Keep scrolling for a few favorites snapshots from a week spent museum hopping and treasure hunting. We’ll resume regularly scheduled programming next week.

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I was lucky enough to find myself in The Picture Room at Sir John Soane’s Museum promptly at 3pm, when the docent revealed the room’s best-kept secret: a series of hinged panels that enable this small 13’ by 12’ room to hang up to 118 paintings.

Every time we walked through The Close - the historic precinct surrounding Norwich Cathedral, enclosed by the cathedral’s medieval walls - we played the “I’d live in that one” game. I was partial to the garden at No. 55, which was overflowing with enormous roses in a rainbow of colors: brick red, butter yellow, lavender, and more.

The selection of gigantic, reasonably priced gilt mirrors at St. Gregory’s Antiques & Collectibles - a medieval church-turned-antique shop in Norwich - had me googling shipping container costs. Not pictured: the enormous porcelain parrot candlesticks and cloisonné boudoir lamps that I hauled home.

In London, we stayed at The Zetter Marylebone, a townhouse-turned-boutique hotel that’s rumored to be filled with more than 10,000 antiques that designer Russell Sage amassed over 3 years. Sage designed the space around a fictional persona: wicked Uncle Seymour, an eccentric gambler who loves his booze.

I was instantly charmed by the swans that glided down the River Wensum in Norwich and held court in the Round Pond outside Kensington Palace. Imagine my delight when I learned that these regal creatures are all owned by the British crown!

Luckily, my search was not in vain: I came home with a scalloped Spanish colonial-style églomisé mirror with gilt scrollwork that somehow managed to glitter even in the dim light of a dusty stall at Mercado de las Pulgas.

I returned home, my new acquisition swaddled like a newborn in my favorite scarf, and immediately fell down the rabbit hole in search of églomisé accents that would suit my apartment’s jewel box aesthetic.

I spent hours combing through inventory on 1st Dibs and Chairish, saving mirrors and lamps and cabinets that were impossibly glamorous and outrageously out-of-budget. In search of more modest prices, I scoured Facebook Marketplace and my local antique shops in vain (as it turns out, the Midwest is hardly the églomisé capital of America).

Finally, I struck gold: a patinaed mirrored vanity, with faded gilded églomisé acanthus leaves, cabriole legs, shell-shaped drawer pulls fit for a mermaid, and questionable provenance (more on that next week), coming up for auction. I wasn’t the only prospective buyer seduced by its siren song, but one high-octane bidding war later, it was mine.

Though I’m now on a self-imposed églomisé hiatus, I can’t help myself from keeping a wish list. Keep reading for the latest pretties that have caught this magpie’s eye.

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A brief history of verre églomisé

Though the term verre églomisé didn’t come into fashion until the 18th century, the decorative practice of applying metal leaf - usually gold or silver - to the reverse side of glass has its roots in ancient Hellenistic gold glass techniques, which date back as early as the 4th century BCE.

Not surprisingly, the Catholic Church - known for its enthusiasm for all gold everything - embraced the practice of reverse-gilding glass in the Middle Ages, as a means to capture the essence of the divine in small religious panels, reliquaries, altars, and other precious objects. The technique eventually made its way to Peru in the 16th and 17th centuries, courtesy of Spanish conquistadors and missionaries, who came bearing chests of gilded devotional objects (along with smallpox, measles and typhus, among many other ills).

By the 18th and 19th centuries, verre églomisé had moved beyond the religious realm to become a mainstay in secular European decorative arts: frames, painting, jewelry, clocks and other decorative objects began to gleam with gilded glass. Tiny-yet-ornate jewelry caskets topped with églomisé paintings of tourist attractions became a favorite souvenir of the Grand Tour set.

Around this same time, Chinese merchants began a robust trade in reverse-glass paintings: European merchants shipped mirrors and glass plates to Canton, where local artisans painted genre scenes, landscapes and portraits on the reverse, before shipping the finished works back to Europe as luxury goods. These paintings also became popular with the Chinese aristocracy.

By the 1920s and 1930s, églomisé was on its way to yet another renaissance, this time at monumental scale. In 1935, the SS Normandie - a lavish ocean liner designed to serve as France’s aesthetic ambassador on the high seas - set sail with a massive églomisé maritime mural installed in the first-class Grand Salon.

By the mid 20th-century, églomisé was similarly enshrined in the American design canon, this time as a key feature of Hollywood Regency style: glitzy, glamorous, and theatrical. Regency-era pieces by legendary design house Maison Jansen continue to command a premium today.

Contemporary artists have embraced églomisé, too: former set designer Miriam Ellner has a cult following among interior designers for her large-scale commissions that bring ethereal drama to entire rooms, while sculptor Barbara Nanning applies églomisé techniques to the organic, flowing lines of her small scale sculptures.

The églomisé edit

Mirrors 🪞

A stunning example of Spanish colonial-style craftsmanship, this mirror’s delicate detailing - with its scalloped gilt frame and exquisite floral patterning - belies its grand size, clocking in at 4 feet tall and 2.5 feet wide.

This giltwood mirror personifies the Golden Age of Hollywood: the carved pediment exudes over-the-top theatricality, while the églomisé frame, adorned with painterly acanthus leaves, feels appropriately luxe.

Leave it to the Italians to blend old-world églomisé techniques, ancient symbols from mythology (that unicorn!) and astronomy, and modern graphic lines and color blocking that would make legendary Italian designer Piero Fornasetti proud.

Lighting 💡

These midcentury French sconces are hypnotizing in the best possible way: the faceted frames bounce light in every direction, while the dappled reds, ambers and greys appear impressionistic, almost watercolor-esque.

This statuesque lamp (which stands nearly 27 inches tall) is signed “LSY,” signaling that it was likely produced in an Art Deco-era glass studio as an objet d’art, rather than a commodity mass-produced in a factory.

Can you believe that these gourd vases-turned-lamps were painted from the inside out? Each and every flower, leaf and vine was painted using long brushes with exceptional control. Even more astounding? The reasonable price point.

It’s easy to imagine these lamps glowing softly in the early evening light, as a glamorous Hollywood starlet entertains her friends at home. No wonder Maison Jansen was a favorite in high society circles: the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, the Shah of Iran, and Jackie Kennedy among them.

Objets d’art 🎨

When the jewelry box is this pretty, who cares what’s inside? These small keepsake boxes, with hand-painted églomisé scenes of cathedrals, opera houses, and street scenes on the lids, were the souvenir du jour among the Grand Tour set in the 19th century.

This sculpture may be small - it’s roughly the size of a melon - but it has a commanding presence, with its gilt interior that gives it an otherworldly glow, almost as though it’s about to burst into heavenly song.

Furniture 🪑

Though this cabinet is American-made, courtesy of J.N. Slack & Company, its vibes are entirely European: the carved whitewashed frame feels French country-inspired, while the precise, graphic lines of the églomisé doors are more reminiscent of Italian styling. The menacing lion, ready to spring into action, adds a dark twist.

The seller describes the previous owner’s style as “Zsa Zsa on steroids.” Need I say more?

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I circled the square like the condors we’d seen scavenging for carrion in El Chaltén - alert and scanning each and every stall for The One. I wasn’t actually looking for anything in particular. I knew what I didn’t want: I wasn’t interested in the jewel-toned vintage seltzer siphons or silver mate gourds or the ceramic pingüinito wine pitchers that the San Telmo market is known for.

Instead, I wanted to be wowed. I wanted the same “I’ll know it when I see it” recognition that had me hauling a chandelier home from Paris in my carry-on a few months earlier. I wanted an object with a story, one that would take me back in an instant to that sunny December morning in Buenos Aires.

By the time I’d completed my third lap around the square - popping into the shops along Calle Defensa when I needed a blast of AC - I knew that it was time to call it. Nothing was speaking to me: not the stacks of imported European porcelain plates, nor the art deco baubles nor the polished copper pots that practically sparkled in the sunlight. I was only briefly tempted by a pile of luxe midcentury fur coats, until the thought of schlepping a floor-length mink back to my apartment in Palermo Soho in the oppressive heat had me feeling faint.

I’d spent the previous afternoon scrambling to ensure I had enough cash for the market: trying (and failing) to find an ATM that would process my withdrawal, before finally biting the bullet and wiring myself the money via Western Union, just minutes before they closed for the day. My wad of hard-won pesos - worth about $200 USD - was burning a hole in my pocket.

Finally, I gave up, retreating down a cobblestoned side street, in search of shade and respite from the crowds. I was halfway down the block when something shiny and colorful caught my eye, hanging on the wall of a secondhand sportswear shop. Ever the magpie, I backtracked to the entrance, nodded at the proprietor, and made a beeline not for the racks of Lionel Messi jerseys, but for the small mirror that hung on the back wall.

What the mirror lacked in size - it was no more than 10” wide - it made up for in character, with its Spanish colonial-style arched gilt frame and patinaed surface that distorted my reflection. But it was the border that really took my breath away, with its pattern of gilt scrollwork, brick red flowers, and bright white leaves against a forest green background painted not on wood but directly on glass.

I worked up the courage to ask the shopkeeper, in my rusty Spanish, whether the items on the walls were for sale. He responded in a rapid-fire porteño dialect, saying that no, they weren’t for sale, they were for decor only - but if I told him what I was interested in, he’d tell me whether he was willing to entertain an offer. When I pointed at the mirror, he shook his head: no, it wasn’t for sale - it was a family heirloom.

I walked out of the shop feeling sorry for myself - until my appraisal instincts kicked in. I now had a vision for what I wanted - an églomisé mirror - and a hunch that, in a city filled with Spanish colonial-style antiques, I could hunt another one down. But, curiously, my intuition told me that I wouldn’t find The One in San Telmo.

Within seconds, I’d ordered an Uber to Mercado de las Pulgas, a train station-turned-sprawling flea market in Colegiales that is a designer favorite but still, somehow, manages to fly under the tourist radar. I breathed a sigh of relief when I walked in: it was noticeably cooler inside, thanks to the high, vaulted ceilings, and practically empty compared to San Telmo’s ultra-crowded streets.

I methodically wound my way through the labyrinthine stalls, senses sharp, like a puma stalking its next guanaco. The variety of items on display - imported European furniture, midcentury memorabilia, a densely-packed gallery devoted entirely to artworks and objects from Asia, tchotchkes of every shape and size - was staggering. I combed my way through each and every row, gazing longingly into stalls that were locked and lights off, with handwritten WhatsApp numbers taped to the door for weekend inquiries.

By the time I reached the last row of stalls, I had nearly lost hope that I’d find The One - until, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a large painted mirror hung above the back doorway of a dusty, dimly lit stall where every shelf was packed with porcelain figurines.

I ducked in, eager to get a better look. I was thrilled to realize that it was, indeed, églomisé - until I saw an enormous crack in the glass on the right side of the frame. The closer I got, the more precarious the mirror’s condition appeared: a network of cracks spiderwebbed out across the entire frame. I wasn’t sure that it would survive being gently plucked off of the wall, much less a long-haul flight packed in my oversized roller bag. Dejected, I kept moving.

A few minutes later, another mirror caught my eye - not églomisé this time, but a small gilt sunburst mirror hanging in the back corner of another stall that I’d already walked by at least twice. I knew right away that it wasn’t what I wanted - my heart was set on églomisé - but I walked in anyway, making polite small talk with the dealer as I browsed.

Finally, I turned to leave - and as I did, I spotted an églomisé mirror with a fire engine red frame hanging next to the exit, completely hidden from view from the corridor outside. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be in excellent condition: patinaed, but with no major cracks or repair sites. The dealer told me that it was typical of Andean colonial style, and that it had likely journeyed from Peru at some point during the 20th century. Even better? The price was right, at about $120 USD.

Still, I hesitated: though the vibrant colors were stunning, I struggled to envision the perfect place for it in my condo. My predator’s instincts signaled that it still wasn’t time to strike.

I walked away, convincing myself to take one final lap before making any decisions. And, as fate would have it, just as I was about to go back for the red one, I spotted another painted mirror, hung high on a dark wall above a rickety shelf crammed with crystal goblets.

It was impossible to tell whether it was actually églomisé from that distance, though the gold-flecked scrollwork had me convinced. When I asked the dealer if it was painted on glass, she brushed me off, saying that it was of course painted on wood. When I asked if I could take a closer look, she retorted that she’d only take it off the wall if I agreed to buy it. Her asking price? $80 USD.

A minute later, her husband was climbing up a flimsy ladder, pliers in hand to wrestle the mirror off the wall; she braced the ladder with her forearms while I counted out a stack of 10,000 peso bills. I beamed when a stylish Argentine woman saw the mirror coming off of the wall and complimented my purchase, saying “Qué preciosa” - how beautiful - before switching effortlessly to English to ask where I was from.

The dealer wrapped the mirror in layer after layer of newspaper and bubble wrap, moving so quickly that I barely had a chance to get a good look before it was neatly packed away. Though I wouldn’t confirm that it was indeed églomisé until I returned to my apartment later that night, I emerged into the afternoon sunlight, mirror in tow, feeling victorious.

The purchase alone was enough to satiate my inner collector-predator. But though I have no intention to resell, my appraisal instincts weren’t fully satisfied until I hopped onto 1st Dibs, curious to see what dealers were asking for similar pieces. Imagine my delight to find several comparables listed for $1,000+.

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As I squinted in the intense Caribbean sunlight, I had the distinct feeling that I’d been transported to a parallel universe.

Maybe it was the Dramamine hangover from a stomach-churning early morning 4x4 drive from Panama City to the Carti pier, where we were wordlessly herded onto a weathered longboat for the cruise to Isla Aroma, a dime-sized island in the San Blas Archipelago and our home for the next 3 nights.

Or maybe it was the way we stumbled onto the dock at Isla Aroma, sea legs still shaky, and were shown to our room - and by room, I mean tiny tiki hut, with its palm thatched roof and sand-covered floor, that didn’t even have a lock on the door. Our only instructions from our guide? Drop your things, and be back on the boat in 15 minutes.

Or maybe it was the unannounced detour that our captain - El Capitán - had made en route to lunch: he pulled up to an unmarked dock, where without a word he handed a teenage boy a $20 in exchange for a bottle of Ron Abuelo, Panama’s premium rum.

By the time we were deposited on the shores of another practically-deserted island and left to our own devices, I felt like I’d been shipwrecked on the set of Gilligan’s Island.

There were swimmers in the distance, diving for starfish; a sunburned bro silently sipping a Balboa, so relaxed that he seemed practically catatonic; and a pair of Guna women sitting in the shade, sewing molas, the brightly colored, reverse appliquéd cloth panels traditionally worn by indigenous women.

More molas fluttered in the breeze on a clothesline stretched between two palm trees, with price tags handwritten on scraps of notebook paper. I was entranced by their bright colors - neon oranges, fiery reds, electric pinks - and bold, graphic lines that jumped off of the cloth. I ran my fingers over the raw, unfinished edges - molas are often sewn into shirts - and traced the raised appliqué patterns, marveling at the precision of each and every stitch.

The geometric patterns somehow felt both ancient and contemporary at the same time, and I would later learn that these spiritual undertones weren’t just in my imagination. In fact, scholars believe that molas build upon a centuries-old tradition of body painting, in which Guna women drew symbols and signs onto the bodies of their family members to ward off evil spirits.

This practice of adorning one’s body with sacred talismans has been fiercely protected by the Guna people throughout their history: in fact, in 1925, the leaders of the San Blas Rebellion held strong in the face of calls from the Panamanian government to assimilate by giving up traditional garments.

Today, the art of mola making is still passed down from mother to daughter (as are property and land rights - the Guna are a matriarchal society) and is an integral symbol of Guna identity.

I knew that I couldn’t leave San Blas without a mola, but at the same time, the nearest ATM was on the mainland and our cash needed to stretch until the end of our stay. My sister would never let me live it down if I blew our meager budget on textiles on our very first day (or god forbid, stood between her and a catch-of-the-day lobster dinner). Regretfully, I wandered back to my sister and tried to put my favorite mola - a pair of tropical birds stitched in navy on a white ground - out of my mind.

We spent the next few days in a blissful blur: being woken up each morning by a conch shell in lieu of an alarm clock, island hopping and beach bumming, snorkeling near shipwrecks, partying day and night with our newfound crew of fellow castaways, drinking $1 Balboas and shots of Ron Abuelo, courtesy of El Capitán.

I had almost forgotten about my mola until, on our last day, we pulled up to the dock at that same no-name island from day one. And luck was on my side: I had enough cash left to cover our afternoon bar tab and a pair of molas.

As El Capitán herded us back towards the boat - we had one more stop to make at a sand bar before heading for the mainland - it was time to make my move. Still barefoot - I hadn’t worn shoes in days - and buzzed after a boozy lunch, I doubled back to the clothesline, pointed and murmured a few words of broken Spanish to the Guna women, and handed over the last of my cash. When I met my sister at the boat, I was triumphant. She rolled her eyes.

When I took my molas to the framer years later, I couldn’t help but notice that the cloth was still dusted with fine grains of sand. And though I truly detest having sand in my home - I couldn’t bring myself to brush it away.

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I’ve always had a funny relationship with names. Perhaps it’s got something to do with where my own came from: I was born late on a rainy Thursday night, and as family lore has it, my parents named me Rachel. But that lasted for all of a few hours: my mom sent my dad home from the hospital to get some sleep, and when he came back the next morning, he declared, “She’s not a Rachel, she’s a Sarah!” And so it was.

By the time I was in preschool, I’d decided that I was tired of Sarah. My best friend was a little girl named Megan, who lived down the street; I decided that I’d very much like to be called Megan too. I was so convinced that I asked for my 4th birthday cake to say “Happy Birthday Megan.” My parents, hilariously, obliged (and reprised the joke on my 18th birthday).

My naming commitment issues followed me into adulthood. When I brought home a mini goldendoodle puppy in 2021, I assumed his perfect name would be immediately obvious to me. Instead, I waffled for days, a hard deadline - his first vet visit - looming. Was he an Archie? A Murphy? A Mikie?

I thought I’d finally decided on Leo - though something about it still nagged at me, signaling that it wasn’t quite right. And when my grandma made a passing comment that he looked like a teddy bear, I couldn’t unsee it. Ironically, it must have been obvious to anyone but me: years later, even ChatGPT took one look at a photo of him, completely unprompted, and declared “Teddy” his perfect name.

When it came time to name this newsletter, I just couldn’t make up my mind. This problem was part genuine identity crisis - what did I actually want to write about? - and part convenience (was the domain name available and could I afford it?).

Finally, I talked myself out of my spiral: I wanted to write about travel, art, design, interiors, the objects I couldn’t stop thinking about. And travel was the obvious category I wanted to position myself in, right?

After weeks of perseverating and procrastinating, I finally landed on Armchair Traveler. I liked that it felt editorial without being too terribly cheesy. I liked the double entendre: it clearly signaled travel but also - more subtly, perhaps too subtly - interiors. Best of all: it was available on Substack, with a .com domain name that wouldn’t bankrupt me. It was enough to get started.

But Armchair Traveler never quite fit what I actually wanted to build: a newsletter about how art, objects and design reveal places and the people who inhabit them. Before I started writing, I was sure that travel was the dominant frame; the objects I encountered along the way were secondary.

But as I began publishing, I realized that week after week I wanted to start with the objects themselves. I wanted to write about Uzbek tapchans (or bed-tables, as we called them), about hauling a French chandelier home in my carry-on, about the contemporary sculpture that reminded me of my aunt’s jewelry box.

Ironically, my subconscious mind was light years ahead of me: as I was brainstorming new names for Armchair Traveler, I had a faint memory of claiming a couple of other names on Substack. When I logged into my Substack dashboard, I realized the answer had literally been there all along, waiting for me to catch up: Conversation Pieces.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve collected my own conversation pieces: the anthropomorphized concrete planter that my dad instantly dubbed “Henry,” the enormous Dutch marquetry credenza that barely fit up the back steps of my walk-up, the mola textile that I bought from an artisan on a deserted beach in the San Blas archipelago, barefoot and buzzed after a day of island-hopping.

And without realizing it, I’ve been writing about them for the last few months, too: the silk-on-silk suzani that got away, the collection of Alfred Eisenstaedt photos with perfect provenance, the Antonio Santín painting I desperately wanted to reach out and touch.

The spirit of this newsletter has been Conversation Pieces all along - and now, the name is finally catching up.

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There’s something magical about visiting and revisiting the same city at different stages in your own life. Dublin is one of those cities for me: part time capsule that immediately takes me back to my early 20s, part reflecting pool showing me just how much I’ve changed. But it’s also funny to realize just how many of my interests haven’t changed at all: even as a broke college student, I was still drawn to grand museums, rich period interiors, and unique souvenirs.

I’ve been lucky enough to visit Dublin 3 times. On my first visit, I was a 20-year-old student traveling with my bestie; my catchphrase was “I can’t wait to come back, but with money.” My next visit came as a 23-year-old, when I escaped my entry level corporate job for a week away with my parents and sister. Most recently, I returned to Dublin as a 33-year-old traveling for business (and of course, tacking on a few days of solo sightseeing too).

These days, all it takes are the opening bars of The Parting Glass, the scratchy texture of my favorite wool blanket or a sip of a creamy Guinness to take me back. Consider this Dublin design diary my love letter to all the past versions of myself that I’ve been in Ireland’s lively capital.

On seeing Dublin as a 20-year-old student

When I first visited Dublin I was 20 years old, traveling with my best friend on a weekend holiday from our study abroad program in Spain. This was our first foray back into the English-speaking world in months. Upon arrival and before we’d even left the Dublin airport we picked up a pile of English magazines – a serious splurge on our student budgets. We read and reread a single copy of Glamour UK for months on end after we returned to Spain.

We stayed in a grimy hostel that can’t have cost more than €10 or €11 a night. We’d split a bottle of wine before bed to help us sleep through the inevitable snoring and muffled sounds of hanky panky happening a few bunks down. We ate more grocery store snacks than proper meals and had serious debates about whether we could spare the €9 entry fee to see the Book of Kells and the Old Library at Trinity College. I opted in – even on a shoestring budget, I couldn’t resist a bookish attraction – while my friend opted out.

Lucky for us, though, our tight budgets stretched farther in Dublin than in other European capitals. We spent a blustery day walking along the coastal cliffs in Howth and popped into every free museum we could find (Hugh Lane Gallery and the National Gallery of Ireland are both favorites). We even lucked into a complimentary guided tour of the National Museum of Ireland’s archaeology outpost, when a kind-hearted security guard informed us as we walked in that the museum would be closing in 15 minutes and insisted on personally whisking us around to see the top exhibits – ancient bog bodies and Celtic metalwork – in that time.

I left Dublin with more memories than souvenirs. I returned home with a few postcards depicting Georgian doorways and Temple Bar facades, a box of Guinness-branded golf balls as a gift for my sweet grandfather and yes, that well-loved copy of Glamour UK.

On seeing Dublin as a 23-year old, with my family in tow

At just 23, fresh out of college and climbing the corporate ladder at my first “real” job, I felt like the consummate grown up when I met my parents and 20-year-old sister at O’Hare International Airport to catch our flight to Dublin. I’d brought my luggage with me to my office in downtown Chicago, packed with outfits that I’d meticulously planned, then caught the Blue Line (IYKYK) to the airport after work.

In my mind, this was peak adulthood glamour, what it meant to return to Europe “but with money”: putting in a full work day, then hopping a transatlantic flight in the evening, still wearing the same dress and blazer that I’d worn at the office.

Reality was decidedly less glamorous: we landed early in the morning, bleary-eyed and jet-lagged, and were shuttled to a stuffy hotel that was overflowing with fellow travelers waiting to check in to their rooms. My mom – ever the energizer bunny – and I ventured out in search of coffee, while my dad and sister snoozed fitfully on the sofas in the lobby.

The funny thing about traveling with my family is that I hardly remember what we did; I couldn’t tell you the name of our hotel or a single place we ate or drank in Dublin. But I vividly remember the inside jokes (like the puppy postcard my parents insisted we schlep all across Ireland, mocking our incessant pleas for them to get a dog) and the sisterly spats (like my burning resentment that my sister got to have an impromptu photo shoot with a stunning Irish thoroughbred while I was off getting coffee). Dublin and its environs weren’t the main attraction; they were simply the backdrop for what my dad lovingly describes as “Forced Family Fun.”

My recollections of this trip may be hazy, but I did manage to come home with a few treasures that help jog my memory (another perk of the “come back, but with money” strategy). I picked up a lovely porcelain teapot decorated with cheerful pink roses (still on display in my china cabinet more than a decade later), a plaid wool throw blanket, and a copy of A History of Ireland in 100 Objects, a fascinating exploration of the objects and artifacts that tell the story of more than 7,000 years of Irish history.

On seeing Dublin as a 33-year old business traveler

For years, I’d not-so-secretly envied friends and colleagues who were sent abroad on work assignments, so when I finally got the invitation to attend a team offsite in Dublin at 33, I was thrilled. Was this the “come back, but with money” dream come true?

The work-sponsored part of the trip was not particularly luxurious – my dreams of flying business class were dashed by a terse email from finance, and we’d spend most of the week holed up in the Dublin office – but I was determined to make the most of a most-expenses paid trip to Europe. I built a few days of self-funded solo exploration into my schedule and set to work planning a bespoke itinerary for myself.

Because I’d been to Dublin twice before, I knew that I wanted to explore a different side of the city on this visit. I wanted to look beyond the hubbub and good cheer of Temple Bar and Guinness-mania and see the city through a more art- and design-centric lens. In the days leading up to my trip I fell down a veritable Reddit rabbit hole, scouring the internet for recommendations for where to see the city’s best interiors, art collections and antique shops.

My research served me well when I arrived. My weekend itinerary took me to an 800-year-old castle with period interiors and beautifully manicured grounds, a painstaking recreation of painter Francis Bacon’s London studio, and a thought-provoking tour of a Georgian mansion-turned-tenement. And my home base at The Wilder Townhouse – a charming Victorian townhome turned residents-only boutique hotel – was a welcome vibe shift from the dreary mega-hotel that my company put me up at.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but this trip to Dublin gave me an early glimpse of what Armchair Traveler would become. My art- and design-filled itinerary left me feeling energized and inspired, and it showed – so much so that several colleagues even requested copies of my itinerary. Though it would be many months before I began building Armchair Traveler in earnest, I’ll always look fondly on Dublin as the place where that early idea started to take shape (and of course, I’ve documented all of my design-forward recs in this Dublin city guide for design lovers).

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Like most Chicagoans, I make it a rule to avoid Navy Pier - the beating heart of the city’s tourist trail, with its ferris wheel and fudge shops and lurching pedicabs and the city’s only Margaritaville outpost - at all costs.

And every April, I make exactly one exception: when the art world descends on the city for Expo Chicago.

This art fair transforms Navy Pier’s exhibition space - which has as much visual appeal as a Costco warehouse - into a buzzing buffet of contemporary art from more than 130 galleries around the world. Picture a gleaming series of freshly-painted white cubes, hung with millions and millions of dollars’ worth of art, where the hum of the well-heeled crowd is occasionally punctuated by the pop of a champagne cork.

Serious collectors come ready to buy, with detailed battle plans for which booths to visit, dealers to meet, and artists to track down. Art addicts like me come ready to binge, and I took the exact opposite approach: wandering aimlessly, stopping any time I glimpsed a work that piqued my curiosity.

The works that follow are the ones that stopped me in my tracks: the ones that transported me to another dimension; the ones that I was oh-so-tempted to reach out and touch; the ones that made me laugh out loud; and the ones that had me reaching for my credit card (spoiler alert: it was the dog portraits).

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Pools I wanted to dive into

Maybe it’s my Pisces moon talking - or maybe I just need a warm weather escape after a brutal Chicago winter. Either way, I wanted to dive head first into these pools.

When I looked at Sangwon Lee’s Floating People, it was easy to imagine myself bobbing lazily in a tube in the turquoise water, squinting in the sunlight, water splashing my face as a swimmer kicked nearby.

Diango Hernández’ Pool 015 felt cool and distant by comparison: there’s something surreal about the pristine pool that seems too shallow to actually swim in and the striking pastel facade where the only sign of life is a half-opened door.

Andy Burgess’ Kaufman House, in contrast, had me craving a poolside cocktail as the sun sets over the San Jacinto mountains in Palm Springs.

Art I desperately wanted to touch

The first cardinal rule of visiting a museum or gallery? Thou shalt not touch the art. I won’t pretend I wasn’t tempted, though: tactility and materiality were fully on display. And this trend towards texture wasn’t only limited to 3D work: even a handful of paintings begged to be touched.

There’s a reason that Chun Kwang Young’s mixed media assemblages are occasionally installed behind glass: Young folds pieces of hanji, handmade Korean mulberry paper, into wedges that, strung together with twine, appear both solid and weightless. I kept imagining what it would feel like to reach out and squeeze one of the wedges. Foamy? Squishy? Fragile? Though I kept my hands to myself, my somatosensory cortex was fully online.

My brain did not know what to make of Ebony Russell’s Decorative Urn - Pink. It almost felt as if it had walked off the set of Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette: a quintessentially classical urn and pedestal form, finished with layer upon layer upon layer of frothy porcelain ornamentation that looked straight out of a wedding cake catalog. Though “let them eat cake” may not have been the artist’s inspiration, I felt the inexplicable urge to reach out and swipe a scoop of sweet frosting off the top.

When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with my aunt’s jewelry box. It was bedazzled from top to bottom: every square inch was covered in strings of costume pearls and glittering brooches that had been painstakingly hot-glued to the red velvet-lined box. Kathleen Ryan’s Bad Orange (Deep Blue) sculpture felt like the adult equivalent, this time with a litany of semi-precious stones - lapis lazuli, amethyst, agate, celestite and yes, freshwater pearls - applied to the beat up fender of a powder blue car.

I’ll be honest: what first drew me to Javier Pelaez’ Ted the Beast 8 painting was the subject matter (I’m a sucker for any reference to my Teddy’s namesake). But the more I stared at it, the more I was entranced at how Pelaez managed to convey layers of texture - the shiny, silver Mylar wrapping, the plush stuffed animal underneath, the nondescript background that somehow still managed to convey a sense of depth - all within a restrained, nearly monochromatic color palette. I felt the urge to poke and prod the canvas, to feel the Mylar crinkle between my fingers and to boop the bear’s perfectly pointed snout.

I have a hard time putting my finger on what exactly makes Kenny Nguyen’s massive textile installation Undercurrent Series No. 3 so utterly hypnotic, to the point where I practically had my nose smushed up against the fibers trying to make sense of it all. Somehow it manages to feel both entirely organic - like the inside of a seashell or layers of sediment in a canyon wall - and a product of the digital age, which pixelates the closer you get.

Antonio Santín’s monumental paintings - Tómbola clocks in at more than 7 feet tall by 6 feet wide - have a way of catching your eye from across the exhibition floor and drawing you as close as the crowds and gallery staff will allow. The urge to touch is almost compulsive: it’s nearly impossible to believe that the painting is made of nothing more than teeny, tiny dots of oil paint, meticulously applied with a syringe over many months, without running your hands across the tassels.

Collages that made my pattern-loving heart flutter

I’ve had an affinity for collage ever since the 4th grade, when my beloved art teacher, Ms. Tappmeyer, introduced us to Picasso’s work. Armed with scissors, glue sticks, and a pile of construction paper fragments, we set about creating our own versions of Picasso’s Three Musicians.

I’m reasonably sure my own masterpiece is still somewhere in my parents’ basement, much to my mom’s chagrin. Luckily, the collages on display at Expo did not meet the same fate.

Rashid Johnson’s Untitled Escape Collage pulses with frenetic energy, in a kaleidoscope of familiar images - palm trees, carved wooden masks, mirror fragments, and ceramic tiles, all smeared with gobs of melted black soap. Something about it made me feel unsettled, even a bit anxious: the lush, leafy utopia felt at odds with the work’s more sinister symbolism. I’m counting down the days until Johnson’s solo exhibition, Rashid Johnson: A Poem for Deep Thinkers, opens at the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago this November.

Like a moth to a flame, I was initially drawn to Ofunne Azinge’s large-scale portrait Precious and Shekinah for its vibrant patterns and warm, layered interior. But what really made my heart swell was realizing that what looked like densely patterned wallpaper from afar was actually a collage of family photographs: smiling babies, giggling siblings, doting parents and grandparents. It felt like a warm hug: not only a portrait of two women, but an intimate portrait of their lives too

Mersuka Dopazo’s group portrait, Uno de Mia Favoritos, made my inner fashionista want to make a beeline for the nearest thrift store. Each of the five figures shares the same style sensibilities, but expressed distinctly: silhouettes are oversized - but not too oversized, patterns are varied and layered (I especially loved the Indian-inspired block print and embroidery fragments), and details like trim, buttons and accessories are thoughtful and make pieces feel custom-made rather than off-the-rack. I’d buy a pair of trousers with an oversized bird print or a matching set of brightly-printed pantaloons and platform sandals in a heartbeat.

The first thing I noticed about Helina Metaferia’s Headdress 68 collage was its restraint: in contrast to the dozens of other maximalist collages on display at the fair, this one uses negative space to immediately focus your eye. The subject gazed at me unflinchingly, seemingly unbothered by the bulk of her towering headdress, assembled from newspaper clippings and photo fragments. Though she carries the weight of the Civil Rights movement on her head, she does not despair: the colorful beads and baubles that adorn her headdress serve as ballast.

Photorealist worlds I wanted to step into

Every photorealist work I encountered at Expo had me second guessing my own eye. Was I looking at a painting, rendered by a skilled hand in microscopic detail? Or a photograph, carefully staged to imitate life imitating art or manipulated with ultraprecision in post-production?

My favorite works were so enthralling, the worlds that they created so complete and so familiar, that the medium was irrelevant. Others - though executed with technical virtuosity - left me feeling slightly empty inside.

I had to circle around Weinstein Hammon Gallery’s booth at least 3 times to get a few moments with Gail Albert Halaban’s photograph Rear Window, My Block on Diwali, Chelsea, all to myself. I felt like I was peering into a modern-day dollhouse, the NYC apartment buildings aglow with the warm lamplight of early evening (and in some windows, the bright LED lights of a big screen TV). Each vignette - the couple lighting candles on the couch, the person stretching at their desk next to a pile of laundry on the floor, the dog leaning in to lick its owner’s face - feels self-contained, and yet somehow connected.

My favorite true-to-life Easter egg? The dog in the top right corner who has been left momentarily unattended, quietly snarfing what looks to be a three-layer cake off the table.

I was so instantly drawn to the rich, layered interior of Karen Knorr’s photograph The Maharaja’s Apartment, Udaipur City Palace that it took me a minute or two to grok the cheetah quietly holding court in the background. Everything about the room signals a royal presence: the powder blue walls and oxblood doors and window frames, the ornate chair inlaid with mother of pearl, the portrait of Maharana Bheem Singh Ji that dominates the back wall. This particular work is less obviously surreal than some of Knorr’s other works (think flamingos getting frisky in a rococo ballroom at Château du Chantilly), but no less captivating.

I’ve long favored Yigal Ozeri’s quiet genre paintings depicting empty cafes over his larger-scale portraits of ethereal women in nature. They display his technical virtuosity to its fullest effect with their dappled light that ricochets off of every surface: worn leather banquettes, architectural glass blocks, stemware on an empty table. But I’ll admit, I was less taken with Ozeri’s works when I saw them on display at what felt like every other gallery across the exhibition floor, each rendered with a sameness that made them feel like they’d just rolled off of an assembly line.

Pop culture references that made me laugh out loud

Did I expect to see a bedazzled Bart Simpson taking a peek at crystal encrusted Lichtenstein nude, on the cover of a luxury interiors publication? Most certainly not. And though it may have made me giggle at first glance, the work has a depth that surprised me. The careful crystal treatment puts The Simpsons and the Lichtenstein on the same cultural playing field - raising the question, why is one considered kitsch and the other fine art?

As I stared intently at Dylan Spaysky’s basket-woven foursome, I couldn’t help but wonder what about it felt so familiar. I was on the verge of recognition when I heard another gallery-goer whisper, “Sex and the City.” Suddenly, I couldn’t unsee it: Miranda’s ginger bob made of clementine peels, Charlotte’s tailored shift dress, Carrie’s Manolos (and yes, SJP’s aquiline nose), Samantha’s bouncy blowout. And Spaysky’s sense of humor doesn’t stop there: the work is titled Girls, in a nod to Lena Dunham’s HBO series, widely considered to be SATC’s spiritual successor.

Whether painter SangHo Byun is a fan of The Devil Wears Prada, I can’t say. But what I can tell you is that the first thing I noticed about this portrait was the proclamation “I LOVE MY JOB” in the upper left corner, which immediately echoed in my mind in Emily Blunt’s voice. It’s easy to imagine the painting’s subject - a thin woman wearing a fitted mockneck sweater and dainty layered necklaces, juggling three jewel-encrusted clutches and a handful of tiny cartoon cats - whispering the same mantra to herself.

Dog portraits that nearly had me pulling out my credit card

I used to think that my obsession with dog portraits was just a quirk that I inherited from my dog-loving dad, whose collection of objects inspired by our family’s black lab, Gracie, borders on pathological. But in 2023, on a visit to The Wallace Collection in London for their exhibition Portraits of Dogs: from Gainsborough to Hockney, I realized that my interest in dog portraiture was hardly unique: humans have been commemorating their four-legged friends in painting, sculpture and other mediums since antiquity.

Though I ultimately came home from Expo empty-handed, it’s no surprise, then, that the dog portraits were the most tempting.

Jin Minwook’s monumental mural depicting hundreds of dogs at play is a rollicking good time, fanned out across two full walls at 021 Gallery’s booth. Each pup is uniquely rendered: some pups pant excitedly while others chase brightly colored balls across the canvas, while still others flop into a gigantic dog pile in the background. I spent longer than I’d like to admit scanning to see if I could find a Teddy doppelganger. If only I had the wall space…

There are few things that crack me up more than dogs showing exceptional self-control in front of a table piled with food (Teddy would never). And Sabrina Bockler’s Dutch Golden Age-style still life Unruly, depicting three curly-haired Russian hounds keeping a safe distance from the fresh fish, is no exception. They may still be in luck, though: it appears as though the impish orange cat has done their dirty work for them, and the hounds will soon be feasting when the food topples to the floor a few seconds later.

One of my favorite memes declares, “Behind every powerful woman, there’s a dog that follows her to the bathroom” - and I have to think that British painter Von Wolfe would agree. And I can relate to the way that Wolfe’s protagonist in She Holds The Day seems to merge her own identity with that of her pooch, and vice versa: her spotted puffer jacket mirrors the dog’s spotted coat, as the pup stands proudly between her feet, his power pose echoing her own stride.

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Over the course of those four visits, I’ve learned which Paris experiences are worth the time and the crowds - and which ones aren’t.

Keep reading to learn why you should skip the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre, and instead make time for a sidecar tour and a 19th century taxidermy shop.

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For mouthwatering macaroons and too-pretty-to-eat pastries:

Skip Ladurée, go to Pierre Hermé instead

Come to Pierre Hermé for the avant-garde macaroon flavors (salted-butter caramel and apples, olive oil and vanilla, cocoa and seaweed, among many, many others), stay for the iconic Ispahan, the rose, raspberry and lychee confection of my dreams. Can confirm: the Ispahan is best enjoyed with a crisp glass of Domaine Vacheron’s 2023 Sancerre.

Need another reason to skip Ladurée in favor of Pierre Hermé? According to our Paris by Mouth food tour guide, Pierre Hermé makes all of their pastries fresh daily. Ladurée is known to freeze and defrost. L’horreur!

For cabinet-of-curiosity vibes, without the crowds:

Skip the Louvre, go to Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature

It feels a bit iconoclastic to tell you to skip the world’s most-visited art museum - and I do genuinely love the Louvre.

But what I don’t love? Buying timed tickets months in advance, queuing for anything and everything, and trying to appreciate just a small fraction of the 35,000 masterworks on display with the roar of hundreds of scream-talking tourists ringing in my brain.

That’s why I’m sending you to get your art fix at Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature, a private museum that pays homage to the relationship between man and beast.

The vibe is jewel box-meets-naturalist’s lair, home to a taxidermy menagerie, enough weapons to fill an armory, and an extensive collection of animal portraits hung salon-style against a backdrop of silk damask wall coverings and gilded moldings.

My personal favorite space: the Diana cabinet, a dark fairy tale of an installation by Belgian artist Jan Fabre. The walls of the small room are covered in a lush green silk velvet, but you must look up for the pièce de résistance: the ceiling is covered with six owl heads, assembled from duck, pheasant and partridge feathers and outfitted with prosthetic human eyes.

Best of all? The museum still flies under-the-radar, especially with first-time visitors to Paris, which makes for a hassle-free experience. It’s easy to snag same day tickets, galleries are blissfully uncrowded, and you can see the entire museum in less than 2 hours, without feeling rushed.

To get your royal court fix without leaving town:

Skip Versailles, go to Hôtel de la Marine

Full disclosure: I’ve never been to Versailles - not for lack of interest, but lack of time. Doing Versailles justice - with enough time to fully explore the palaces and gardens - is a full day affair.

When my mom and I visited Paris for a long weekend last fall, neither one of us was interested in sacrificing an entire day to make the trek to and from Versailles. Instead, we opted for a visit to Hôtel de la Marine, steps from Place de la Concorde, to see the restored 18th century apartments of Marc-Antoine Thierry de Ville-d’Avray, the royal courtier responsible for overseeing the King’s collection of furniture, tapestries and jewelry.

The private apartments have been meticulously restored, and though the opulent furnishings are fit for a king, the spaces still somehow manage to feel lived-in: it was easy to imagine friends gathering for a feast in the dining room or a raucous round of cards in the game room, before the Intendant’s family retired to their private rooms, tucking their toy poodle into a tiny dog bed before closing the silk canopy curtains.

There was eye candy everywhere we looked: polished wood floors with a geometric inlay, towering hand-painted wall panels, enormous tapestries and silk damask wall coverings, and even a miniature Hall of Mirrors in a small, mirrored salon off of the bedroom. This is where Pierre-Elisabeth de Fontanieu was known to entertain his paramours; the mirrors were originally painted with nude women on pedestals, until his successor’s wife insisted on repainting with the more modest cherubs shown today.

We had no issue purchasing same day timed tickets when we visited in early November; high season visitors may prefer to purchase tickets in advance. The audio guide is well worth a listen, bringing the apartment’s inhabitants to life with creative multimedia storytelling (pro tip: hold on to your headset when you’re ogling the chandeliers).

For the best panoramic views in Paris:

Skip the Eiffel Tower, go to the Arc de Triomphe

The Eiffel Tower is an extraordinary feat of engineering. But the structure is so tall - the highest viewing platform towers 900 feet above the city while most Parisian buildings top out at just 6-7 stories - that the city’s zinc rooftops, carved limestone facades and wrought iron balconies disappear into the distance.

That’s why I prefer the views from the observation deck of the Arc de Triomphe. At just 160 feet above the city, it’s high enough to get a bird’s eye view of the 12 sprawling Hausmannian boulevards that converge at the Place de l’Étoile roundabout, but not so high that you can’t peek into the windows of the nearby embassies and luxury apartment buildings. This vantage point makes the Eiffel Tower’s scale even more impressive, too: the tower looms over the city, looking almost like a child’s toy haphazardly plopped between the low-rise facades nearby.

Same day, timed tickets are usually available, though you may prefer to book ahead if you’re traveling during peak times. Make sure to wear your walking shoes for the 286-step trek to the observation deck (an elevator is available on an as-needed basis).

Pro tip: if you’re taking the metro, do not follow the signs for the Grande Arche station, as we did. This will land you in La Défense, Paris’ gleaming business district, standing underneath a massive ultramodern arch that is - confusingly - not the Arc de Triomphe. The correct station is Charles de Gaulle-Étoile.

For a jaunt down the Champs-Élysée worthy of a movie montage:

Skip the Champs-Élysée stroll, take a sidecar tour instead

Though the Champs-Élysée looks iconic in photos, the walk from Place de la Concorde to the Arc de Triomphe leaves much to be desired: the sidewalks are overcrowded and the shops are overpriced, with pickpockets and scammers aplenty.

Enter Retro Tour Paris’ motorcycle sidecar tours. Our dapper driver, Julien, picked us up at Place de la Concorde, helmets and goggles in hand, and whisked us down the Champs-Élysée for a whirlwind spin around the Arc de Triomphe’s chaotic, free-for-all roundabout (confirming that I have no desire to ever drive in Paris). We then wound our way through cobblestoned side streets, gawking at the impossibly elegant Hausmannian apartment buildings and well-heeled pedestrians, before making our way to the Left Bank and ending our tour at the Eiffel Tower.

Tour options range from an hourlong spin through the city to custom half- and full-day itineraries. If you’re traveling in a group, reach out ahead of time to ensure they can accommodate your group size: our sidecar was fit for one person only (my sister gleefully called dibs) while I rode on the back of Julien’s bike.

To shop for handcrafted Parisian ceramics:

Skip Astier de Villatte, go to Alix D. Reynis

Astier de Villatte’s ceramics are a cult-classic for a reason: whimsical patterns, expert craftsmanship, and eye-popping prices to match. But, regrettably, even their flagship location on Rue Saint-Honoré is not equipped to deal with the throngs of fans that make their pilgrimage each year. Even in the off-season, the shop’s interior is stuffy and cramped, and it’s impossible to even turn around without feeling as though you’re at risk of toppling an entire shelf of €600 vases.

Head to Alix D. Reynis’ workshop-cum-boutique in Saint-Germain-des-Prés instead, where you can browse the floor-to-ceiling shelves of Limoges-made porcelain at your leisure. The shop is beautifully styled, expertly merchandised, and (surprisingly) reasonably priced. You’ll feel as though you’re browsing your chic Parisian friend’s perfectly-lit pied-à-terre, and you’ll be hard-pressed to go home empty-handed (unless you, like me, already have a chandelier in your carry-on to contend with).

For brocante browsing, minus the Saint-Ouen overwhelm:

Skip Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen, go to a pop-up brocante instead

It pains me to say that you should skip Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen. But this labyrinthine network of flea markets in a suburb north of Paris, favored by designers and style insiders alike, can be overwhelming for first-time visitors, even under the best of circumstances. Best to save Saint-Ouen for when you’re fully caffeinated, flush with cash, and have an entire (ideally, sunny) day to devote to treasure hunting.

Instead, when you’re short on time, prioritize finding the nearest brocante using brocabrac.fr as your guide. These neighborhood flea markets pop-up year-round, bringing professional antiques dealers and hobbyists to the streets of Paris.

Depending on the market and the day, you’ll find an eclectic mix of items: when we browsed the brocante along the Rue Saint-Placide, we saw loads of porcelain, silver, jewelry, and bric-a-brac (and yes, enough lighting to make my heart flutter). Some stalls were perfectly curated, while others consisted of just a few partially unpacked boxes; it’s worth taking your time to sift through these boxes, as that’s where the best deals are often found.

Bring cash (though some dealers accept cards for higher ticket items), and if you’re really on top of things, a Hulken tote (IYKYK) to lug your treasures back to your hotel.

For English-language reading material:

Skip Shakespeare and Company, go to The Red Wheelbarrow

I first visited Shakespeare and Company at the tender age of 13, at the height of my binge-reading phase. Though I wasn’t running low on reading material - I’d lugged a 1,000 page copy of Gone with the Wind to Paris with me - I was instantly enamored with Shakespeare and Company’s creaky wood floors, ancient teetering bookshelves, and the cat that dozed peacefully behind the counter. Of course, I didn’t leave empty handed; I walked out with a worn, used copy of The Thornbirds (clocking in at a mere 600 pages) and a pile of postcards.

Fast forward to 2022, when I dragged my sister to Shakespeare and Company after a boozy, four-course lunch at Les Papilles. It was just as I’d remembered it, except for the line that snaked halfway down the block, a first floor that had been streamlined for better traffic flow, and what felt like an emphasis on new titles over used tomes. There was something about it that felt Disney-ified that I just couldn’t put my finger on.

You can imagine my delight, then, to stumble upon The Red Wheelbarrow, a bilingual independent bookstore across from Luxembourg Gardens, on my most recent visit to Paris. This tiny storefront, with its powder blue facade and cheerful red lettered sign, is stocked with hundreds of English-language titles, courtesy of its Canadian-born proprietor, Penelope Fletcher. Tall windows flood the shop with natural light, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves maximize every inch of space, and the library ladder is the stuff of any bibliophile’s dreams.

Shopping for little ones? Make sure to pop next door to The Red Balloon, too, for a broad selection of children’s books.

For old world character and bespoke souvenirs:

Skip Officine Universelle Buly 1803, go to Deyrolle

Officine Universelle Buly 1803 is another Parisian insider-favorite that’s now officially on the TikTok traveler circuit. And it’s hard to blame the TikTokers: though the brand was founded in 2014, it looks and feels like a French heritage brand, with its old world-apothecary-style interiors, beautifully packaged beauty products, and commitment to monogramming anything and everything. Now that it’s gone viral, though, the lines are out-the-door and wait times are at an all-time high.

Deyrolle feels like a well-kept secret in comparison (perhaps thanks to the strict “no photos inside” policy). This second floor taxidermy workshop is a dazzling 19th century wunderkammer - German for “room of wonder” - in every sense of the word; wandering its rooms staged dramatically with every manner of creature feels a bit like stumbling into a zoologist’s fever dream.

Every specimen is as visually arresting as the next; the albino peacock and the gigantic snake skeletons reconstructed under enormous cloches have lived rent free in my head ever since our most recent visit.

Though my squeamish 13-year-old self could only tolerate a short visit, this time around I was enthralled with every detail I laid eyes on: the polished wooden cabinets with turquoise painted interiors, the creepy-crawlies mounted in dizzying geometric patterns, the handwritten scientific labels. I could have spent hours in the back room sifting through the deep drawers filled with perfectly-preserved butterflies, where it’s possible to work with a Deyrolle associate to design your own custom creation 🦋.

I’m already dreaming up my next visit to Paris, and I’d love to know: What spots would you skip, and why?

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On our first morning in Paris, my mom and I left our hotel in the middle of a downpour and made a beeline for the nearest metro station. After a false start - we may or may not have attempted to enter the Sèvres-Babylone station from the exit - we shook off our umbrellas and made our way to the platform, a little frazzled but no worse for wear.

Our train was crowded but not packed; my mom found a seat and I stood on the other side of the car. As the doors shut, we heard the opening bars of La Vie en Rose. At first, I assumed it was just a recording, a soundtrack to distract from the clattering cars.

But after a few seconds my mom - whose ear, as an elementary school music teacher, is much better than mine - turned around in her seat, eyes wide. I followed her gaze and saw an accordion player, just a few steps away. We both hummed along, unable to keep the smiles off our faces, and my mom dropped a few euros into his basket as he switched cars.

When we exited the train a few minutes later, still grinning, my mom turned to me and declared that it wasn’t just a high of the trip (we make a habit of tracking our highs and lows when we travel), it was a high of her entire life - perhaps only tied with the impromptu, wine-fueled Sound of Music singalong we had in the limo after my sister’s wedding.

Leave it to Paris to serve up magic on the metro.

On the many charms of a Left Bank townhouse-turned-boutique hotel

Our home base for the weekend was Hotel Recamier, a 24-room boutique hotel that feels more like a well-heeled collector’s glamorous, lived-in pied-à-terre, thanks to interiors by Jean-Louis Deniot. Every design detail felt considered, from the Diego Giacometti-style chandelier in the breakfast room to the Deshoulières porcelain serveware to the Brunschwig & Fils Les Touches-patterned drapes in our room.

The pièce de résistance? The series of busts depicting 19th-century salon-hostess Juliette Recamier (whose portrait by Jacques Louis-David famously hangs in the Louvre). Each bust applies the style of another artist: wrapped and tied for Christo and Jeanne-Claude; electric ultramarine in homage to Yves Klein; and covered in chalky black lines and red, white and blue color blocks for Jean Dubuffet.

The service was as considered as the interiors: the receptionist, Cecilia, greeted us warmly and immediately remembered our email correspondence from weeks prior. We were even delighted to find a hand-written welcome note in our room, along with a complimentary box of dark chocolate and orange florentines from Angelina’s, the legendary Parisian tea room.

On the sweetest travel ritual

When my sister and I visited Paris back in 2022, we started what would soon become a favorite ritual: eating pastries in bed after the end of a busy day of sightseeing. On that first visit, we sampled airy meringues from Aux Merveilleux de Fred and tangy lemon tarts from Au Petit Versailles du Marais. We became so committed to our nightly ritual that we even had a little pastry picnic in our compartment on the night train from Paris to Salzburg.

My mom was happy to continue the tradition during our 2025 visit. This time around, we inhaled creamy carrot cake from Treize au Jardin, the iconic Ispahan from Pierre Hermé (a too-pretty-to-eat confection of rose macaroons, rose petal cream, and raspberries), and hazelnut tarts from Pâtisserie Michalak. We’ve never slept better (though our blood sugar levels may disagree).

On skipping the Louvre

On my last trip to Paris, my sister and I found ourselves sprinting through the streets of the 1st arrondissement in the dark, desperate to make it to the Louvre before the last entry time. We made it to the entrance just as the guards were starting to lock up for the night; they took pity on our sweaty faces, and wordlessly waved us through.

We had barely enough time (and lung capacity) to pay homage to Mona Lisa and Nike of Samothrace - and not even a minute to spare to attempt to squeeze in Venus de Milo - before closing time rolled around. I felt slightly better about our not-so-grand tour when I learned that a full tour of every work on display at the Louvre - spending just 15 seconds per work - would require an estimated 18 8-hour days. Even for this art history lover, the Louvre’s scale is overwhelming at best, unapproachable at worst.

My mom and I took the opposite approach: we eschewed the Louvre in favor of some of Paris’s smaller museums, including Musée Picasso and Hôtel de la Marine. We also paid a visit to Deyrolle, the legendary taxidermy shop that feels like a naturalist’s cabinet of curiosities (which I first visited as a squeamish 13-year-old on my first trip to Paris). The polished wooden shelves are loaded with every manner of creature - from creepy crawlies to game animals - all perfectly preserved.

On seeing a familiar face in an unexpected place

Our most kismet encounter in Paris? Catching a glimpse of Benjamin Franklin as we sipped aperitifs at a bistro table on the terrace at Brasserie des Prés, toasting to our last night in Paris.

We would have recognized that portrait anywhere: his pursed lips; wavy, thinning hair; and burnt umber coat, pelt draped around his neck, blown up to larger than life scale and hung in the window at Le Procope, the oldest cafe in Paris and rumored to be one of Franklin’s favorite haunts during his visits to France.

In fact, this wasn’t our first encounter with Ben in the wild; we’d stumbled upon the original portrait by French painter Joseph Siffred Duplessis years earlier while wandering The Met’s European Paintings galleries.

You may be wondering: why the Ben Franklin fetish? No, we’re not Revolutionary War stans or modern day colonialists. It’s because Ben is practically part of our family - and we have the Christmas photos to prove it.

On the eve of my sister’s 7th birthday, 25 years ago, we got the call that my great-grandmother, Esther, had passed away at the ripe old age of 93. We piled into the minivan and made the trek from St. Louis to Michigan for services, and after the funeral spent a raucous evening playing spoons (a Bailey family tradition) and musical chairs, eating birthday cake, and sifting through nearly a century’s worth of ephemera in the basement of the family farmhouse.

We were each allowed to choose one item to remember my great-grandmother by and my sister, the birthday girl, instantly knew what she wanted: the portrait of Ben Franklin. Ben has been a constant fixture in my parents’ homes ever since, quietly presiding over birthdays and graduations and holidays. Little did we know, Ben was also holding court 4,400 miles away, from the dining room at Le Procope.

On chien street fashion

Parisian street fashion may get top billing among fashion Substackers these days (exhibits A, B and C), but the style coverage is woefully lacking when it comes to our four-legged friends.

As a devoted dog mom myself, I obsessed over every dog reference we saw: this sweet pup on the cover of Elle at La Galerie Dior (that head tilt!), a caned and velvet-upholstered settee fit for a cavalier (king) in the window of an antique shop, and even these two chiens out for a joyride on mom’s motorbike.

But the crème de la crème was a spaniel sighted on a drizzly Sunday afternoon at the Marché Saint Germain, decked out in a bright yellow rain slicker with a classic striped lining. I’m not sure whether it was the wine - we were in the middle of a boozy lunch - or just my pure unadulterated infatuation with anything Breton-striped, but I was instantly taken, surreptitiously trying to snap photos from underneath the table so I could find a dupe online to order for Teddy.

Luckily, though, I didn’t have to wait 10-14 business days for international shipping or worry about tariff nonsense. The next day, as we wandered through the 7th on our way to the Eiffel Tower, we stumbled upon Two Tails, a bougie pet supply shop.

I walked in expecting to pick up a plush croissant chew toy that Teddy would tear to shreds in 2.5 seconds. Instead, I was delighted to find a full wall of outerwear: waxed tartan coats, sleek down puffers, and, of course, the same imperméable I’d seen the day before, this time in a faded green that would perfectly complement Teddy’s tawny coat.

Did I need to spend €75 on a dog’s rain coat? Absolutely not. Do I regret it? Non, je ne regrette rien.

On the chandelier in a carry-on incident

Ironically, the €75 dog rain coat wasn’t my most outrageous purchase of the trip: that honor goes to the Empire-style chandelier that I impulse-bought at a brocante, surgically dismantled in our hotel room, and somehow managed to haul home in my carry-on.

My mom is the kind of person who gives every beloved inanimate object a name (her Celtic harp is named Maggie, my grandma’s walker is named Miss Blue, you get the picture). We spent much of the weekend dreaming up names for my chandelier.

Marie Antoinette? Too grisly. Mimi, of La Bohème fame? Too tragic.

Finally, we landed on The One: Josephine, in honor of Josephine Baker, the St. Louis native and renowned French-American cabaret dancer, singer and actress who served as a resistance spy during World War II. Baker was awarded two of France’s highest military honors for her wartime service: the Croix de Guerre and the Legion of Honor.

While Baker’s remains are buried in Monaco, in 2021 she was honored with a symbolic burial in the Panthéon in Paris, the first Black woman to be interred alongside French luminaries including Victor Hugo, Marie Curie, Voltaire, and Rousseau.

While my Josephine certainly can’t claim this level of valor - fitting a light fixture into an overhead bin is hardly an act of heroism - she does bring a dash of Baker’s sparkling stage presence to my Chicago apartment.

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Fast forward a few years, and my chandelier obsession has only intensified. The warning signs were there when, three years ago, I dragged my sister through the Marais to bring home a petite chandelier Christmas ornament. They were impossible to ignore last fall, when I insisted on hauling an Empire-style basket chandelier home from Paris in my carry-on.

And, according to my family, I was in need of an intervention by the time I won an early 20th-century Bohemian glass chandelier at auction earlier this year. (Please don’t tell them I’m also currently eyeing an Italian gilt tôle wheat sheaf fixture, inspired by designs in Coco Chanel’s Paris apartment.)

Unfortunately for me, I’m running out of light fixtures that I can upgrade in my own home. But fortunately for you, that means that today I’m sharing my secrets for sourcing chandeliers: styles to look for, search terms to source your own, and my own personal, no-expense-spared wish list.

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Austria 🇦🇹

Uncouth though it may be, spit in Vienna’s historic city center and you’re bound to hit a chandelier. Exhibits A, B and C: the imperial 72-candle wooden gilt chandeliers in the Great Gallery at Schönbrunn Palace; the crystal chandeliers at the Spanish Riding School; and Josef Hoffmann’s Jugendstil design for the Werkbund Exhibition in Cologne in 1914, among many (many!) others.

The glassmaker that’s been there through it all? J. & L. Lobmeyr, a heritage brand founded in 1823 by Joseph Lobmeyr and still run by Lobmeyr’s descendants 6 generations later.

Lobmeyr produced its first chandelier in 1840 for the Austrian Embassy in St. Petersburg and has been accepting prestigious international commissions ever since - including the reconstruction of the Vienna State Opera House after World War II, the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City, the Kremlin in Moscow, and the Al-Masjid al-Haram mosque in Mecca.

To source your own Austrian-inspired designs, use search terms like:

General search terms: Lobmeyr, Austrian crystal, Austro-Hungarian chandelier

• For old world, imperial vibes: Maria Theresa, Habsburg crystal, Biedermeier, Austrian Empire-style

• For art nouveau, Secession-style: Jugendstil, Wiener Werkstätte, Josef Hoffmann, Otto Wagner, Koloman Moser

• For mid-century modern masterpieces: Mid-century modern, MCM, Hans Harald Rath, Bakalowits & Söhne

On my wish list:

A pair of chandelier-ish table lamps at a relatively accessible price point, a charming bowl-style chandelier adorned with crystal flowers, and a 1970s chandelier that somehow channels both Art Deco and MCM styles.

France 🇫🇷

Is there a light fixture more quintessentially French than the chandelier (which is derived from the Old French word chandelle, meaning “candle”)?

Though I could wax poetic pour l’éternité about the merits of niche French chandelier styles, for the sake of expediency we’ll focus today’s lesson on three of the most notable ones.

• Rococo, a frothy, flirtatious style that peaked in the mid-18th century during the reign of Louis XV (1715-1774). With its swirling gilded curves, shell motifs, and organic lines, Rococo styles offered a lighter, freer alternative to the heavier grandeur of the Baroque designs that preceded them.

• Empire, a return to Neoclassicism that took hold in the early 19th century. Empire-style chandeliers are defined by a strong sense of symmetry, classical ornamentation (think laurel wreaths, sphinxes, and lions, among others), and an air of Napoleonic pomp.

• Art Deco, a sleek, modern style that became popular in the 1920s. Art Deco chandeliers are defined by their restraint: think streamlined geometric forms, striking materiality with high-contrast glass and metal, and graphic motifs like sunbursts and chevrons.

To source your own French-inspired fixtures, use search terms like:

• For Rococo-style froth: French Rococo, Louis XV, Louis XV revival, Louis quinze, giltwood, bronze doré, ormolu

• For Empire-style formality: French Empire, Napoleonic, ormolu, bronze doré, basket chandelier, montgolfière

• For Art Deco-style restraint: French Art Deco, 1920s, French Modernist, Degué, Muller Frères, Marius-Ernest Sabino, Atelier Petitot, René Lalique, Georges Leleu

On my wish list:

A Rococo revival-style concoction complete with glittering amethyst and crimson accents; an Empire-style “montgolfière (balloon)” chandelier, a more streamlined take on the basket chandelier silhouette; and the splurgiest-splurge, a six-figure, three-tiered masterpiece signed by Monsieur Sabino himself. A girl can dream, eh?

Italy 🇮🇹

I’ll be brutally honest: chandeliers were decidedly not on my mind on my most recent trip to Italy, when we spent 3 nights in the Italian alps hiking hut-to-hut along the 105 mile Tour du Mont Blanc. In my defense, after hiking all day I was more focused on where my next Aperol spritz was coming from.

Regrettably, I wasn’t able to haul a sputnik chandelier home in my backpack on the trek from Courmayeur. But fortunately, I didn’t have to: iconic Italian lighting styles are easily accessible on the antique circuit (in fact, I did score a pair of Murano sconces for a pittance from the Portobello Road market in London). Here are my own personal favorite stili italiani.

• Murano glass, the product of a style of glassblowing that has been practiced in the Veneto region for more than a thousand years (though chandeliers were not broadly produced until the 18th century). Styles range from ethereal to full-on theatrical, with swirling organic lines and an extraordinary range of colors.

• Tôleware, a style that first gained popularity in the late 18th century, and that is defined by its materials. Artisans lacquered, painted and gilded sheets of tôle (French for tin), which they then crafted into fanciful shapes: lemons, flowers, and wheat sheaves are all associated with Italian tôleware traditions today.

• Sputnik style, a mainstay of the 20th century Italian modernism movement that took hold in postwar Milan. Gino Sarfatti, founder of Arteluce, pioneered the form - a space age-y burst of light, with brass arms that extend in every direction, as if from an exploding supernova - in 1939. The style would later be nicknamed “Sputnik” in the 1950s, after the eponymous Russian satellites first launched in 1957.

To source your own Italian-inspired chandeliers, use search terms like:

• For curvy, translucent Murano masterpieces: Murano glass, Venetian glass, hand-blown glass, Italian art glass, Barovier & Toso, Venini, Mazzega

• For always fanciful, sometimes fruity tôleware: Italian tôle, painted tôle, polychrome tôle, Hollywood Regency, Coco Chanel-style tôle, fruit tôle, 1960s/1970s tôle

• For Space Age Sputnik styles: Italian sputnik, Gino Sarfatti, Arteluce, Italian modernist, atomic chandelier, Stilnovo, Sciolari

On my wishlist:

A theatrical, two-tiered glass confection that would be right at home on a Baz Luhrmann set; a gilded tôle wheat sheaf fixture that would glam up my dining room; and a sleek, futuristic design that feels straight out of The Jetsons.

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Three years later, “I couldn’t leave Paris without it” syndrome struck again - but this time, I wasn’t just slipping a petite ornament into my tote bag. Instead, I was hauling a deconstructed Empire-style basket chandelier in my carry-on through Charles de Gaulle.

Wrestling what felt like a ton of crystal through the airport X-ray machine was the least glamorous part of an otherwise charmed weekend.

My mom and I had taken up residence at Hotel Recamier, an elegant townhouse-turned-boutique hotel in the 6th, and spent our days museum-hopping, croissant-sampling, and practicing our French (which was, unfortunately for us and everyone we encountered, limited to “Désolé, je ne parle pas français,” or “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”).

My camera roll reveals that I had lighting on the brain well before that sunny Sunday afternoon when we browsed the stalls at that fateful brocante. I was entranced by the way the beaded gowns at La Galerie Dior shimmered against their moody backdrops. I marveled at how the shop windows in Saint-Germain-des-Prés glowed during golden hour.

And I snapped photos of virtually every light fixture I saw: a Diego Giacometti-style chandelier in the breakfast room at our hotel, a Murano fixture shimmering in the window of an antique shop in the 3rd, a dramatic Art Deco-style chandelier that dialed up the drama in the bathroom at Brasserie des Prés.

But where did my casual interest in beautiful lighting spiral into pure obsession, past the point of no return? Our story begins after hours at Palais Garnier.

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Act I: Sing, My Angel of Music

Wandering the deserted, dimly lit halls of Palais Garnier felt a bit like stumbling onto a movie set, with its elaborate marble staircase, Versailles-esque Grand Foyer, and boxes upholstered in wall-to-wall silk damask.

The icing on the Second Empire cake? The gargantuan bronze and crystal chandelier in the auditorium, which weighs a whopping 7 tons and plays the murder weapon in what is perhaps the most famous (fictional) crime in musical theater history.

We hummed the opening bars of the overture as we stepped into Box 5, with its plaque marked Loge du Fantôme de l’Opera. Between the two of us - my mom, a veteran music teacher, and me, a former choir girl - we knew almost every note.

From this vantage point - with an obstructed view of the stage, but perfect sightlines to the soaring ceiling - it was easy to imagine the chandelier crashing to the ground in a fiery fit of rage. In fact, the Phantom’s infamous temper tantrum was actually inspired by a real-life tragedy, when in 1896, one of the chandelier’s counterweights collapsed in the middle of a performance, striking and killing one attendee and injuring several others.

Phantom lore may have whet my appetite, but I felt practically intoxicated as we filed into the empty Grand Foyer. I craned my neck to take in the outrageously opulent view: soaring frescoed ceilings, rows of sparkling chandeliers, and (almost) all-gilt everything. Our guide let one of the room’s many secrets slip: while every surface appears at first glance to be covered in gold leaf, only the moldings are actually gilded (the walls themselves were painted a rich caramel brown to save money).

The room glowed, bathed in the kind of warm, honeyed lamplight that is both universally flattering and devastatingly chic. I desperately wished that I could trade in my scuffed Vejas and battered trench coat for an elegant ballgown and opera glasses.

As I snapped photos from every angle - including close-ups of the fringed lamp shades on the bar - my brain started whirring with ideas for how to recreate this warm glow at home.

Act II: I was taken by the view (like we were in Paris)

By the time we made our way to Hôtel de la Marine the next morning, I officially had chandelier fever (in fact, after spending much of the previous night tossing and turning with jet lag, I had finally soothed myself back to sleep by browsing auction listings for giltwood sconces).

The first part of our audio tour took us through the private apartments of the Intendants of the Garde-Meuble de la Couronne, the royal courtiers responsible for administering the French king’s massive collection of furniture, tapestries and artworks. Every space was restored to its 18th century glory with period furnishings - with a chandelier in practically every room - and not a single errant recessed can or boob light in sight.

By the time we wound our way through the formal reception rooms, my neck started to ache from all the ceiling-staring. At one point, I was so fixated on the nautical details of a particular gilded ceiling medallion that my audio guide headset slipped off of my head and clattered loudly to the floor, drawing annoyed glances from the visitors around me. I sheepishly picked it up and put it back on, only to have the same thing happen again a few minutes later.

What can I say? I was a woman possessed.

Act III: Paris holds the key (to your heart)

On Sunday, fresh off of a boozy lunch and with a few hours to kill, we wandered towards the weekend brocante on Rue Saint Placide. As we browsed the stalls - mostly filled with bric-a-brac - I kept my eyes peeled for treasures, but came up empty.

Then, finally, as we rounded the final corner of stalls, I saw The One: a glimmering, Empire-style basket chandelier, hanging exactly at eye level, crystals swaying gently in the breeze.

I dragged my mom over to take a closer look, immediately trying to talk myself out of it. Where would I put it? (In my entryway, obviously.) How would I get it home? (By dismantling it piece by piece with a pair of tweezers in our hotel room, of course). Wouldn’t one of the smaller crystal flush mounts be more practical, more convenient? (Most definitely. But is any chandelier really practical or convenient?).

I kept glancing at my mom, looking for her approval in classic eldest daughter fashion. She just smiled, refusing to weigh in and pretending to browse the nearby cases filled with sterling silver, while I waved the dealer over and worked up the courage to ask for the price.

The next few minutes were a blur: before I knew it, I was tapping my credit card, too flustered to even attempt to haggle, and swaddling my new purchase in a mildewed blanket. I was in a state of shock as we walked back to the hotel, chandelier in tow. My mom just laughed, finally showing her hand, smiling and saying, “You’ll treasure it for the rest of your life.”

Act IV: I’ve made a terrible mistake

As my purchase panic subsided over the next few hours, a new set of anxieties rushed in. How the hell was I going to get this thing home in one piece?

That night, I tossed and turned, making a mental checklist of supplies to pick up. While this was certainly not my first foray into transporting precious cargo - I had a spotless track record with safely packing mirrors, paintings, and ceramics - this would be my toughest task yet.

Early the next morning, we made our way to the nearest Carrefour in search of the essentials: paper towels, packing tape, small trash bags, and tweezers.

Luck was on our side: as we walked in, we saw that the staff was in the middle of restocking shelves, with piles of discarded cardboard in every corner. At my mom’s prodding, I shyly asked if we could have a few pieces of cardboard; a kind gentleman took pity on my “Désolé, je ne parle pas français,” nodded and helped me pick the perfect pieces.

Getting the proper supplies, as it turned out, was the easy part.

Act V: “Lot 666, then: a chandelier in pieces…”

Our last night in Paris was decidedly unglamorous: after an early dinner, it was time for packing-palooza. While my mom curled up with her iPad, I laid out my materials on the bed and plotted my strategy.

I spent the next three hours painstakingly deconstructing the chandelier, removing each strand of crystals with a pair of tweezers. By the time I was finished, my nails were in shreds, my hands were cramping, and I had dust smudged across my face. My mom, meanwhile, spent the evening frantically Googling the dimensions of United’s overhead bins.

At one point, I glanced over at my mom and asked when in my childhood she knew that I’d grow into the kind of adult who would spend her last night in Paris meticulously performing surgery on a light fixture. Her response, delivered with an aggressive eye roll? “Since day one.”

Finally, around midnight, I proudly announced that I was finished: the crystals were packed and stored in my roller bag, with the frame tucked neatly into my Mary Poppins tote bag. I was giddy with the thrill of making it work; my mom was desperate to finally crawl into bed.

Epilogue: We’ll always have Paris

Dear reader, I’m pleased to report that the chandelier made it home unscathed - though admittedly, not in one piece. And though it’s not yet hanging in my entryway - it’s in the hands of my trusty electrician for rewiring - it’s already proven to be quite the conversation piece among my friends and family. My mom checks in on its status nearly every time we talk.

My brother-in-law keeps asking whether I could have found a suitable chandelier in the US (“Did you really need to go all the way to Paris for a light?”).

But finding a chandelier was never really the point. I simply couldn’t leave Paris without it. And my mom was right: I will treasure it for the rest of my life.

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Even as a broke student hostel-hopping around Europe, I always managed to bring home little artifacts from my travels: postcards, prints, and the pièce de résistance - a hand-engraved mirror that I bought from a man off the back of his motorbike in Marrakech.

As a recent college graduate, art history degree in-hand, I dreamed of working in a museum, auction house, or gallery. When I finally got an offer to work for a fine art appraiser, I was over the moon.

While that job left much to be desired - a living wage, PTO, a nontoxic work environment - it was also a masterclass in training my eye, honing my taste and developing a sixth sense for value. Everything that I learned during my tenure - from how to use a loupe to how to scour the market for comparables - informs how I source art and objects today.

Keep reading for my field notes from years spent appraising other people’s treasures, trinkets and trash.

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As it turns out, the art of appraisal is less about knowing all the answers - and more about asking the right questions.

On medium

Virtually every appraisal begins the same way: with a visual inspection of the object or artwork at hand. During my tenure, a tape measure, a camera and a loupe were never more than arms’ reach away.

On my very first day, I learned how to use a loupe - a small, portable magnifier - to distinguish between original paintings and prints. A client had brought in what she believed to be an oil painting, which she’d found stashed in a closet at her great-aunt’s house. She wanted to understand whether it was of any significant value.

As I took measurements and snapped photos, I sensed something familiar about the artwork - like I’d seen it before. As I used a 10x loupe to inspect the surface of the canvas, I saw a pattern of repeating dots beneath several layers of heavy varnish.

That visual inspection confirmed what I’d suspected: the painting was not actually a painting at all. Instead, it was a print on canvas, varnished to appear more like an oil painting.

A quick Google image search later revealed that it was a print of Rembrandt’s Portrait of a Man Wearing a Black Hat. Unfortunately for our client, the print itself was virtually worthless (though its heavy period frame was still worth a few hundred dollars).

These days, the market is flooded with prints on canvas masquerading as original paintings, with price tags to match. That’s why I rarely visit an estate sale or a consignment store without my trusty loupe (and my tape measure too).

On condition

You haven’t really lived until you’ve sorted through piles and piles of mildewed prints of buxom babes by 1980s artist, illustrator and Playboy contributor Patrick Nagel.

The client told me that he’d purchased these prints as an investment decades ago, and I had the unpleasant task of telling him that they were hardly worth the paper they were printed on today - especially given their current unframed, water damaged condition.

While the Nagels were an extreme example, I worked with many artworks in poor condition: a pastel on board that was fragile enough to crack just by looking at it, prints that were yellowed and stained after decades spent in acidic mats, and a lovely little oil painting that a client had accidentally put her heel through as it sat on the floor, waiting to be hung.

That’s why I’m a stickler for how I care for my own art collection today, and have my framer practically on speed dial. A frame with acid-free matting and UV protective glass goes a long way towards protecting an otherwise fragile piece of art from the elements.

On attribution & authenticity

I once worked with a kind middle-aged man who fancied himself a true connoisseur, convinced that he could spot an authentic blue chip artwork hiding among hundreds of fakes on eBay.

When he brought his newest acquisition into the office - a line drawing attributed to Paul Klee that he’d scored for a mere $500 - I suspected he’d committed a cardinal sin of collecting art: mistaking attribution for authenticity.

Weeks later, we received confirmation from the Paul Klee Foundation, the definitive arbiter of authenticity for Klee’s works: this work was “in the style of” Paul Klee, but not an authentic work by Klee’s own hand. Luckily, the collector was only briefly devastated - and just a month or two later, called to rave about his latest find.

For most artworks - including most prints, decorative pieces and works by lesser-known artists - formal authentication isn’t necessary or expected, even for insurance purposes. But for blue chip artists, whose works are frequently forged, attribution alone won’t cut it - and formal authentication is essential.

On provenance

Provenance is a critical piece of the authenticity puzzle. Think of an artwork’s provenance as its chain of custody: a documented, defensible history of who’s owned it since it left the artist’s possession.

Another client came to the office with a set of photographs by Alfred Eisenstaedt, famed for his iconic photo of V-J Day in Times Square and other Life magazine captures that frequently sell for tens of thousands of dollars. Naturally, my first question was about provenance: where did these photos come from?

I learned that the client’s father had been a European airline executive in the 1970s and 1980s who had befriended Eisenstaedt on one of his many trips to Europe on assignment for Life. Eisenstaedt had personally gifted a number of silver gelatin prints, stamped with his studio’s mark, to the executive over the years, often accompanied with handwritten, signed notes.

This provenance paper trail - complete with correspondence signed by the artist - made my job considerably easier. And while most works won’t come with such a tidy story, this example underscores the importance of holding on to documentation: gallery or auction labels, receipts, correspondence, or exhibition stickers on the back of a frame.

On comparables

I’m often asked whether working as an appraiser is anything like how it’s portrayed on Antiques Roadshow. The disappointing but honest answer? No, not really.

Why? Because Antiques Roadshow obscures the unglamorous reality that a credible, defensible appraisal - one that can hold up in an insurance claim or a legal case - is based on detailed market research, not an appraiser’s in-the-moment assessment.

Finding the right comparables for an original artwork is a delicate dance, and depends on what type of value you’re looking for: fair market value (sale price in an open market; auction hammer prices are a good proxy) or retail replacement value (what you would pay to buy a comparable artwork in a gallery setting, and what you’d want to insure it for).

I spent hours poring through auction records and gallery listings to find the right comps for a single artwork. The holy grail was at least 3 comparables per piece: same artist, same medium, similar dimensions, similar condition.

Though I’m no longer writing appraisal reports, I still use this same strategy today when buying art and furniture at auction: I research my comps ahead of time and use them to inform my own max bid strategy. This discipline ensures I’m not overpaying.

On the je ne sais quoi that makes an artwork sing

The work of an appraiser may be part art, part science - but the technicalities can sometimes obscure the magic of uncovering an artwork’s backstory.

I’ll never forget the day that a client floated into our office with a large frame swaddled in a blanket in her arms. Her uncle had been a world-famous boxer, and after his passing, she’d discovered an artwork tucked away in a closet.

As we peeled the blanket away, a poignant scene came into view: an expertly-rendered pastel of a young boy, maybe 5 or 6 years old, in boxing gloves, practicing his right hook in front of a poster of the client’s uncle.

I still remember the charming details: the way the boy’s full cheeks drooped, rosy with exertion; his gaze intent as he mimicked his hero’s pose; and the fraying fabric at his elbow that suggested that boxing practice was a frequent pastime.

Though the work was quite valuable - another pastel by the same artist now resides in the National Portrait Gallery in Washington D.C. - I breathed a sigh of relief when the client told us that she’d decided to keep it, rather than offer it up for sale. As it turns out, some treasures are worth more than any comparable could capture.

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In 2022, I spent a heavenly week island-hopping through Greece, stuffing my face with baklava and combing local markets for treasures. By my last day in Santorini, I was still empty-handed. Then, tucked beneath a jewelry cabinet in a dusty antique shop, I spotted a forgotten pile of suzanis. Minutes later, I was haggling with the owner and handing over my entire stash of euros (I later had to borrow money from a kind stranger to catch the bus back to Fira).

A few years later, it happened again - this time with a decadent, plum-colored suzani at The Cloth Shop in London. By the time I traveled to Uzbekistan in 2025, I was officially suzani-smitten. I’m still daydreaming about the one that got away: a mustard-and-cornflower, silk-on-silk wall hanging that I left behind in Samarkand.

Keep reading for my love letter to this iconic textile tradition, with practical tips for sourcing and styling your own suzanis.

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What is a suzani?

A suzani is a type of embroidered textile, traditionally produced in Central Asia: Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, Afghanistan, and Uzbekistan. The term suzani is derived from the Persian word suzan, which means needle.

How were suzanis traditionally used?

For centuries, suzanis have been used in domestic interiors, from nomadic yurts to settled Uzbek and Tajik households in oasis cities like Bukhara and Samarkand.

Traditionally - and continuing today - suzanis are created as part of a bride’s dowry and brought into her new home upon marriage. It’s said that future mothers-in-law will often ask to take a peek at a young woman’s suzanis as a way to gauge whether she is a suitable match.

Starting in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, suzanis began taking on a life outside the home: as commercial objects, for sale in Central Asian bazaars and around the globe. In fact, in 1911, an American researcher returned from a visit to Turkestan, proud to have acquired an exquisite example of Bukhara-style embroidery - only to find that his friend had purchased an almost identical textile from a department store in Chicago.

This trend towards commercialization accelerated during Soviet rule in Central Asia, which began in the 1920s and persisted until the Soviet Union dissolved in 1991. Increasingly, suzanis were produced for sale via artels, or production cooperatives, often using commercially produced threads and more standardized designs. Though hand embroidery continued to dominate, some workshops - particularly later in the Soviet period - also introduced sewing machines.

What does a suzani’s design reveal about how, when and why it was made?

Motifs like pomegranates and birds reflect a suzani’s role as a marriage blanket. Suzanis are filled with spiritual symbolism: pomegranates for fertility, birds for happiness, teapots for hospitality, and more. And just as in American quilting traditions, it is often customary to leave a small section of a suzani intentionally unfinished - a subtle gesture meant to guard against the jealousy of the Evil Eye.

A suzani’s pattern often signals where it was made. While floral patterns are common, design motifs vary by geography. For example, suzanis from Bukhara are known for their large orange and magenta floral medallions with lush green vines, whereas suzanis from Nurata use more naturalistic floral motifs reminiscent of Mughal patterns.

Embroidering suzanis is a family affair. Most suzanis are made of multiple panels of cloth (most often cotton, sometimes silk) stitched together, rather than one continuous piece of cloth. This is so that multiple women, usually family members, can work on one suzani at the same time.

As suzanis became commoditized, their visual language evolved. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, patterns grew more oversized and abstract, often dominated by bold red, black and white contrasts.

The prominence of deep black motifs suggests a shift towards commercially produced dyes, giving many mid-century suzanis a sharper, more graphic clarity than was typical of traditional natural vegetable dyes.

Personally, I was struck by how many Soviet-era suzanis echo the graphic qualities of Soviet propaganda posters: bold, dynamic lines, high-contrast color palettes, and little negative space.

What should I look for when sourcing suzanis?

• Is the ground cloth cotton or silk? Suzanis are traditionally embroidered on simple undyed cotton cloth. Beginning in the 1880s, silk began to appear more frequently as a foundation cloth - though note that these suzanis tend to be both more expensive and less durable.

• Are the dyes natural or synthetic? Historically, suzanis were made with silk floss colored with natural vegetable dyes, known for their warmth and complex variegation. More modern designs (notably, those with dominant black motifs) may use commercial synthetic dyes, which create high visual contrast and a more uniform presentation.

• Is it handmade or machine-made? Even today, most suzanis on the market are hand-embroidered. To evaluate whether your design is handmade or machine-made, look at its back. Hand-embroidered pieces will show stitches of various lengths and sizes, while machine-made suzanis will have much more precise stitches with few (if any) imperfections.

• How sophisticated is the pattern? The more sophisticated the design - in terms of pattern intricacy, depth of colors, and amount of negative space - the higher the price tag. You can snag simple designs with one or two colors for a few hundred bucks, while more advanced patterns can easily run into the thousands.

• How will you use it? Suzanis come in a wide range of shapes and sizes, and it’s helpful to think through exactly how and where you’ll use it to choose the right size. Proportions are especially important for wall hangings and furniture upholstery projects. When in doubt, size up.

Where can I buy a suzani and how should I style it?

For high-impact wall hangings:

Think of these tapestries as statement art: dynamic compositions, vivid colors, and a scale that commands the room.

To toss over the back of a couch or the foot of the bed:

These are the pieces that you’ll want to snuggle up with every day - softer scale and more subdued color palettes, but still rich with detail.

To save yourself a trip to the upholsterer:

Suzani-upholstered furniture is a designer favorite for good reason.

Where can I learn more about suzanis?

For those eager to dive down the suzani rabbit hole, check out Susan Meller’s Silk and Cotton: Textiles from the Central Asia That Was and A guide to suzanis, courtesy of Christie’s.

For more Uzbekistan tips, tricks & recs — including design-forward city guides for Tashkent, Bukhara, and Samarkand — visit Armchair-Traveler.com.

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Welcome to World/Space/Other

My sister and I got a lot of funny looks when we told people we were headed to Uzbekistan. Most had never heard of it and definitely couldn’t place it on a map. As the teller at my local credit union said, after a long pause “… you’re gonna have to spell that for me.”

Even our travel insurance company seemed confused: when I booked our policy, Uzbekistan wasn’t even an option in the country dropdown menu, leaving me with no other choice than to select “World/Space/Other.”

When we finally landed in Tashkent after a bruising 24 hour journey, we certainly felt a world away. That feeling only intensified over the course of our 10-day journey, which we spent:

• Gawking at towering minarets and sprawling madrasas, finished with thousands of ornate blue, teal and white tiles that glittered in the intense Central Asian sun

• Stargazing to the dulcet tones of an Uzbek dutar player, a crackling bonfire and a rowdy group of tipsy Russians, at a yurt camp in the Kyzylkum Desert

• Drooling over the wares in local markets and artists’ studios: sharply-detailed, Persian-style miniature paintings; vibrant ikat textiles in silk, cotton and velvet; handmade ceramics finished with ancient glazing and firing techniques; and even Soviet-era memorabilia (think medals, propaganda posters, and busts of prominent comrades)

As of this writing, Uzbekistan still feels like a well-kept secret for only the most in-the-know travelers. But I have a hunch that it won’t fly under the radar for much longer, as it has all the makings of a major tourist destination: a rich, layered history; a burgeoning contemporary art and design scene; and modern amenities like ubiquitous WiFi and a high-speed rail connecting Tashkent, Bukhara and Samarkand.

The musings that follow are part Uzbekistan design diary, part love letter to the locals and their warm brand of hospitality. As my sister and I said as we boarded our flight to Tashkent, “Get in loser, we’re going to Uzbekistan.”

On first impressions

We were practically delusional by the time we touched down in Tashkent around 1 a.m. local time, after a grueling day in transit. We squinted in the airport’s fluorescent lights, followed a series of winding hallways to immigration, and waited anxiously, visas and passports in hand, for the next available agent.

An hour later, we were happily ensconced in our hotel in central Tashkent, texting our loved ones that we’d arrived and preparing to sleep for as long as our jet-lagged bodies would allow. It all felt surprisingly… normal? Not exactly the “World/Space/Other” we’d been primed to expect.

On the local fashion trends

On our first evening in Tashkent, we ate dinner at an outdoor cafe just steps from the state opera house. As luck would have it, throughout dinner we were treated to an informal fashion show as patrons made their way to that night’s performance.

We were instantly impressed: the women were impossibly elegant, in chic patterned caftans (often in Uzbekistan’s signature ikat fabrics) and beaded tunics with matching pants and hijabs. The men were equally put-together, in smart sport coats and collared shirts.

As we traveled throughout the country, it became clear that this wasn’t just an opera night phenomenon: everywhere we went, locals of all ages were stylishly dressed and beautifully groomed (often with full faces of makeup and elaborate nail art).

This trend proved to be true even in the countryside: we met a dapper gentleman in a full blazer and button-down walking through the fields with his donkey on the outskirts of a remote mountain village.

On suzanis

Suzanis have long been a staple textile in interior design circles, but their roots in Central Asian culture are perhaps lesser known. As our guide explained, suzanis are traditional marriage blankets, embroidered by young brides-to-be and presented to their husbands on their wedding day as a symbol of their two families coming together.

Even today, courting rituals in Uzbekistan are a family affair: when a young woman is of age to marry, potential suitors and their parents will visit her family home to assess the match. It’s not uncommon that future mothers-in-law will ask to take a peek at the young woman’s suzanis during these visits, to gauge her level of skill and commitment to her craft.

Not all suzanis are created equal; options range from simple cotton textiles embroidered in a single color, to opulent silks embroidered in intricate flywheel patterns. We found the highest-quality selections at the markets on the grounds of Sitorai Mohi-Hosa Palace outside of Bukhara and the Handicraft Center in Samarkand (a historic caravanserai, or inn for travelers, now converted into artists’ studios and shops).

On ancient & modern worlds colliding

Uzbekistan is a country of contrasts, where the tension between old and new is ever present. Case in point: we were treated to a behind-the-scenes tour of a carpet dealer’s showroom, where our host introduced us to the master weavers who knelt at their looms, painstakingly tying knot after knot using age-old techniques and traditional patterns.

It was clear from this demonstration that the art of carpet weaving is, in most respects, the same as it was hundreds of years ago. The only exception? Many of the weavers had their smartphones propped up on their looms, so they could watch TikTok videos while they worked.

On lasting Soviet influence

In the scheme of Uzbekistan’s history – scholars believe its lands have been occupied continuously since the first millennium BC – the Soviet Union’s occupation from 1920 to 1991 feels like a blip on the historic radar. But even 30+ years post-occupation, we saw vestiges of the Soviet era all over Uzbekistan, like:

• The ultramodern Tashkent metro system, where the Kosmonavtlar station pays homage to Soviet astronauts and Pushkin station honors Russian poet Alexander Pushkin

• Market stalls selling Soviet relics (like military medals, dusty china tea sets and even rugs depicting unidentified comrades)

• Restaurants that only offered Russian language menus (Google translate came in very handy in those situations)

• Opera performances subtitled in Russian, attended by oligarchs and their girlfriends (easy to spot based on their ultra-high-end designer handbags)

According to our guide, among older Uzbeks, the jury is still out on whether the Soviet occupation was ultimately a good thing or a bad thing. Were the investments in improved education, women’s rights, and economic stability a worthy tradeoff for broad religious oppression and a loss of national sovereignty? The truth likely lies somewhere in between.

On food culture & tapchans

Traditional Uzbek food is, in a word, hearty. We began nearly every meal with a spread of small shared plates: eggplant salad tossed with dill; massive, circular loaves of bread; cold noodles; and sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, all served on pakhta (cotton) patterned blue and white china.

Main courses nearly always involved a combination of meats, vegetables and grains: think enormous flaky pastries stuffed with tender shredded beef (samsas); rich stews laden with melt-in-your-mouth lamb, carrots and potatoes; and, of course, plov – the Uzbek national dish, a pilaf most often made with lamb or mutton and vegetables, and finished with raisins for a touch of sweetness. Dessert was typically a bit lighter and not overly sweet: usually ripe melon or light wafers.

Our favorite off-the-menu design discovery? Tapchans, outdoor wooden platforms about the size of a queen bed, with a low table in the center and cushions all around (or, as we less eloquently called them, bed-tables). Eating on a tapchan feels both indulgent and practical: all the comforts of eating in bed, minus the crumbs in your sheets.

On Uzbek hospitality

The Uzbek people are utterly warm and welcoming: quick to offer a smile, a cup of tea, and perhaps even a personal invitation to their homes in the Fergana Valley. But perhaps no gesture is more reflective of their gentle, peaceful culture than the standard Uzbek greeting (which we saw our guide do dozens of times over the course of our trip): a bow of the head with a hand over the heart, as a show of respect and deference to the other.

On family-friendly nightlife

When the sun goes down, local families take to the streets for literal fun and games (think bounce houses, kiddie cars and carnival games). It was so refreshing to see people of all ages out and about after dark: young couples dining at sidewalk cafes, kids playing pickup soccer in narrow alleyways, and shopkeepers negotiating final deals before they closed down for the day.

Even more refreshing? How safe we felt, as two young-ish women, walking the streets alone at night.

On the shopping scene

It’s simple, really: Uzbekistan is a shopper’s paradise, especially for art and design lovers. Whether you’re in the market for rugs, ceramics, paintings, textiles (suzanis, ikats and silks, oh my!), leather goods, or even Soviet-era antiques – you’re in luck.

I came home with a suitcase full of treasures: a stunning miniature painting on sturdy silk paper; a camel hair runner; a few yards of ikat fabric; a tea set with the same pakhta pattern we saw in every restaurant; and a silk paper Christmas ornament. My only regret? Not picking up a pair of burgundy ikat velvet Mary Janes from Teplo in Tashkent.

For more Uzbekistan tips, tricks & recs — including design-forward city guides for Tashkent, Bukhara, and Samarkand — visit Armchair-Traveler.com.

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You may have noticed that I’ve been quiet here these last few months. I’ve been busy: building a library of design-forward travel guides, reviews, itineraries and more over at Armchair-Traveler.com and reimagining how I want to show up here on Substack.

When I started writing this newsletter last year, I used it as a platform to share my best travel recs for fellow design-obsessed travelers. But after a few months of publishing recs on recs on recs, I realized that I didn’t just want to write about the best meals in Paris or the best shops in London.

Instead, I wanted a space to share my favorite design discoveries (like Uzbek tapchans, Peruvian églomisé, and Peranakan tiles), cultural commentary (yes, street fashion counts as culture), and personal stories (like the time I brought a Parisian chandelier home in my carry-on).

Moving forward, I’ll treat Armchair Traveler here on Substack as part design dispatch, part travelogue. Every week, subscribers can expect a mix of:

• Design diaries from places that inspire me (first up: Silk Road monuments in Uzbekistan, flea markets in Buenos Aires, and gilded salons in Paris)

• Deep dives into objects and aesthetics worth obsessing over (think richly-embroidered suzanis, splashy botanical wallpapers, dreamy canopy beds, and more)

• Behind-the-scenes snapshots from my latest travels (most recently, a 2-week jaunt across South America, a mother-daughter weekend in Paris, and a 70-mile trek along the Tour du Mont Blanc)

Destination-specific recommendations - city guides, itineraries, hotel reviews, and more - will continue to live on Armchair-Traveler.com.

I’m glad you’re joining along for the journey.

Cheers,

Sarah