NEW ARRIVALS • FRESH OFF THE TRUCK • JUST LISTED • VINTAGE & MODERN • NEW ARRIVALS • FRESH OFF THE TRUCK • JUST LISTED • VINTAGE & MODERN • NEW ARRIVALS • FRESH OFF THE TRUCK • JUST LISTED • VINTAGE & MODERN • NEW ARRIVALS • FRESH OFF THE TRUCK • JUST LISTED • VINTAGE & MODERN

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...

Marcel never trusted digital clocks. Too silent. Too precise. He preferred the weight of something mechanical, something that flipped forward with a satisfying clack at midnight. This little black calendar had been with him for years—quietly marking the passage of time on his desk,...

Mr. Langley adjusted his tie, tapped the cigar ash from his tray, and reached for the small brass knob on his desk calendar. With a smooth turn, the numbers clicked into place—March 18. Another day, another deal to close. It had been a gift...

Maurizio didn’t believe in clutter. His Florentine office was a study in restraint—just this desk, a chair, and a single sharp pencil placed at the exact center of the glass writing surface. Every morning, he arrived at precisely 8:00, the scent of polished mahogany...

Johan never sat in his own chairs. He had a sofa for that—an old, overstuffed thing covered in wool so scratchy it kept him awake. But these chairs? They were for guests. He liked to watch them settle in, their bodies sinking into the...

Henri never let his guests get too comfortable. His apartment, all chrome and glass, was a place for ideas, not indulgence. The chairs were a test. You didn’t sink into them—you perched, poised, alert. From these seats, he had negotiated deals, ended love affairs,...

Every Friday night, Giovanni Lombardi’s apartment became the most sought-after invitation in Milan. Architects, critics, and designers would gather around his prized coffee table—a monolithic slab of luana marble, its swirling veins of deep onyx, warm umber, and creamy alabaster resembling an aerial view...

It started as a sketch—a few intersecting lines in the margin of an architect’s notebook. A study in balance, precision, weight. Two planes meeting at a fault line, each supporting the other in perfect tension. Carved from warm, linear-veined travertine, this table captures the...

This table, nestled beneath the vaulted ceilings of Isabella's Milanese atrium was a study in form. An asymmetrical slab of warm Daino Reale marble seemed shaped not by hands but by time itself, like a river stone polished to perfection. The tapered legs were...