The Curious Case of the Venetian Vanity
An auction whodunnit that raises more questions than answers
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to pounce at the first sign that I’d been outbid. My brain whirred, calculating and recalculating my highest and best offer. Fresh off of a string of losses - most recently, a black lacquered cabinet that sold for 6x the estimate - my heart pounded as I willed the fair warning notice to appear.
My screen lit up, but not with fair warning: instead, it was another competing bid that blew past the high end of the estimate. Acting on pure instinct, I made my counter bid, and then another, and another, just as quickly topping my own highest and best.
Finally, the fair warning banner flashed. Several tense seconds later, the words “You won lot 0023!” appeared on my screen. The patinaed mirrored vanity, with faded gilded églomisé acanthus leaves, cabriole legs, and shell-shaped drawer pulls fit for a mermaid, was mine.
Down the LiveAuctioneers rabbit hole
Weeks earlier, I’d fallen down the LiveAuctioneers rabbit hole and was many pages deep in a search for églomisé casegoods when I stumbled across the vanity.
At first, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Did the patina - peeling gold and silver leaf and globs of petrified amber glue - speak of a storied past? Or were they simply symptoms of age and disrepair? Why were the cabriole legs seemingly unvarnished? And was the yellowish tinge on the front drawers a design choice, or simply a trick of the light?
But the more I looked at it, the more I was charmed: by the shell-shaped drawer pulls, finished in an oxidized bronze that made them look as though they’d been plucked from a shipwreck. By the delicate acanthus leaf border that shimmered in the light. By the dimensions that would work perfectly in my bedroom (and which, ironically, happened to be materially misstated in the auction catalog).
ISO comparables: 18th-century Venetian or 20th-century Hollywood Regency?
My appraisal instincts kicked in as soon as I started contemplating my bidding strategy. I searched for comparables, using the auction catalog’s description as my guide: Italian, likely a mid-20th century reproduction, inspired by 18th century Venetian styles.
My first task: to identify the specific reference silhouette or historical style, which would help me find and price more modern reproductions of that same style. I assumed this would be straightforward, similar to identifying a Louis XVI-style armchair or a Sputnik chandelier using a mix of keyword searches and pattern matching.
When I searched for 18th- and 19th-century Venetian vanities and writing desks, I found plenty of reference material: rolltop desks with polished burl wood finishes, handpainted wooden chests, and Rococo-style console tables that glittered with gilt detailing. My vanity shared some - but not all - of these elements: the cabriole legs, the delicate proportions, the classical ornamentation and the maritime motifs.
But as I continued my search, I realized that my vanity actually had more in common visually with the Hollywood Regency styles that were popular in the mid-20th century. This is not surprising: Hollywood Regency designers were famously inspired by Baroque opulence and Rococo frivolity, and églomisé enjoyed a notable resurgence.
My gut instinct, based on the photos, auction catalog, and comparables? My vanity was more directly inspired by the Hollywood Regency era than by 18th-century Venetian styles. And the fact that I couldn’t find any exact matches suggested that it was not mass-produced or mass-marketed.
The plot thickens: The physical inspection
Weeks after my winning bid, my vanity finally arrived; I breathed a sigh of relief that it had survived the journey to my second-floor walk-up intact (though I can’t say the same for my neighbors’ outdoor task lights).
I inspected it from top to bottom: opening every drawer to check the joinery, scanning every surface for labels and marks, and getting my tape measure out to verify the dimensions. Three things immediately caught my attention: a gallery tag forgotten in a drawer, the quality of the joinery and the interior construction, and - interestingly - a complete lack of any distinguishing labels or marks.
A mystery gallery tag
The auction catalog made no mention of the item’s provenance - no known estate, previous owner, or purchase date - so I nearly squealed with delight when I opened up a drawer to find a tag from Goodrich Gallery, complete with a handwritten description - “19th century Venetian mirrored dressing table” - and price point (nearly 4x what I paid).
I desperately wanted to know more about Goodrich Gallery: where they were located, what types of items they sold (did they specialize in European antiques?), when they were in business and whether they were still operating today. After a few hours of internet sleuthing, I concluded, regrettably, that Goodrich Gallery is now defunct (or if they are still in business, operating without so much as a website or a Google listing).
Something else about that gallery tag had triggered my spidey senses, though: the assertion that the vanity was old (19th century), Venetian (signaling that it had been imported at some point), and expensive ($4,800 retail is no small sum). What I’d seen in my physical inspection strongly suggested otherwise, on all three counts.
Construction clues
I carefully removed each of the drawers, inspecting them for clues that would reveal when and how the vanity was constructed.
Though the drawers appeared to be made of real wood (rather than a wood veneer or particle board), the joinery was rudimentary, constructed using a simple glued-butt technique rather than more advanced dovetail or finger joints.
The materials felt closer to an Ikea flat pack than a period antique: thin, machine-cut wood panels, with signs of ordinary wear and tear that suggested decades, rather than centuries, of use. Gobs of glue ran down the edges; the edges of the drawer fronts were streaked haphazardly with sage paint that appeared on the mirrored surfaces.
Inside, the drawers were painted in a single coat of chalky, salmon-colored paint that felt straight out of the 1970s. It felt like the work of a hobbyist woodworker, rather than a master craftsman.
The physical evidence supported what I suspected: this piece was decidedly not a 19th century antique, as the gallery tag suggested, but rather a modern, likely mid- or late-20th century reproduction.
My hunch? The vanity was built by an enthusiastic amateur woodworker in the 1970s or 1980s, using a prefab frame that was then customized by hand to dramatic effect.
Missing marks
I scoured every surface for distinguishing marks or labels - a furniture company’s logo, import stamps, anything - that could further verify the vanity’s origins.
Since the late 19th century, federal US law has required that all imports be marked with their country of origin - think the “Made in England” stamps visible on the backs of 20th century Wedgwood jasperware. While exceptions are available for genuine antiques, these exceptions do not apply to modern day reproductions, especially when such reproductions are specifically designed for export to the US.
My inspection did not reveal a single mark or label that indicated its country of origin, implying that it had not been imported to the US. I couldn’t see any evidence that it had been made for the retail market, either: there weren’t any visible furniture makers or resellers labels or signatures.
The verdict: A glamorous DIY project
The evidence supported my hypothesis: that this piece was likely handmade (but perhaps using precut materials) in the United States in the second half of the 20th century, by a novice woodworker with a passion for advanced decorative techniques. It was likely made for personal use rather than resale: a glamorous, relatively advanced DIY project.
I still have plenty of unanswered questions, though. Who made the vanity? I pictured someone like Maxine Dellacorte-Simmons from Palm Royale, an outsider in 1960s Palm Beach high society desperate to fit in with her snobbish neighbors, revving the power saw in her garage as she dripped wood glue across the floor. What actually inspired its design - Venetian maritime iconography? Maison Jansen’s églomisé styles? How did it end up in a now-defunct gallery, marketed as a genuine 19th century European antique, and later on the auction house floor?
I don’t have all the answers - and yet, I still get a thrill every time I look at my vanity, glittering in the morning light, imagining the possibilities.
Enjoyed this post? You may also like:
You are a super sleuth! Agatha Christie's Miss Marple would be proud!