admire its position with a mixture of hope, excitement and nervousness. Down the hall, the Franklin brothers, silver dealers, have taken the brave move of displaying their treasures on stands rather than in display cases. As a result they have employed a guard to watch over their stylish black stand, smiling and quietly menacing. They are eagerly buffing and putting in place their cherished works of art. They punctuate their set-up with regular escapes to the terrace where they hoover up cigarettes nervously with other exhibitors. Two charming Italians from Milan, Roberto Caiati and Georgio Gallo, are exhibiting for the first time, showing old master paintings and works of art. As with many of the exhibitors, English is not their first language but they speak it well, and they are excited about being at the fair. Masterpiece exhibitors come from all over the world. As I walk round, each corner brings an opportunity for practising my French and Italian, which are rusty but nonetheless vitally useful. At the end of one aisle I admire the stand of Charlie Wallrock who has a collection of dressing cases - each one is exceptional and he has nearly 30. He is English and I find myself semi-translating our conversation in my head, as if English is now a foreign language. I quickly re-set but it is a strange feeling.

Saturday night and we all repair to the Orange in Pimlico Road. In this friendly, wood-panelled public house with its airy additional dining room the traditional pub, the Italian bistro, and the London restaurant seem to be combined. There is steak and kidney pie or pizza, and there is also deep-fried squid in black pepper with chilli sauce. You can drink champagne or you can have a pint of ale. The Orange is full of exhausted and hot exhibitors - it has been a long day, the sun has been blazing and everyone has worked hard. Beer and champagne are heartily despatched as talk of the great event to come and anecdotes of other fairs fill the air. The mood is positive as it always is in advance: hope and expectation are the dominant emotions and we all depart slightly wobbly but happy and full of good fellowship.

Week - 81 - 36 Hours in Basel

 

For the last 5 years I have been to Basel to help vet the Design Fair. I join with Simon Andrews from Christie's and a small group of exhibitors and we slowly and methodically look at and assess every piece at the fair. It requires an early morning flight on Sunday and it feels quite naughty sneaking away for a night from the build-up to Masterpiece. But the Design Fair is a very exciting adjunct to the main Basel art event and it is a delight to be able to pore over the treasures at will and with total licence. My co-Englishman Simon has been the design guru for Christie's for many a moon and there is nothing he doesn't know about design from around 1900 to the present day. He looks superficially quite disheveled but each item he wears is carefully chosen and turns out to be either by someone or from somewhere interesting or curious. The end result is that he is a walking visual and intellectual encyclopaedia of 20th century design. My role is to cast a skeptical eye with regard to condition and labelling, as well as to look at and confirm the legitimacy of items which are from the age of antiques, which a few dealers exhibit or have an example of, although the fair is committed to Simon's area.

Our flight arrives and are swept into town in a smart BMW limousine. We both feel slightly underdressed for the car which smells both lush and very new. There are a myriad individual seat and temperature settings - like a child with a new toy I want to push all the buttons and fiddle with all the gauges. Much to the relief of the driver we arrive at the hotel before I have time to fully explore all the possibilities. After a brief pit stop we are delivered to the exhibition hall which is directly opposite the one in which Art Basel is being held. On our way we pass a lighting installation which is a confection of inverted cones of transparent plastic each element has a coating labelled 'Perspex'. I guessed it was sponsored but by the time we return, all the labels have gone and it is pure light. At the cafe dining area we gather for our pre-vetting lunch. We are the guinea pigs for the menu and each dish which comes out is duly tasted and evaluated. To begin with, the members of the assembled company are cool and professional and decline a glass of wine - except me. A beautifully chilled glass of Swiss white wine is brought out and I rave about how delicious it is. A short time later, several of the group break ranks and more glasses arrive. Lunch becomes a very chatty event and we all debate the fraught question of restoration with 20th-century pieces - particularly with reference to the life spans of resins and plastics. The conservator from the Vitra museum is with us and her general advice is to keep everything in the dark and in a vacuum. Back in the real world we embrace our task of vetting with appropriate gusto and soon we are all lying on the floor peering at table frames and pointing torches at joints. Five hours later we stagger out shell-shocked and exhausted but thrilled by having seen some truly magnificent treasures.

A short and fatigued walk is followed by champagne and snacks at the Volkshaus. We gather in the wonderful courtyard which played host to the Basel Design fair party before. Last year it rained in a truly biblical fashion and we all took shelter on the balconies and on staircases. This year it was sunny and balmy and we all gossiped enthusiastically. Eccentric snacks appeared, including a foamy meat mousse with a spray cream on top - most people thought it was made of strawberries so the bitter liver taste was quite a shock, This was followed by risotto, then soup - neither what you might describe as finger food. I got into conversation with the Sebastian and Barquet team. On their stand they are showing pieces by American masters of design George Nakashima and Paul Evans. They had a stand at Masterpiece last year but sadly could not do both shows this year. I did not know Tara and her husband but the gallery assistant Olivia used to work for Mallett, so it was nice to catch up. We ended up eating pasta at a restaurant that smelt slightly of drains down by the river and discussed in detail the benefits of eating M&M s as a healthy breakfast. Olivia was convinced of the benefits; I remain impressed but unconvinced.

The next morning I took a tram to the Beyeler Foundation, it is set in a bucolic suburban setting. They have mounted a large and impressive retrospective show of the work of Gerhard Richter, an astonishingly varied artist who seems to embrace a multiplicity of styles and media, producing twisted photo-realist oils and digitally produced abstract work and almost everything in between. The building itself is a work of art being a light and airy jewel by Renzo Piano. I spent a hugely enjoyable couple of hours watching the art groupies prowl around talking loudly to one another as I admired and immersed myself in the work. Art Basel itself starts tomorrow and I will not have time to see it, but the art crowd are already in town and they are killing time en masse before the fandango that starts with a VIP breakfast at 8.30 am.

Returning to the centre of town, I have enough time before my flight home to visit a project called 14 Rooms. In a pavilion designed by Herzog & de Meuron, white walls with mirrored doors offer a surreal opportunity of the Alice in Wonderland variety. The space is scary and claustrophobic. It is intimidating and nerve-racking to open the doors and step into the rooms. Each one is a separate art work, if they were shown in an open traditional gallery space there would be the opportunity to keep a sense of detachment. But here there is a nightmarish quality to the intensity taking place behind each door in these quite small rooms. The sense of being in a cross between a nightclub and a sanatorium is overwhelming. If you look up 14 Rooms on the internet there is a very good and expressive website where each room is fully described. For me, the experience was not one of art appreciation, however, but was more experiential, and I will remember my fear, shock and timidity for quite some time. As we drove towards the airport I mentally celebrated the fact that art still has the power to both shock and educate.

Week - 80 - Progress and Protest

 

As the Masterpiece tents rise from the glistening flat floors laid out across the grounds at the Royal Hospital, the sun is shining. My visits to the site to observe the progress and watch the installation of the Philip King exhibition in Ranelagh Gardens are bathed in sunshine and the occasional, but thankfully brief, shower. After our Masterpiece board meeting, I find myself standing by one of the metal grille fences wearing my high viz jacket with the owner of Stabilo and the fair's contractor and architect, Harry van der Hoorn. We are trying to get into the site and whilst we wait for passes, Harry, the Ghanaian security guard and I discuss the forthcoming World Cup. The security guard was a trifle cold and tough at first but, engaging in football chat, he warmed and by the time we parted all agreed that none of our favoured countries stood a chance and that this was definitely the best position to be in.

Watching England play football is an extraordinarily masochistic exercise. It is like waiting to be punched - the question is not whether or not you will be punched, the only question is when. As Harry and I roam over the site, he banters with his crew in Dutch, swapping manly hugs, jokes and the occasional kiss. He bounces up and down on the floor and shakes the rising walls, each gesture eagerly followed by his foreman who takes notes and looks calm but concerned. No one will notice a steady floor or a rigid wall, they will only notice when the former is wobbly and the latter flimsy. Failure is obvious; success is invisible.

I cycle over to see the trucks coming in with the bold painted metal geometric and figurative shapes that are distinctive of Philip King's work. The works exude the power and gutsiness of their production - we seem to be in sight of a shipyard or equivalent. The machines that move the work echo those that held it when Philip was cutting and welding it. The result is that the visceral, incredibly physica, nature of his work is beautifully brought out during installation. Once placed, the lyrical shapes and bold colours happily combine with the grass and the perky, optimistic daisies that have burgeoned during the few days between the end of the flower show and now.

Cycling up west to the Masterpiece offices, I am delighted to find myself in heavy traffic. On a bicycle it is a pleasure to sail through clogged roads whilst drivers curse their delay. The police have closed off the entrance to Piccadilly from Hyde Park corner to cars. They look pained and frustrated to see the flow of bicycles passing their smart cones labelled 'Police'. Weaving through I find the road jammed with taxis. There is a festive air. They have all stopped, opened their doors and are mingling, chatting and either eating or drinking. I hear helicopters buzzing above me. I could not think why these drivers were so relaxed. The London cabbie with a passenger on board is always thrilled to sit endlessly in traffic, but an empty cab is an impatient cab, and all these are empty. As I progress towards Dover Street, the scene continues and there is no sign of the cause at all. Finally reaching the offices I learn that this was not a delay but a protest. No wonder the cabbies all looked so cheerful. A website called Uber is the cause of their ire, their jobs are thought to be under threat from the web app which, as well as booking and tracking the cars, will work out the cost of a journey, acting as a meter, which only black cabs are entitled to use. For me the joy of a London cab is the unique fact that they have done 'The Knowledge' - a lengthy and arduous training, which leads to an encyclopaedic understanding of how to navigate London; and a winning advantage if participating in all fact-based game shows. Sadly the advent of GPS devices means that this skill is becoming superfluous. I cherish our London black cabs, and the city needs a good taxi service; but this is what is called progress - not an improvement, but something that cannot be halted.

In the evening I attended a dinner to celebrate the birthday of Philip King and a year of exhibitions. It was at the house of the art dealer Ivor Braka. A show has just opened at the Thomas Dane Gallery, to be followed by Masterpiece, and then the Tate at the end of the year. Ivor's home is teeming with wonderful, striking modern and contemporary work and furnished with Arts and Crafts. Everywhere the eye fell there was a treat and a delight. I ran into Henry Wyndham from Sotheby's. I have known Henry for more than 20 years and he persists in being unexpectedly tall. He was his usual charming self and we had a jolly discussion about collecting the work of Christopher Dresser. The debate was whether silver should be cleaned or not. We both concluded that clean was best and that defined us as being old school bourgeois. The cool thing to do was to let it tarnish and be seen alongside contemporary work where the ravages of time and discolouration are part of the acquisition of patina and thereby value. Food followed and whilst plates were piled high, the platters kept on being discreetly replenished. There was an understated sense of opulence and generosity and, when Nick Serota made a speech in praise of the genius of Philip, we all clapped enthusiastically, happy and replete.

Cycling up Piccadilly again the next day I passed a small protest involving Stuart the dog and Stuart the owner. Stuart the dog was wearing banners inscribed 'No Nuke's' (I struggle with punctuation myself but I think the apostrophe is wrong) and seemed very cheerful. He sniffed around and generally looked very content in the sunshine. I was delighted to meet this veteran of protest and his master allowed me to take a snapshot. Stuart the owner has been campaigning against all things nuclear for over 30 years and has managed to be photographed and recorded at many a political conference. Today he was protesting about the damage done by the nuclear disaster at Fukushima. He would like to see an end to all nuclear power. His finest hour, by his own admission, was being beaten up by a political blogger in Brighton during the Labour party conference last year. It is all on YouTube, of course. Stuart the dog did a bit of biting in the fracas but otherwise his views are not known.

King Lear at the National Theatre. The area has recently changed markedly. Instead of the stark, uncompromising display of brutalist architecture, now it has the feel of a massive market. Food stall holders are at every turn and every aisle; food is everywhere. In days of yore the only option was a dried up sandwich or the National Film Theatre outdoor cafe under Waterloo Bridge. The experience would be accompanied by the crash and bang of youths skateboarding. Today the walk from the tube is a hurly burly of global gastronomic delights. As I made it to the doors of the Olivier theatre to see Simon Russell Beale as King Lear in the Sam Mendes production, I was almost exhausted by having run the gamut of all these hawkers of pies. The play is for me a flawless masterpiece, and even under the deadening influence of studying it at school, I found the pitiless misery of the play deeply affecting. It was a huge pleasure to hear again so many familiar lines, it made me quite overlook the fact that Papa Smurf seemed to playing Lear and noble Edgar was being portrayed as a charming but clueless provincial arts student. This very bare and symbolic play offers itself up to endless reinvention and unusual period dating but this interpretation seemed to me forced and uncomfortable. King Lear is in itself a challenging and difficult play and though I loved seeing it, I found this production particularly challenging and difficult.

Week - 79 - Founder's Day and Full Possession

 

It's all Masterpiece now. My life is on hold until the last contractor packs up his tools and vacates the site. Masterpiece is just beginning to enter the birthing chamber.

However, the week began at Home House, where I was invited to be part of a panel discussion about Luxury. Now a private club, but for me forever enshrined in my memory as the erstwhile home of the Courtauld Institute. The host of the event was Walpole British Luxury, founded in 1990 in order (as they say on their website) "to provide a community for the exchange of best practice ideas to drive business development in both the UK and export market". I sat on a bar stool alongside James Basmajian the creative director of Gieves and Hawkes and Margaret Johnson the CEO of Leagas Delaney (an advertising and communications company). We were like a singing trio perched expectantly about to perform. My partners were elegant, smart, quick-witted and perceptive in their comments. James in particular was as sharp as a tack. He is clearly a networking dynamo, swapping cards and sharing pithy comments with all around: a lesson in how to work these sorts of events. I did my normal thing of making inappropriate and provocative remarks. I suggested the Luxury world needed to be wary of the word 'luxury' which has been appropriated by estate agents and the makers of ready meals. As this was a Walpole Luxury event, that was a trifle gauche. But everyone was kind and friendly and I escaped more or less unscathed clutching a bag of goodies and magnum of Laurent Perrier champagne. Cycling home seemed like a good idea at the time and I made it very nearly home but sadly rounding the Oval I hit a pothole, the bag bounced and my lovely champagne burst through the bottom of the bag and exploded like a small bomb. The noise was impressive - as I passed, several lurching drinkers looked up and possibly had a fleeting moment of clarity. I completed my journey disconsolately, comforting myself that I still had my Football World Cup guide and a box of fancy chocolates. I Instagrammed my tragedy and the Walpole organisation replaced my bottle. I love them!!

On Thursday the Masterpiece team attended en masse the Royal Hospital Founder's Day. This celebration merges charmingly a school end-of-term with a memorial of the founder Charles II. The in-pensioners march, synchronise-drive on smart red electric buggies, or sit patiently waiting. They are a remarkable group: just less than 300 of them, they range in ages from mid 60s to over 100. They look magnificent in scarlet coats and gold-bedecked hats. Each year a member of the royal family steps up, inspects the troops and makes a speech. This year it was the Duke of Kent. Following his words, we get the end-of-term stuff, with reports on activities from the past year and anticipation of the year ahead. To conclude, the staff who are leaving are all thanked roundly for their hard work, commitment, etc. and bade farewell. This year a crucial departure was noted.

Masterpiece would never have happened had it not been for the enthusiasm and entrepreneurial courage of the Lieutenant Governor, Peter Currie. He is designated by this rank, but in the business world, he would be titled the CEO. I remember sitting in his office with the Quartermaster, Andy Hickling, weaving a dream tapestry for them, and Peter was immediately encouraging. Countless battles later, including an unforgettable moment when in a planning meeting at Kensington Town Hall, Peter appeared ashen-faced, coughing, wheezing and snuffling from a terrible cold; he performed magnificently and permission was granted. So much support and guidance followed and 5 years later here we are listening to the appreciation of his work and acknowledging his imminent departure - saying farewell. The sun shone on the gold statue of Charles II wreathed in oak leaves, the stirring military brass band struck up and a melancholy moment was acknowledged.

Racing from the Hospital back to Mallett, I was thrilled to be offered a lift by my ex-colleague Felicity. She is the dynamo of Mallett; grumpy, critical and often bad-tempered she charms all and sundry. Her husband used to say that she lost friends faster than he could make them! But it is simply not true; everyone adores her and she is a quite spectacular saleswoman. She had offered me a lift to the Olympia International Art and Antiques fair which was opening that day, hence the rush. Her car is one of those new Volkswagen Golfs that seems to both drive itself and reprimand the driver. I have never sat in such a bossy car. Felicity is slightly intimidated by it and I imagine the occasional apology from her to the car.

Olympia welcomes us with bright sunshine and the majestic iron and glass roof throwing everything below it into diminutive perspective. There are lots of friends here and some Masterpiece exhibitors. In my Mallett days, we often exhibited here and had a wonderful time enjoying the relaxed atmosphere and the buzz of business. In those days there were around 300 stands. When I arrived, my colleagues and I would split up so as to miss as few purchases as possible. I remember taking a taxi back from the fair once with colleagues from Mallett Bond St and Mallett Bourdon House. I confessed to having spent £250,000 and the Bond St guys riposted by saying they had spent over £1m. It was a very exciting time. Today, Felicity and I toured round together chatting and reminiscing with stand holders, and sadly I bought nothing.

Friday morning started early. I rose at 5am and cycled off to greet the team for the beginning of our Masterpiece tenancy by the Bull Ring gate of the Royal Hospital. On my way, I passed George Somlo, our wristwatch specialist at the fair. He was running around Battersea Park. He is in his early 60s and he told me he was preparing for a triathlon this weekend. He subsequently reported that he came second in his age class. Amazing! Well done. I arrived at 6am to discover that the handover was actually scheduled to be at 7. Bleary-eyed and downcast at having punished myself with an unnecessarily early start, I considered going home, but that seemed to me to be giving up so I went for a cycle ride around Chelsea.

The houses south of the Kings Road and north of Cheyne Walk between Oakley St and Lower Sloane Street turn out to be extraordinarily varied in style and period. There are wonderful stately early 18th century ones with tall windows and richly carved porticos in Cheyne Row. I cycled past Thomas Carlyle's House and the house where the potter William de Morgan lived and created much of his distinctive and wild lustreware pieces. There were also 20th-century design treats on my ride from the listed Fire Station on the King's Road to Chelsea Old Church by Battersea Bridge, parachute-bombed to virtual destruction in the Second World War. Originally fashioned in stone, it was rebuilt in brick in the 1950s and whilst it may not win any prizes for innovative architectural creativity, it is a fine, strong structure. It was at one point the private chapel of Sir Thomas More, who sits outside patiently in sculptural form. Back at the gates by the Bull Ring, there was a very different atmosphere to the one an hour earlier. Trucks were lining up and the security, logistics and stand-building teams were all in attendance. Andy Hickling and the groundsman appeared at the far side of the South Lawns and we all eagerly watched their slow stately march towards us as we peered through the railings. Andy arrived, a splendid key turned in the lock and we were in - like a flock of birds taking flight, everything started happening immediately, at once and in all directions. The build was underway.

Week - 78 - an Atrocity in Brussels

 

I am sad, very sad. For the last few days I have been haunted by the news of the man who pulled up outside the Jewish museum in Brussels, and shot and killed two visitors and a member of staff. There are photographs on the internet of him firing through the door. It is true that there are horrors all round the world every day of the week. If you look at the news websites or simply scan the headlines, abuse and murder are ubiquitous and continuous. But this little local anti-Semitic horror has hurt me in a way I cannot fathom or explain. It is not because I am partial or biased towards the plight of the Jewish people. I am sure equivalent evil has been enacted by every religion against every other religion, at times, and this atrocity does not stand out. It is just that I know and adore this little museum and its staff.

To put my affection for the city into context, I should explain that for many years Brussels - in particular the area around Les Sablons - has been a regular destination for me. I came first in 1990 with my boss, a man called David Nickerson. He taught me all I know. He was overweight, his hair was slightly greasy and swept to one side. He smoked cigarettes as if each puff was going to be his last. His desk at Mallett was legendarily embellished with cigarette burns and every vase in the shop was full of ash and cigarette butts. I once drove his car to deliver a piece to a client and was taken aback by the nicotine crystals pendant from the roof above the steering wheel. In addition to all this he was charismatic, charming and generous to a fault; he was my mentor and guide. He taught me how to look through furniture and objects rather than look at them. He told me to engage with a piece for its line, movement and potential not for its immediate superficial appearance. He embraced life as if each moment would be his last, and that gave both work and fun a vital intense quality that I strive to keep going. On this occasion, we arrived in Brussels and went to the antique fair which was held at the time in the museum, just beside Les Sablons. We walked round and finding nothing to buy, disconsolately repaired to a nearby restaurant. Three hours later and feeling thoroughly restored, we re-entered the fair... and proceeded to buy some of the most exciting things we had seen in a long time. It felt almost magical wafting from booth to booth buying in Belgian francs without really understanding the exchange rate. It all seemed very reasonably priced and in most cases it was.

Since then, the city has been an integral part of my working year, with my annual pilgrimage to TEFAF allowing a stop off on the way, a diversion during, and a break on the way home. Dealers still congregate around the square: as in all cities they have moved away from the expensive rentals and inhabit the lesser, peripheral streets. These provide good spaces and there are still enough dealers with exciting things to act as a draw to the visitor. The shops and the restaurants around them are welcoming and full of curiosity and interest. Since the creation of Masterpiece, I have come to the city even more frequently, to visit our exhibitors, Patrick Mestagh, Galerie Mermoz and Anne Autegarden. Furthermore, the two city fairs each year provide a vital opportunity to both buy and talk to current and potential exhibitors. Particularly BRAFA, each January, has become an important cog in the global fair-going machine.

At some point on each visit, as I trawl along the streets peering in windows or walking into the shops, I pass by the Jewish museum. I am always in a rush trying to squeeze a few more buying opportunities into a period of time that seems to run through my fingers like water pouring through a colander. There is the race to the coast and 'Le Shuttle' to be undertaken and a recreational tour around the museum does not ever seem to be viable.

To entice passersby to visit, the museum began to put up posters outside advertising highlights, and amongst those was an extraordinary thing: a light bulb which had a filament in the shape of a Star of David. I became obsessed by the idea of this object, trying to guess why it had been made and how many like it were produced. I am very fond of light bulbs. Many years ago, I bought for Mallett a set of very early bulbs which had belonged to the television pioneer John Logie Baird. As with many of my purchases, my colleagues were appalled by them and only recanted when they had been sold for a good profit. I looked up the light bulb on the internet, but seeing it in the flesh became a necessity. Last year I finally made the time to go in. The museum is housed in a large building and I was amazed once inside to see how small and intimate it was and how humble were its offerings. I was the only visitor at that time and I was shown the object personally by the lady who sold me my ticket, and by her husband who seemed to be a guide too. The experience was so charming, friendly and welcoming that when I was next in the city with the Mallett CEO, Giles, I swept him in to see this eccentric treasure. The couple were still there and hugged me and shook my hand warmly as if I was an old friend, not just a visitor to the museum. Giles teased me afterwards, suggesting that I had clearly bought a load of old catalogues, or that they rarely had any visitors at all. Whatever the reasons, they were lovely, and the kindly grey-haired lady of ample proportions and loose-fitting clothes was beaming with delight as her husband - who, similarly rotund, was further adorned with a generous and a droopy moustache - chased around trying to find a postcard of the light bulb for me. It was a splendid second visit and I vowed to take everyone I could muster along to share in the goodwill and generosity of spirit located there as much as in the items on show.

Last week two random visitors and my kindly old lady friend at the desk were shot dead. A man has been arrested and if he is the one who did commit the crime, he will hopefully be tried and sent to prison. The tragedy is that the dead get no comfort from that justice. The quiet sleepy museum which had a few visitors a week and existed without troubling anyone had become the focus of someone's deadly hatred. Belgium has a population just in excess of 11 million; of those around a mere 30,000 are Jewish. Even before the Second World War, the Jewish population was small. Belgium simply does not figure prominently as a country with strong Jewish customs or traditions. Despite this, my little, obscure museum in a sleepy antique district of Brussels away from the main streets and the Grand Place has become a legitimate target for Islamic extremism, or so it appears. My dear friend, whom I hardly knew at all, whose name I never knew, is dead, and that is very sad.

The light bulb comes from a memorial lamp, and is an electric version of the traditional candle that you burn for the memory of a death, a Yahrzeit candle. It is lit during Yom Kippur or on Holocaust Remembrance Day or to remember someone who has died on their birthday. I will now seek one out to commemorate and celebrate the kindness of that special little museum.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

Week - 77 - Stanley Spencer Lobster and Burgundian snails

 

I began the week with Lobster thermidor and ended it with half a dozen Burgundian snails; or, I began the week with the Stanley Spencer exhibition at Pallant House in Chichester and ended it with the fabulous 13th century Tour du Guet in Calais. It all depends on how you look at your week. I like to merge the two, and every cultural highlight is enhanced when interwoven with as many culinary delights as possible. That is also our Masterpiece ethos - perhaps it appears a trifle indulgent. My son Vladimir once asked me: 'What are holidays?' I thought about it for a moment, thinking of how to respond to a four year old. My reply was: 'Treats every day'. I continue to believe that. In fact it is true for normal everyday life too: everything we do should be as near to being a treat as we can make it. Admittedly some things we all have to do are quite some distance from being a treat! But the aspiration should be there in my view.

Pallant House is a delightful Queen Anne building in Chichester which is home to a collection of modern British art founded on a donation by the retiring Dean Walter Hussey in 1977. The Cathedral is also enriched with an exceptional collection and so Chichester has become a destination for enthusiasts of 20th century British art. In Berkshire, the National Trust is restoring the Sandham Memorial Chapel, built to commemorate the donor's brother who died in the First World War. The work commissioned from Spencer records his experiences in the medical corps, a time which inspired him to develop and express what he saw in a very personal Christian way. The series is multi-layered in that it depicts war and hospital tableaux, and is thus a memorial, but it is in addition it is a symbolic or metaphorical expression of Spencer's faith. Therefore the centenary of the First World War is poignantly remembered through this show, which began at Somerset House and will end in August back in its Berkshire home when the chapel reopens. I have always liked Pallant House for its stone ostriches on the gates, the crest of the, geographically unexpected, Peckham family, the original builders of the house. These days you don't need to enter between the ostriches as there is an extension of a more predictable museum style adjacent opened in 2006 and designed by Sir Colin Wilson and Long & Kentish. Wandering through the gallery rooms showing the chapel paintings you are transported back to the time of both Spencer's observations but also to the 1920s when the world was brim full of guilt about the war. The figures in the paintings seem young and unformed and their deaths consequently so wasteful. Even Spencer's resurrection, though it offers redemption, does not present a viable validation.

From this very thought-provoking exhibition we drove back to Selsey Bill, where my mother and stepfather have a cottage. Since my childhood we have bought delicious crab and lobster from Julie on East Beach. Then, Julie was a vivacious and dynamic business entrepreneur in her twenties, setting up within the all male world of local crab fisherman. She was feisty and very pretty with red hair and freckles, I was shy of going in to buy from her, unable to properly look her in the eye. Today her children are behind the counter and her original basic shed has become a gleaming white purpose-built structure. My mother loves to cook from recipes gleaned from newspapers and magazines and these garnish every flat surface including most chairs. She has found one for Lobster thermidor, a dish invented in 1894 to celebrate a new play by Victorien Sardou, and named after the summer month of the French Republican calendar. The play and the calendar have melted away but the lobster dish has become a legend and represents for some the epitome of luxury. My father used to say in restaurants, 'Order what you like but not the Lobster thermidor!' As a May dish by the seaside with the sun blazing outside, it all seemed very appropriate. The fresh raw blue lobsters were duly boiled, split and covered with herbs, sauce and breadcrumbs and came gleaming and crusty to the table accompanied by chilled, flavoursome, scented, rich, but dry Cremant de Lugny, and as the succulent, delicate meat was consumed we all agreed that together the Spencer show and Lobster thermidor made for a perfect Sunday.

Whilst sitting looking at the join between the original Pallant House and the new extension in the light and airy garden I read a notice about the gold medal-winning gardener Christopher Bradley-Hole who was responsible for the design. On Wednesday Andy Hickling, the Royal Hospital Chelsea's quartermaster and solver of all our Masterpiece fair installation issues, hosted a party which gave his chosen few an exceptional treat. His house is just outside the gates of the Chelsea Flower Show within the bounds of the Hospital itself. He pours us copious glasses of Champagne, teases our palates with tasty snacks in cones and then sates us with an irresistible buffet, this year a superb lamb tagine with couscous. Then he sends us out with passes to roam the flower show freed from the crowds. It is the perfect way to see it. This year our Masterpiece sponsor RBC has also supported a garden and it duly won a gold medal. The show gardens are all incredible and complex and defy the temporary nature of their existence. They are almost like cut flowers, glorious for an instant and shortly afterwards - compost and gone. The massive tent smells of earth and grass and has in various spaces curious and sometimes appetising aromas. Every stand is as spectacular as it can be, some are wonderful but some nudge towards the absurd. I was intrigued by the city of Birmingham stand which had a flower bedecked train and a deserted bicycle. I did not understand the message, but it was undoubtedly splendid and had won a prize.

On Thursday I headed off to France. The pre bank holiday traffic leaving London was horrible and I finally arrived in Calais from Le Shuttle, tired, hungry and fed up. Calais is not a pretty town, but despite this it does have a certain vibrant commercial energy. There is an unexpectedly appealing square called the Place D'Armes which was once beautiful and historic but was bombed in the Second World War by everyone and rebuilt afterwards in the now under-appreciated 50s style. Before you are white, low-rise blocks with intermittent metal balconies. One side has been enhanced by a modern water feature lit with purple which squirts water into the air at random intervals from about 25 spouts. I tried to get a table at a wine-focused restaurant but was turned away as they were having a special wine-tasting evening, so my gloom increased. I wandered over to a corner of the square where I reflected upon my remaining food options below the imposing Tour du Guet. From the top of this tower the Calais citizens were told of the surrender of the city to Edward III. Their depression at being conquered felt very keen as I struggled to be positive.

The next day brought the positive mood I sought - in Chatillon sur Seine at the Côte d'Or. This classic French hotel and restaurant focusses on purveying the delights of Burgundian cuisine. So 'oeufs en meurettes' were preceded by six succulent snails. The shells were striped and fashionably pastel. The cast iron platter was white and the garlic and butter infused herbs were lustrously green. A basket of fluffy, crispy and flaky crusted baguette chunks were on hand to assist with the mopping up. Six transcendent mouthfuls ensued and Calais became a distant memory. Now I could concentrate on finding a treasure within the local salerooms to justify the trip.

Week - 76 - New York Contemporary Week

 

My first time in NY I had a terrible row. A director of Mallett at that time - it was 1996 - on arrival I was daunted by my first experience of serious jet lag. It was stupid o'clock in the morning, as far as I was concerned, when I sat down to dinner with my then boss Lanto Synge. He had spent the day working on the Mallett stand at the International show at the Armory at 67th and Park Avenue. He was tired and I was exhausted. We then proceeded to have a shouting match about the legacy of an American clothes designer called Bill Blass. He had been an enthusiastic client and we were debating whether his eclectic taste should be a guide for us in business, or whether we should invest in classics. We did not talk to each for a couple of days afterwards and Giles, now CEO of Mallett, had to intervene to make peace. It was all very absurd, but it makes a point. Foreign cities are always a mixture of the times you have spent there and the current moment; the former colours, but does not define, the present. I am back in NY for the Masterpiece exhibitor advice days. We fly over every year for a few days to support our US dealers with their plans for their stands at the fair and to hold an event for the US decorators who form a supporting committee.

The morning flight from Heathrow into JFK is my favourite. Everyone you talk to has their own patent plan, and will cheerfully drone on about how great it is to arrive at 4pm or 11pm at night. Every regular traveller likes to adhere to their own preferred methodology; my theory is that daylight is good. The more daylight you get the less jet lag you suffer. I don't know if my theory has any scientific legitimacy but there it is. Checking in to the hotel around lunchtime, I head out to the very local brasserie called 900 in West Broadway. Two things happen there, almost at once. First, a large woman and a small grey-haired man carrying a guitar enter and set up. She calls for cachaca and starts singing, drinking and berating the eaters for not drinking enough cachaca. She sings in the manner of Astrud Gilberto and it is quite, but only quite, entertaining. In the meantime, I have been served the nastiest most rubbery mozzarella I have ever eaten. The second thing that happens is that it starts to rain. This it does in an almost biblical fashion. Torrents cascade from the sky, more like a bucket being emptied than rain. Though the music is weak and the food weaker, I decide to order a glass of dark rose and settle in rather than face the elements. As I mused over my indifferent entertainment, I reflected that NY is full of friends and memories and delights still to be encountered.

The rain stopped and my glass emptied and I ventured out into the city. My mission for the rest of the day was to fix my sunglasses. I had sat on them on the plane and the frame was totally bent out of shape. I found a little corner shop and a friendly chap came up and immediately offered to help. He turned them over and contemplated them from a number of angles and then whisked them off behind a curtain for deeper reflection. He returned very shortly saying that the lenses were now broken as well, having survived the earlier squash. With no sense of irony he offered to replace the lenses, and fix the glasses, but said that I would have to return in a couple of days. I mused for an instant, debating internally whether these ancient but beloved Persol glasses should be consigned to history or restored. I plumped for conservation so an expensive process was agreed to. I do not understand even now how somehow I was beguiled into paying for the lens incident in the back room, but there you go!

Sunday brought a trip to the Frieze art fair via the ferry. It is held on Randall's Island and, with blue skies and warm spring weather, the boat trip along the east river was wonderful. The fair consists of long serpentine aisles of contemporary art. By Sunday, the fair was nearly over and the gallery principals had all gone leaving their juniors to deal with the occasional client and the plethora of non-buying enthusiasts. It is remarkable how much trouble and distance the aficionados of contemporary art will go to to observe the latest creations of the modern masters and their apprentices. Frieze is only one part of this week. There is another fair called Pulse and a design fair called Collective. Most of the galleries in Chelsea and beyond hold shows or host parties and events. But towering above and over all are the monster sales at Christie's and Sotheby's. I began at Sotheby's and they indeed had an impressive offering ranged around their 10th floor - but in terms of both famous names and volume of works the array at Christie's was astonishing. There seemed to be major works by everyone one had ever heard of, and many one had not. This created for them an eye-watering sale total for the week of $975 million, and the post-war and contemporary sale made a world-record for a single sale $745m. By contrast, Sotheby's achieved totals for the week around $450 million. Mind you, $450m is still a remarkable total, and only the Christie's result makes one question it.

The decorator Jamie Drake, who has previously had a stand at Masterpiece, hosted the supporters' drinks party at his uber-cool apartment in Chelsea. The dealers and the press gathered and speeches were duly made. The surprising thing was seeing Jamie smoke. Somehow one is so psychologically conditioned by the rule of "no smoking" in the USA, that seeing anyone actually doing it inside is somehow shocking. Silly, really as it was, after all, in his own home. We were his guests. It was not a question of disapproving, it was simply surprising. The apartment is an essay in comfortable contemporary design and the way he had articulated the space around a cunning storage block in the centre was inspiring. The support that Masterpiece gets from its American friends in the design and dealing trades is remarkable and we felt elated as we left. Around the corner a few of us dined at 'The Red Cat', where we had cocktails and shared some of the fun from the previous couple of hours.

The Mallett showrooms looked particularly inviting as we arrived for our consultations. Over 10% of Masterpiece exhibitors come from the USA and it is very important to offer them all the support we offer our European dealers. The days pass as we discuss carpets and wall finishes, PR and the website. Having these meetings allows one to share in the dealers' excitement about what they are bringing and how they will show it. Henry, my ex-colleague from Mallett sweetly takes me out to lunch at the Charlot. It is a small bistro a few blocks down from Mallett and it is nearly 3pm before we sit down as he has been dealing with clients in the shop since midday. He is excited, positive and optimistic about the future. That is the way we dealers are. A sniff of business and all our woes are forgotten; sadly if you go a week without success, all becomes doom and gloom. But I get Henry on an up day and as we sip away at our blush rose and consume our sea bass with clams and mussels, the joys of a warm spring day in Manhattan washed over us and warmed our spirits.

Week - 75 - Collecting Ladybirds and Plates

 

Sorting through my books, I rediscovered a stash of Ladybird Books and spent a delicious couple of hours reveling in both an erstwhile collecting obsession and a flashback to my childhood. In the 60s, when I was learning to read, these little hardback books were my constant pleasure. They have a very consistent form, being 56 pages long, as a rule, for printing cost reasons. They were affordable at only 2 shillings and 6 pence, 12.5p in today's money. They were often factually useful, and I remember using information gleaned from them in my A levels - though my results were not exactly a good advertisement for Ladybird Books. Many of my copies bear historic food stains or are enhanced by random underlining. The backs of the books carried a list of the others in each series and quite a few have inscribed ticks beside them, in my fair hand, marking the titles I had read. The illustrations are bold and in a very distinctive restricted colour palette. I leafed through a couple of the Biographies, then my eye was caught by the Utilities... and from there I began browsing through them all. I amassed a good number in my childhood but in my early 20s I took up the collection again in earnest - for nostalgia, for the books' clear expression of their period, and for the simple joy of collecting these endearing, un-ironic volumes. As I sat at my desk reading and looking at pictures I was carried back to childhood afternoons spent in bed when I was asthmatic.

If I was ill, as a special treat, I was sometimes allowed to spend the day in my mother's bed. It was a mahogany four-poster and seemed very grand. The bedroom floor was linoleum in bold geometric shapes of brown and a contrasting grey/blue. The best bit about being ill was watching television all day. Unlike today, there was not a steady stream of programmes. But they did have the famous girl/clown/blackboard test card and every now and then a colour test programme. We were very excited about our colour tv: the newspaper listed which programmes would be transmitted in colour, and the family would gather round just because a programme was to be in colour! Strangely, when I watch vintage programmes, I am often surprised to see that they are in black and white. It turns out that perhaps the thing that made the most lasting impression on me was in fact the story, rather than the colour. My favourite test programme, and one I would watch regularly, was called 'The Home Made Car", which is about a man who rebuilds a vintage car and finds love. I think it sealed in me a love of romantic comedies at an early age. If I was ill for a week or more I would watch it 5 or 6 times. The joy of the internet: I found it on the BFI website where I was able to see it again for the princely sum of £1. It was wonderful, but I did begin to feel slightly wheezy.

Dragging myself back from childhood, I cycled off to attend the opening of the Crafts Council show, Collect. This annual celebration of craft and design, now housed in the Saatchi gallery on the Kings Road, is a real treat. There are only 35 odd dealers but there is a boisterous enthusiasm and a clear sense of seriousness. There was a strong Asian influence this year with both pieces made in the East and inspired by it. I was very struck at Ippodo, a gallery based in Tokyo and New York, by some exquisite lacquer boxes which were traditional in technique but totally modern in appearance. I fell for and bought a small pair of porcelain plates by Roger Law from Sladmore Contemporary; Law was one the partners behind the satirical television puppet show 'Spitting Image', and has now immersed himself in Chinese porcelain, producing bold, original and reconsidered versions of traditional vessels. There is a palpable echo of the exaggeration in comic satire through this work.

There was not a lot of free stuff at Collect and the wine was definitely not good for more than as a garnish to the hand. However, for the opening of a new exhibition at Mint - a contemporary design shop just near the Brompton Oratory - there was a magnificent spread. Huge baskets of thinly sliced salami, buckets of hummus, whole wheels of sundry cheeses, all to be swept up by mountains of freshly sliced baguette. The only downside was that I found the work on show slightly disappointing. Some pieces seemed more interested in being gimmicky than in taking themselves seriously as works of design, or even in being well-made. There was one notable exception - a potter called Nick Lees. He was showing incredibly patiently-produced vases which seem to refer to machinery rather than traditional ceramics. Geometric shapes with symmetrical bands of fins all the way along the body, they look almost like scientific instruments or electrical components. They are calm, disciplined and very beautiful. They stood out.

Walking up the road, I was struck by a poster for Fendi. They took over the Mallett building in Bond Street and they have just opened. Some years ago Mallett commissioned an artist to make a watercolour of the facade. It looked strikingly like the Fendi advertisement. Where Mallett's name was once inscribed now Fendi's proudly sits. I did feel a pang, but Mallett are now very happily ensconced in the magnificent Ely House in Dover Street, so there is no looking back.

From the poster we went to dine at the Michelin building. The forecourt, which I always imagine busy with cars and the smell of petrol, has a little corral of tables and for a late supper it is easy and charming. We ordered a crab salad and it swiftly came with a basket of cut bread. I tentatively asked if it was at all possible to have some toast. The waiter was only too happy to oblige and bustled off. Some time later he returned with small heap of crisp brown sourdough. The crab was lovely but somehow the toast took centre stage. I will remember that toast for quite some time partly because it was crunchy, a perfect brown, warm and flavoursome, but also because the waiter brought it with such pleasure and éclat.

At 9 am next day we gathered in the rain, sheltering under a portico at the Royal Hospital to finalise the Masterpiece exhibition of the work of Philip King. It is a complex puzzle as the Hospital have space commitments and the ground is vulnerable in various places. But in the drizzle we fashioned a plan. Every time we go it seems to rain, and Tom from the gallery Thomas Dane Associates, who is the image of patience and calm, looking cool in a blazer and jeans, invariably gets soaked. Andy Hickling from the Hospital towers benignly above us and manages to find proper steel toed boots for those that don't have them and solutions for problems that seem intractable. As we leave, the sun comes out and it seems auspicious. The Chelsea Flower Show people are in full swing building their event and we wander around amazed by the extravagant construction and the effort they all put in. We sometimes wonder at the amount of work we do for just a few days of exhibition but this is on a whole different level, and it is quite humbling.

Week - 74 - From the Cafe Royal to the Langham

On Tuesday morning I got lost trying to find the Cafe Royal in Regent St. Hard to believe of a born and bred Londoner, but I had never visited before. A London legend since its heyday at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries when it was the place to dine, it closed in 2008 and four years later, after a transformation, by one of England's best-known architects David Chipperfield, it re-emerged from its chrysalis in 2012 as a fancy hotel. So much history, so much an icon of Belle Epoque London, and yet I was visiting for the first time - for breakfast, somehow incongruously - and I had to be there by 9 am. At 5 minutes to 9 I was haring up and down the street with an increasing sense of panic. For some reason Google maps indicated that I had arrived but as I stood on the street, it was plain to me that I had not. Looking over the road for inspiration the name suddenly appeared on the other side of the road - and there it was, right in front of my nose. Finding myself in the lush interior of the Domino room and both calming and cooling down, I was warmly greeted by the effervescent and beautiful Heather Kerzner, the host of this event - and because of the tube strike it turned out that I was far from the last to arrive, to my huge relief. Heather is chairing this year, once again, the Marie Curie charity night at Masterpiece. This morning was her 'call to arms'. Her team of the elegant and the glamorous were thrown into a fever of excitement by her stirring words about the upsetting but invaluable work of the Marie Curie nurses who bring comfort to those who are dying.  A nurse spoke eloquently too about her experiences and all felt moved by the personal but unemotional, matter-of-fact way she described the attempt to bring hope to those in despair and comfort to those for whom there is no hope. Nazy spoke about Masterpiece and endorsed the feelings of all of us by committing the fair to trying to raise a record sum for the charity. Last year, we raised nearly £850,000; this year the challenge is to do even better and break £1 million. It was astonishing and humbling to witness so many people undertaking to work very hard for the charity simply for the benefit of others, with no personal gain at all. These powerful guests at the Cafe Royal are going to spend the next couple of months calling in favours and cajoling their friends so that someone dying of cancer, someone they will probably never meet, can have a last moment of calm. I cycled away proud to be associated with this selfless effort. I too, in a small way, gave myself to the charity, offering to be auctioned as a guide to the Paris trade for a day. It will be fun for me but it would be great if I encouraged someone to help Marie Curie too. A few hours later I was chugged! This is a word which combines 'mugging' with 'charity'. Outside Waterloo station there was a young man working for Marie Curie - he was wearing their signature Daffodil badge and was charmingly but forcefully approaching all who walked past. I had foolishly taken off my Daffodil, which might have acted as a protective talisman, and he walked over. Twenty minutes and a long exposition later I just about escaped without signing over the deeds to my house, but I had promised to send him tickets to Masterpiece. At every level, from £1 to £1 million, the charity are working flat out.

On Wednesday morning, I I made my way to Ascot from Waterloo. Another first for me - having never actually been to flat racing I was very excited by the prospect. As a very small child I used to go to my grandparents for lunch at the weekend. My grandfather, my father and I were ushered upstairs to his office. My principal memory of that room was thebig cupboard that opened to reveal a treasure trove of glasses and bottles. from which I was allowed to take a bottle of Britvic orange -I can still conjure the smell of that cupboard and the intense chemical orange of the drink. We then all had our hair cut by the barber who arrived from Trumpers. At the same time, we watched the racing on my grandfather's huge and very modern 'colour' tv, and he would place bets via the open telephone line on his desk. All the while two vicious Burmese cats prowled around scratching and generally making a menace of themselves. I remember them as being almost the same size as myself, but the mind does play tricks. So whilst racing never became an interest of mine, it is embedded in my psyche in a way I cannot analyse or fathom. Arriving at the station and walking up the hill to the race track I could have been anywhere doing anything but as soon as I entered the building I was thrown back in time to my youth and my grandfather's office. I had been invited by Henry who has only recently started working in the marketing department of Ascot. We are exploring the idea of linking in some way the racecourse to Masterpiece and he gave me an extensive tour of the facilities and the entertaining options. Eating and drinking in a corporate box we admired the views. I am not a gambler outside of antique dealing(which can sometimes be seen as a gamble).The balance between winning and losing does not work for me: the joy of winning simply does not sufficiently compensate for the pain of losing. But clearly others do love it. My fellow visitors to the meeting buzzed about checking the odds and making complicated bets about who would win and who would finish in other positions. I watched as their faces and moods rose and fell - it is easy to see how intoxicating this sort of activity is. We went down to the enclosure and it was exciting to be so close to the horses, their grooms and the riders. Everyone is written in miniature; and everyone is incredibly skinny. The horses' veins and ribs stick out and their nervous energy is palpable. The racing itself seemed to me, in the end, secondary to the tapestry of the day. So much was new and exciting, colourful and noisy, and I am looking forward to my next time.

Back in London I rushed off to the Blain Southern dinner celebrating their international show of the work of Lynn Chadwick. The location was the Roux restaurant at the Langham hotel. Blain Southern is a gallery that is ostensibly new but is actually the reincarnation of the once renownedbut now defunct firm Haunch of Venison,  founded by Harry Blain and Graham Southern, as the names above the door. They have retained their historic team including Adrian Sutton and others so that the company seems very familiar. I remember Graham telling me that the new business would be very small and discreet. Today, only a couple of years into its new life, they have huge premises in Hanover Square, and galleries in Berlin and New York. Tiny!  Socially dinner was a peculiar fusion of local and global. A surprising number of Stockwell residents - neighbours of mine, familiar and previously unknown - were present, counter-pointed by a smattering of arts journalists, collectors and curators together with many members of the Chadwick family. This year at Masterpiece Blain Southern are bringing an outstanding large-scale work which will be on show at the centre of the fair. They are also bringing a new work called 'Masterpiece' by a couple known as Tim and Sue. We feel very closely linked to the gallery because of their support and encouragement. Dinner was very jolly and brisk challenging conversation took precedence over the food. As the evening closed I left feeling privileged to be connected to such a dynamic group.