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A rare and iconic piece of Italian modern design, the Dilly Dilly vanity by Luigi Massoni for Poltrona Frau combines sculptural form with compact function. Designed in the 1960s, it features a rotating cylindrical base that opens to reveal a vanity with a flip-top...

Steel-bodied, enameled in “don’t-look-away” red, Pre-Way’s freestanding design was part of a mid-century shift toward open-plan living—and making your fireplace look as good as it works.- 81"h, 39"w, 29"d - Enameled metal - Condition: Excellent

Hard yes on contrast. This black and white checker rug adds structure without trying too hard. Wool keeps it cozy. Geometry keeps it clean.- 115"w, 99"d - Wool - Condition: Good

No legs, no problem. These cantilever chairs channel 1930s Bauhaus energy: steel-tube frames, floating seats, and just enough leather to keep it grown. - 32"h, 21.75"w, 24"d, 18.5" seat height - Vinyl, chrome - Condition: Excellent

Mid-century inspired lounge chair with a solid wood frame and loose leather cushions.The patina on the leather speaks to age and authenticity—comfortable, lived-in, and made to last. - 32.35"h, 25.5"w, 29"d, 17" seat height - Wood, leather cushions - Condition: Excellent

Wrought iron chairs from the mid-20th century. Scrolled details, sunburst medallions, and wavy back supports show clear influence from Spanish Revival and Hollywood Regency styles.  - 37.5"h, 22"w, 20.5"d, 17.25" seat height - Iron frame, newly upholstered seat cushions with contrast piping- Condition: Excellent

A classic 1970s silhouette with tailored restraint. This three-seat sofa features its original ivory tweed upholstery and a low-profile black plinth base—clean lines, deep seat, and just enough texture to hold the room. - 25.75"h, 91"w, 34.5"d, 16.5" seat height - Ivory tweed, wood...

- 29"h, 72"w, 40"d - Chrome, glass - Condition: Excellent

It wasn’t just a dish—it was an object of curiosity. Everyone asked about it. The smooth pewter curves, the way it moved like water frozen mid-pour. Some thought it looked like a cloud, others a melted sculpture. She used it for everything: apricots and...

Astrid ran a very specific kind of tea party. No frills. No florals. No crustless cucumber sandwiches unless they were deconstructed and artfully reassembled with dill foam. Her guests—ceramicists, typography professors, a DJ from Berlin named Lars—knew to arrive dressed in raw linen and...

The roast was always dry. The wine, far too sweet. But no one cared, because Sylvia set a table like a symphony. At the center of it all: this candelabra. Robust, theatrical, unapologetically Baroque. She claimed it was a gift from a Swiss admirer...

For three consecutive nights, Roland timed his routine with obsessive precision—at exactly 7:43 p.m., he lit the brass candelabra. Not a second earlier. Not a second late. The flick of the match, the low whuff of flame, the slow burn of beeswax—each motion calibrated...

It didn’t matter what Devika tossed in—matchbooks, loose change, half a lime drying out from last night’s gimlet. Somehow, this bowl made it all look curated. Like she had a plan. Like her mess was on purpose. Its edges curled like petals or waves,...

Nico didn’t believe in coasters—until he designed his own. These were his rebellion: square where others were round, cool steel instead of cork. Minimal, severe, a little smug. Just like him. He’d line them up perfectly on his coffee table, even if no one...

Aya never liked eating at the table. She preferred the floor—pillows stacked in a corner, sketchbook open, and her favorite ceramic dishes balanced beside her. These two had been with her since Kyoto. Thrifted, not gifted. Their soft, amoeba-like forms reminded her of puddles...

They weren’t meant to be candlesticks, not at first. Mateo had been working with pewter for weeks, obsessing over tension and rhythm—stacking, compressing, distorting. He said they were studies in pressure, but to Alma, they looked like spines. Not human ones. Older. Something prehistoric,...

Henrik always swore he’d quit. The late-night poker games, the bottomless whiskey, the reckless bets. But every Friday at 10:15 sharp, the cart rolled in, gliding across the penthouse floor, its glass shelves trembling under the weight of crystal decanters and half-smoked cigars. Tonight,...

Valentina crossed one leg over the other, the soft fabric of her dress barely brushing against the armrest. Across from her, Anton did the same, a silent mirror of her stance. Between them, the air was thick with calculations, unspoken terms hanging like a...

The espresso cup wobbled slightly as Sofia set it down, the saucer catching it just in time. She exhaled, pressing her fingertips to her temples. Another deadline, another night spent hunched over her laptop, the glow of the screen reflecting off the polished wood...

At precisely 3:57 PM every Thursday, Camila and Jonas would drag the end tables into position between their chairs in Room 214. Camila’s always went on the left. Jonas insisted it was superstition, but really, it was because hers had the sturdier legs for...

Every evening at half past six, like clockwork, Madame Rousseau would glide the oak cart from the corner of her salon to the center of the room. The wheels creaked in protest, but she liked that—said it gave the cart character, like it was...

Every Sunday afternoon, the argument was the same. Teresa swore the best espresso in Rome was at the café on Via Giulia. Paolo, ever the contrarian, argued for the small bar tucked behind the flower market. They sat across from each other on their...

Lucille dabbed her lips with the corner of a linen napkin, adjusted her blouse, and gave the mirror one final glance. She didn’t trust it—at least, not entirely. It was the kind of mirror that softened sharpness, smoothed tension, gave just enough grace to...

Marianne de Villefort sat at the edge of her wrought iron bench, holding a scandalous letter in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The garden was still, save for the slow unraveling of smoke curling toward the trellis. Her maid had just...

The marble coffee table sat at the center of Simone's Parisian apartment, a silent witness to every cigarette she extinguished, every lover she welcomed, every rejection letter she read aloud before tossing it onto its cold, veined surface. Tonight, it was covered in tarot...

Professor Bellamy arranged the bookends with care, placing a weighty first edition of The Republic between them. It was a habit now—an unconscious ritual before settling into her leather chair. These marble columns had followed her from office to office, watching over a lifetime of...

Madame Duval’s desk was a study in precision—letters arranged in neat piles, a single red carnation in a crystal vase, and at the center, her perpetual calendar. Each morning, before the world demanded her attention, she turned the dials with the practiced ease of...

Marco called it "The Little Periscope." It sat on the edge of his drafting table, its flexible neck poised as if eavesdropping on his late-night sketches. It was the only thing awake with him at 2 AM—watching, listening, waiting for the next great idea...

Elena called them her "spy lamps." They looked innocent enough, sitting on her desk like a thermos of tea. But at the right moment—when the conversation shifted, when the real story started—she’d flick it open, angling the light toward her notepad. She'd been a...

Every morning at precisely 7:45, Walter flipped the date. It was a ritual, as predictable as his black coffee and the way he tapped his fingers on the desk before reading the news. March 18th. He paused. Something about it felt familiar. He glanced...