When William Faulkner remarked that the past is not dead, that, in fact, it’s not even past, he didn’t go far enough. I am walking down Portobello Road and the evidence of the past is glowing, vibrating, bouncing all around me: frames and fountain pens, toys and tortoiseshell, watches and walking sticks, pewter and perfume bottles—something for every collector’s taste including my own, which runs to, among other things, Victorian jewelry, girly tabletop bibelots, and, I am ashamed to admit, 100-year-old working-class dolls that, in most cases, have seen better days. I’ve been coming to Portobello since I was a teenager searching for Victorian velvet dresses that cost $1.50, and as my tastes have grown more refined I have only found more and more to enchant me. The sheer range of collectibles in this small corner of London is astonishing enough, and then there are the vendors—from thrillingly erudite to downright nutty—who expand your knowledge even as they shrink your budget.
Day 1: 1,500 Dealers Await
It’s 8:30 on a clear Saturday morning, the earliest I can manage to get here, though friends have urged me to arrive sooner, since they say the serious trading is over by now. This is the first outing of a long weekend dedicated to antiquing in London that I’ve been planning since the days the pound soared; by the time I amble down Portobello, past the plaque on George Orwell’s old house, the exchange rate is more favorable, an unexpected bonus but not something I’d counted on. In truth, I always find bargains in London on quirky antiques and curios I could never come across in the States.
These three blocks are near to paradise for me, and I’m swimming in the ecstasy of anticipation when I see my friend Allen Ward, a jewelry dealer who’s been setting up at Portobello for 15 years. I tell him I’m heading for the Central Gallery, where the fanciest jewelry is, and he crinkles his nose. “Too rich for me in there,” he sniffs. So we make a plan to meet at our mutual friend Vanessa Williams’s stall in a few hours.
At the Central Gallery, the narrow middle aisle is thronged with shoppers. And if offerings are hardly bargain-basement, they are exquisite and well worth the prices, which are at least a third less than they would be in New York. Between this place and the Crown Arcade, where high-end jewelry people congregate in the back, my budget is rapidly expanding upward. Instead of a self-imposed $500 limit, why can’t I spend $1,000 for that 19th-century bracelet dangling a mine-cut diamond heart?
To distract myself, I contemplate the offerings at the Portobello Print & Map Shop and am sorely tempted by a drawing of two lady golfers in sporty ensembles (circa 1910) for $28. I wonder if I need a frankly fake horn- handled magnifying glass, for sale at an outdoor table, or an authentic print of Babar the Elephant for $12, from a stack at a stall in the middle of the street.
By the time I get to Vanessa’s booth, in Rogers Antiques Gallery, an arcade with a wildly eclectic range of merchandise, the diamond bracelet has become an obsession. “Why can’t I spend $1,000?” I wail. Vanessa laughs and shows me what’s new with her. While she’s unveiling a stupendous diamond bird in its original box for $2,200, a Japanese fashionista in a vintage coat is mesmerized by a long silver-and-crystal necklace from the 1920’s marked $78. A calculator gets whipped out to figure the yen-pound conversion. Vanessa whispers that she can’t keep these chains in stock.
I wish I wanted an Art Deco chain. But I don’t. I want that bracelet. I keep pining until Allen comes by and takes me to 91 Portobello, the arcade where he sets up. He introduces me to Jacquie Borsberry of Jacquie’s Costume Jewellery and her extraordinary collection of Czech glass bracelets, Egyptian-Revival pendants, and 1960’s Pop Art flower brooches that could have been plucked from Twiggy’s boudoir. “What recession?Jacquie’s here every Saturday in her little shoppette,” the proprietress laughs.
By 1 p.m. the street is thick with tourists. It suddenly occurs to me that Mycal Tupper, my diamond-bracelet guy, may be packing up early, so, heart racing, I rush over, and though I have nowhere near $1,000 in English money and he, like many dealers, is loath to take credit cards, we find a way—he accepts an American check and the deal is done. Oh well. At least I make him throw in a nice vintage box to conceal my shameful deed.
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