June has been the keystone of the London season for nearly a century. At the tail end of the months preceding it with a series of balls, at homes, levees, and ultimately presentations of the young ladies of quality at court, the ultimate has always been antiques and fine art fairs, providing the great and the good the opportunity to purchase some exquisite piece of furniture or silver or bibelots, before decamping for the summer to whatever country estate one occupied.

I’ve written often over the last few years, decrying the change in fortunes of the established fairs, with the venerable Grosvenor House fair the grandest, and now for many years existing only as a blessed memory. The Olympia Fair has carried on, changing itself, and its ownership, frequently over the last decade, in order to survive.

Now, though, in this age of COVID-19 and all it’s wrought the fairs will be virtually virtual, with tours of the exhibitors’ stands virtual, and all auxiliary events where traditionally the flesh is pressed whilst holding a champagne flute, social distancing will only allow one to enjoy any of this from the safety of one’s own home via one’s computer screen.

And what of this for the exhibitor dealers? Of course, virtual is cheaper, but in a business inherently tactile, to name just one of the senses that influence the decision to make a purchase, how is it to consider purchasing a lacquered bureau cabinet in the mid 6 figures without, pardon the expression, kicking the tyres?

Mind you, sales platforms have existed for quite some time, and nearly every exhibitor either at Olympia, or Masterpiece London- Grosvenor House’s surviving progeny- are reasonably represented on the commercial sales platforms and those maintained by accrediting bodies, like BADA and LAPADA, that exist only for the accredited trade in art and antiques.

But what of the opportunity for those who really want to become serious collectors, who want to develop an eye, to discern what’s very, very good, as distinct from an item less good? In short, how does ‘virtual’ contribute to connoisseurship? The short answer is, it doesn’t, or at least not much. Using the same lacquer cabinet as my trope, what is it that can be seen virtually- the craftsmanship, quality of decoration, indeed the patina that can be wrought only over time- and then find that it is nearly indistinguishable, in a virtual environment, to a similar piece made in the last year. ‘Virtual environment’? Hardly. Nothing substitutes for personal inspection- pulling out the drawers of an 18th century bureau, say, and giving the inside a good, old whiff, taking in the very distinctive musty pong. Yes, indeed, kicking the tyres, that’s what’s missing and cannot be duplicated in a virtual environment. ‘Kicking the tyres’- am I excused for using this expression as a euphemism for connoisseurship?

Let me start by saying that I’m a big Julian Fellowes fan, first becoming aware watching his writing credit go by on that proto ‘Downton Abbey’ opus, the movie ‘Gosford Park.’ The characters in ‘Gosford…’ were well-drawn, and with the likes of Michael Gambon and Maggie Smith and Eileen Atkins and Helen Mirren in the cast, it goes without saying the parts were well acted. Upstairs and downstairs, the characters played their roles with an unction that is probably equal measure skill in writing, skill in Robert Altman’s direction, and also vestigial notions still operative in the players themselves of what the centuries old British class system was, and perhaps to a great extent still is.

‘Downton Abbey’ was certainly teed-up by the success of ‘Gosford Park’ and the longevity of the series is proof that the story and the characters were beloved by very many. Unfortunately, the movie ‘Downton Abbey’ was not precisely a bomb, but certainly a disappointment. In simple terms, it seemed as though the format for the one hour episodes was stretched to two hours, but without a compensating increase in the wealth of incident that each week made the broadcast version compelling watching.

One would have assumed that ‘Belgravia’, from Fellowes’ novel of the same name, as it too was of an episodic format would have made compelling viewing. I should have known better. I’d read the book when it came out a few years ago, and it was- wait for it- a bore. I think I know what Fellowes was trying to communicate- the incipient and rough social confluence that occurred in the first half of the 19th century between the established aristocracy- in the form of the Bellasis family- and an up and coming bourgeoisie, with the Trenchard family as representative. Belgravia, as the predominant mis en scene, is as a portion of the built environment a new town built by a ‘new’, or should I say ‘parvenu’, man in the person of James Trenchard, but the grand scale of the houses and their proximity to Buckingham Palace naturally made Belgravia a desirable address for a London base for aristos. And, it must be said, a cheaper place to live. Although houses hugely opulent in scale and decoration, even so they were significantly less grand than those palatial establishments of an earlier day inhabited by the nobility when they came to town. Few of the earlier type survive, save the exquisite Spencer House fronting Green Park- though the Spencer family hasn’t maintained it as a residence for a century.

As I say, I know where Fellowes was coming from and where the story was destined to go, as he’s gone there often before. His book ‘Snobs’ was an examination of the current plight of the aristocrat, whose traditions of gracious living with the passing of years, and the declines in fortune, have had to be abandoned, but still exist in an uppercrust attitude of looking down one’s nose at those considered social climbers- or as one aristocrat might say with disdain to another, not people like us. ‘Gosford Park’ and ‘Downton Abbey’ were both shows of what an aristocrat faced in a world that had changed radically in the early years of the last century, with the ranks of its young lords decimated by the Great War, and the compounding effect of ruinous death duties imposed on the great estates to pay for the war. The extension of the franchise brought Labour for the first time to power and the Labour PM David Lloyd George found he had a popular mandate to alter the established order, which alteration those of title were no longer sufficiently influential to resist.

‘Belgravia’ then seeks to take us back to what might be considered an inflection point marking the inexorable rise of new men, which rise could no longer be ignored. The aristocracy still very much in control, but with fortunes being made by those with daring and ability, and as money makes the mill turn, even the likes of James Trenchard is admitted, reluctantly, into the drawing rooms of his betters, and even gaining a membership to the Athenaeum. He does of course have to be chided on his initial visit to not conduct business within the club’s precincts- that is not what gentlemen do. And still don’t, truth be told. Fortunes are made in the City of London, and though City types are fond of opulent display, that display is yet considered in contemporary England the height of gaucherie.

But what of ‘Belgravia’? The signature Fellowes elements were all there- grand settings, beautiful clothes for the ladies of quality, and a storyline that defines tension between the upper and middle classes. But the story itself is a dull one, with a painfully slow lead-in to a conclusion that one can see from a mile off. Tension and conflict, yes, but in an amount sufficient for a two-hour show, but much diluted when extended to 6. And not gritty enough- this was a terrifically dirty age, with streets even in Belgravia filled with horse droppings and other loathsome detritus, mills belching smoke, and ragged workmen of all ages and both sexes, including very young children. A glaring example, with several scenes inside a cloth mill that should have had clouds of brown dust, and yet not a speck of dust is to be seen. So I suppose that’s what was missing- a grittiness in the story, in the performances, and in the settings. On several occasions I fell asleep while watching, but what I can say is it did not, sad to say, interrupt my slumber

Perhaps I’m more of an optimist than I realize. Last night, after watching with shall we say distaste the hokey ending of ‘Hollywood’, Ryan Murphy’s most recent and least accomplished opus, life turned around for me when I began watching the 1961 version of ‘The Roman Spring of Mrs Stone’. Though for the umpteenth time, it was nevertheless a mental cleanse, watching beauty and glamour and sin so wonderfully mixed. And camp- well, I’m all for it when it’s well done, and the characters are camp classics. In the opening segment, the voice over describes Karen Stone’s sojourn in Rome as allowing her to ‘explore the dark corners of her own nature.’

Thank heavens for those dark corners, and would that there were more of them. I think in subjective terms, of course, with my own coming out yonks ago very heavily influenced by the likes of Tennessee Williams whose undertones and innuendoes were only understood by the shall we say cognoscenti, and once understood, one had the feeling that one had joined a secret, and highly exclusive, club.

Subjective, yes, but with objective manifestations, or perhaps ‘manifestations’ is too strong a word. What was out there was out there, but required one to look for it. As Karen Stone, I too enjoyed the delights of the Piazza di Spagna, and the nearby Piazzale Belle Arti. It was great fun to cruise, and be cruised, whether one picked up or not. I must say, my first visit to Rome nearly forty years ago saw very much il dolce vita, sadly now winnowed away in the intervening decades the result of mass tourism, and an openness of expression that for those who espoused its practice did so in the mistaken notion that it would be a liberation of their own natures.

Well, yes, liberation and liberality, but what all this swept away was subtlety- the thrill of making eye contact and the lingering glance that followed, buying a drink in a bar- Harry’s Bar in the Via Veneto was my favourite- chatting up the barman, whether he was attractive or not, and then buying a drink for a comely patron a few stools away. Mind you, not everyone looked like a young Warren Beatty in the guise of Paolo, but one thing anyone can say about Italian men is that they are maniacal in their grooming. The character of Paolo was dead on.

Now I have to say, I have had fun in Los Angeles, not so much as Rome, but who would? I also have to say that I read Scotty Bowers’ memoir and watched Matt Tyrnauer’s documentary about him. Both though left me cold. Imagine, if you could, a now 80 year old Warren Beatty reprising his role in ‘The Roman Spring…’ and I think you’ll get a sense of what I mean.

As with Karen Stone and dark corners, I possess a nostalgia and fondness for which I cannot overstate. I too sought years ago to explore those of my own nature, and thrilled with delight with what I found there. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll argue to keep things as they were- I do yet find those corners vastly more titillating without too much exposure to the light.

Perhaps it has something to do with my own superannuated state, but it seems as though even those older than I, when they finally ride on ahead and cross the shining river, are struck down in their prime. In writing an encomium, does this bit of tongue in cheek seem lacking in gravity? It isn’t meant to, but rather my attempt to pen something I think might appeal to Mary Cosh, someone I’ve thought a lot of for very many years- and out of sight for very many years, but never out of mind- and sorry to find she’s died last December at age 100.

A near neighbor when we lived in Islington, the borough in London just to the north of the City, she became my acquittance through our mutual interest in the amenity society The Georgian Group. During my time as an employee, though my ostensible title was archivist, I was unpaid and spent my time beavering away, organizing box files of casework documents, covering, it seems, the whole built environment of England and Wales. The Georgian Group’s brief then as now was the licensed consultancy for Georgian architecture- be it terrace house or stately home, even a garden feature constructed between 1714 and 1837 was part of its remit. The group itself was only formed in 1937, so organizing these box files was not precisely cleaning the Augean stables, but it seemed a big job of work to me.

Seeing Mary Cosh, though, was always a delight, and I did so frequently once we found we were neighbours. Her history of our own borough of Islington was well underway when I met her, with parts of it already published in various journals. She was a caution- outspoken but always with a twinkle, very bright, but with a gaudy past. I often met Mary at the Canonbury Square flat of our mutual friend, the artist Sebastian Minton and on one occasion, I happened to mention how I had heard Bloomsbury artist Duncan Grant had maintained a studio nearby. ‘Oh he did, indeed. It was a slum then, you know. I posed for him frequently, and a couple of times with the boys he had.’ Really? ‘Oh, yes. Nude you see. It never bothered me, they were all queer and knew nothing would come of it.’

Sebastian and Mary were nearly always on members days out with The Georgian Group and beyond this were inveterate visitors to stately homes. When I knew them, Sebastian being perhaps older- though I’m not certain of this- was not terrifically steady on his pins. Mary though had a car and was yet driving and with Sebastian collected, the two of them would regularly make their way into the countryside. Sebastian was likewise possessed of an exhaustive knowledge particularly of Canonbury, and with his past with gaudy elements, too, imagine that he always had plenty to talk about with Mary.

Of course, it makes me sad to think Mary is gone from us, Sebastian, too, but I have to say, it was a privilege to know her. I plan to immediately reread Mary’s History of Islington. Though perhaps a wistful occupation in this time of sheltering in place, I’ll train my focus on how I enjoyed living in the borough, and how I enjoyed my fortunate acquaintance with Mary Cosh.

This morning, I’ve been bidding at an auction in upstate New York devoted to the decorative items possessed by the late Mario Buatta- not precisely floor sweepings, but the lesser items not sold at the more illustrious sale held a few weeks ago at Sotheby’s in New York. This may be a little too close to the coronavirus epidemic for comfortable mention, but I must say, based on the stratospheric prices commanded at both Sotheby’s and the upstate auction, it appears there is another, at least localized epidemic strayed along the Hudson causing some significant confusion of mind. Less caustic is perhaps a characterization of what’s gone on, that the late prince of chintz was held in profound esteem, witness the significant premium items in his collection have commanded. With all that, reverting now to my caustic métier, one can recall how the sale of the Regency period decorative items in the collection of the late Bill Blass were profoundly in excess of what might be considered reasonable. For those of us in the trade, items that sell well above what one considers a healthy retail price is cheering, but as with the Bill Blass sale, those items in Mario’s collection and their result have much, much more to do with a possessive desire to affiliate with the career of a man of extraordinary talent. Further on down the road, will anything with a Mario Buatta provenance boost the price if resold? Time will tell, but for those of my gentle readers who don’t already know this- save a royal provenance, who owned it before seldom adds any future value.

In rereading the last paragraph, my dealer cynicism overarches what really needs saying, and I must needs make it clear that Keith McCullar and I thought quite a little bit of Mario. I can’t say we were on intimate terms, but we did become acquainted with him nearly 20 years ago through involvement with an antiques fair in New York. We were still fairly new to the trade, where Mario was of course at the top of his game but was nevertheless friendly to the point of ebullience toward two fellows that he didn’t know from a load of coal. We did a modest amount of business with him at the time, but happened to see him a few days later at Bergdorf’s, or rather, as we were making a purchase he saw us, came over and told the salesman, with whom he was obviously well acquainted, what extraordinary men we were with exquisite taste. I have to say, Keith and I gushed purple with shall I say coy embarrassment, but the Bergdorf’s salesman was impressed, and for years after, we got frequent missives from this fellow- trying to sell us, of course, but we felt special nevertheless.

Mario considered himself a disciple of John Fowler, the originator of the English country house style whose name survives in his eponymous firm Colefax & Fowler. In fact, very many of the items offered at auction were sourced from this London firm. I would be surprised to find that John Fowler, or Sybil Colfax or Nancy Lancaster used any less printed fabric than Mario Buatta, but where Mario never took the prince of chintz moniker as anything other than something fun, I can’t imagine the sometimes/oftentimes prickly character of John Fowler would have met anything like this with the same aplomb.

For all of this, though, Mario’s skill and the regard in which he was held is rather occluded. His client list was long and illustrious- and long lived. He worked for very many clients for almost the entire length of his very long career. For little old Chappell & McCullar, I have to say that whatever we did with Mario’s office was handled with the utmost professionalism. Mario was cut from the same bolt of cloth- chintz, no doubt- as his contemporaries Albert Hadley and David Easton, and several others from whom one always dealt in business with absolute probity. Oh, that more design professionals today were as professional in their practice as was Mario. The prince of chintz, you will be missed.