Discovering a Rarefied Auction House in Asheville’s Historic Heart
There’s something transformative about stumbling upon a place that doesn’t just sell beautiful things, but curates them with devotion—especially when it lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Asheville, North Carolina, is known for its art deco architecture, bohemian spirit, and a creative pulse that stretches from its galleries to its outdoor cafes. Amidst that cultural richness is an auction house that doesn’t merely auction objects—it tells stories, one lot at a time.
This season marked my first in-depth exploration of the auction house in question. Though I had long been familiar with its reputation among private collectors and institutional curators, it had remained somewhat in the periphery of my collecting journey. That all changed with their spring event—a two-day celebration of legacy, taste, and rarity. More than just a sale, it felt like an invitation to witness history change hands.
Their headquarters is no ordinary showroom. Spanning over 26,000 square feet, it feels more like a curated museum than a marketplace. The interiors are understated and elegant, emphasizing reverence for the items on display. You can sense the care that goes into presentation: polished wood floors reflecting the gleam of century-old chandeliers, auction staff who know provenance down to the smallest engraving, and lighted display cabinets that treat every artifact as a work of art. Even the digital catalog, often a forgettable tool in lesser houses, felt like a journey through private collections once hidden away.
This spring’s event was particularly electric. With over 800 items on offer, including a stunning collection of antique adornments, the sale offered more than inventory—it offered intimacy. Pieces were not just photographed; they were honored in description, with language that gave you pause and pulled you closer. It was here, for the first time, that I began to think of auctions not as transactions, but as emotional passages.
Stories Woven in Metal and Memory
One piece that lingered in my thoughts long after the catalog closed was a necklace from the Art Deco era. Its geometric structure radiated restraint and elegance. Deep-hued stones, set in symmetrical harmony, gave it the visual rhythm of architecture. But beyond its construction, what struck me was its quiet glamour—the kind that doesn’t announce itself but rewards attention. It reminded me that design is often more powerful when it whispers rather than shouts.
Equally captivating was a pair of earrings from the early 1800s, designed to transform from day to evening wear. The ingenuity behind this duality—practicality embedded in opulence—seemed almost forgotten in today’s market. These earrings weren’t just beautiful; they were functional history, wearable relics of a time when fashion and utility coexisted with grace.
As I made my way through the digital preview, another ring caught my eye. Set in platinum and centering on a purplish-blue stone, the piece featured flanking accents that shimmered with the quiet confidence of an heirloom. The ring bore a Canadian hallmark, evidence of its origin in a house known for quality and restraint. It was not flamboyant; rather, it exuded the elegance of certainty, of craftsmanship executed with humility.
There was another ring—a departure from traditional forms—that captured my imagination. Composed of black onyx, amethyst, and a centrally mounted diamond, its playful asymmetry felt fresh even decades after its creation. This wasn’t a piece made for conformity; it was a talisman for the unconventional, a delight for those who crave idiosyncrasy. Its silhouette was domed, sculptural, and richly layered. It didn’t ask for attention; it commanded curiosity.
A diamond pendant from the 19th century presented a different kind of emotional gravity. Rendered in a combination of 10k gold and silver-topped gold, its stones were cut in old mine and rose styles, the sparkle soft with age. Holding it in one’s hand would be akin to holding the breath of a bygone era—a whisper of candlelight, a remnant of a handwritten letter, a story suspended in time. There’s a depth to aged pieces like this that transcends their components. They pulse with emotional residue.
Then came a brooch with a shield motif—an emblem once popular among societies and private clubs, now a rare find. Adorned with onyx and old cut stones, it balanced symbolism and design with effortless elegance. Its chain, far from being an afterthought, was intricate and weighty, suggesting that this was not just decoration but declaration. Jewelry like this speaks of allegiances, loyalties, or silent honors bestowed across generations.
Throughout the catalog, what emerged was not just an appreciation for style or monetary value—it was reverence for memory. Every clasp, setting, or stone placement became a kind of punctuation mark in a larger, unwritten novel. These weren’t objects. They were emotional topographies.
This realization made me reconsider how we relate to items labeled as “collectible.” It’s easy to dismiss antique auctions as havens for material indulgence. But these auctions are often the only places where stories survive intact. Unlike a museum, where objects are frozen in interpretive vitrines, auctions allow for reanimation. They permit these pieces to return to human hands, to once again be part of lived experience. That, in itself, feels revolutionary.
Why Auctions Still Matter in a World of Mass Production
As we move deeper into a culture of speed—fast fashion, rapid drops, disposable trends—there’s something inherently radical about taking time to sit with an object, to consider its lineage. Auctions slow you down. They require research, contemplation, and above all, intention.
Attending this spring sale reminded me that collecting is not about acquisition—it’s about discernment. The best collectors are not hoarders. They’re curators of meaning. They know that a 19th-century brooch can carry more emotional resonance than a thousand perfectly photographed Instagram posts. They understand that a hand-etched ring, passed from one unknown lover to another, may teach us more about the human condition than a modern retail campaign ever could.
There is also something tactile and grounding in this experience. In a digital world, where so much of our lives are pixelated and ephemeral, holding a piece that has physically endured centuries is nothing short of humbling. It makes you a steward, not just an owner. And stewardship comes with responsibility—the responsibility to preserve, to honor, and to pass on.
What’s more, auctions introduce an element of surprise that online shopping can never replicate. You don’t browse by algorithm. You stumble, you get lost, you fall in love. You learn. You revise your taste. You question your assumptions. And sometimes, you simply lose. That, too, is part of the beauty. In losing a bid, you realize how much something meant to you. Or you discover that its absence leaves room for something even more meaningful to arrive.
The Asheville auction reaffirmed my belief in the art of patient pursuit. In the middle of that catalog—somewhere between a Victorian hair locket and a sculptural mid-century bracelet—I remembered what drew me to collecting in the first place. It wasn’t the shine. It was the soul.
There are few venues left in our modern lives that cultivate such emotional awareness through objects. Auctions, when done right, become meditative spaces. They are places where you come not just to buy, but to reflect. Not just to win, but to witness.
This spring’s event wasn’t just a sale. It was an experience, a quiet reminder that while trends may fade, the longing for authenticity remains constant. The auction house in Asheville delivered not just on catalog beauty, but on emotional resonance.
When Jewelry Speaks in Silhouettes and Sentiment
There are pieces you wear for their shimmer, and then there are those you return to for their stories. The latter are rarely loud; they don't always steal the spotlight at first glance. But with time, they reveal a gravity that turns them into anchors—of memory, of style, of emotion. As I wandered deeper into the catalog of this unforgettable spring auction, it became clear that some pieces were not just accessories—they were chronicles of eras, worn testimonies of what beauty meant in another time.
One such story began with a necklace set in platinum, Lot 107. At its center, a stone of brilliant blue—identified as Ceylon in origin—sat like the quiet heartbeat of the piece. But to focus only on its color would be to miss the composition around it. The metalwork curled and coiled like a whispered name in cursive, deliberate yet organic. Diamonds paved a subtle path along the edges, their presence not blaring but harmonious, serving as background chorus rather than lead soloist. The chain itself was art, not an afterthought. It shimmered with a dew-like delicacy that reminded me of early morning light seeping through lace curtains.
This piece didn’t shout wealth. It murmured legacy.
Nearby in the catalog was a ring with a more peculiar soul—Lot 94. At first glance, it didn’t conform to modern expectations of symmetry or sparkle. Instead, it challenged the eye. A center diamond, old-cut and imperfectly perfect, was ringed with black enamel in a way that made it pop like ink on aged paper. It carried that inky defiance of Art Nouveau design, that quiet but audacious spirit that belongs to creatives and dreamers. I imagined it once belonged to someone who preferred diaries over speeches, someone who collected poetry clippings and dried roses between book pages.
Then came Lot 60, a study in elegance pared back to its essentials. Crafted in warm 14k yellow gold, this ring featured five round-cut stones arranged in a vertical line. The layout elongated the finger, but more than that, it suggested grace through balance. Nothing about it was excessive. And yet, it stayed with me. It was the kind of ring that would become part of a person—worn every day, passed down not because of carat weight, but because of its emotional continuity. The kind of piece that feels like a touchstone more than a trophy.
What fascinated me most about these finds wasn't their market value—it was their ability to stir the imagination. They made me wonder about the lives they once adorned. The ceremonies, the silences, the secrets. They were not trophies of wealth. They were vessels of witness.
Refined Rarity in a World of Repetition
And then, there was Lot 95—a ring that nearly convinced me to raise my paddle. At its center, a green stone with a garden’s soul: an emerald so deep and vivid it could have been pulled from the dreams of spring itself. Framed by a halo of bright white stones and mounted on platinum-topped gold, it echoed a time when optimism was designed into jewelry. This piece was not just elegant. It had charisma. Its presence felt declarative but dignified, like the kind of woman who arrives quietly and somehow still holds the room.
What made this piece special wasn’t just the stone or the setting, but the dialogue between them. The juxtaposition of cool platinum and warm yellow gold, of vibrant green and crisp sparkle, created a balance that felt emotionally true. As if the ring was less about symmetry and more about chemistry. Like all great design, it invited reflection, not just admiration.
Beyond the big-ticket lots, quieter marvels began to emerge. A Victorian-era pendant caught my attention not because of its flash, but because of its floral honesty. Composed of seed pearls and garnets arranged in a botanical spray, it offered no pretense of modernism. Instead, it evoked the garden motifs of its age, when jewelry and nature were deeply intertwined. This wasn’t symbolism; it was sincerity. It reminded me of pressed violets in glass, of hairwork lockets, of the era when sentiment and craftsmanship walked hand in hand.
In that pendant, I saw a whole worldview. One that didn’t separate adornment from emotion, or art from everyday life. It was as if the piece were asking us to remember the days when people didn’t wear jewelry to dazzle others—but to carry something of themselves into the world.
So often we praise clarity, size, perfection. But the truth is, those traits rarely move us. What stays with us are the peculiarities. The slight chip that marks a ring as worn. The patina that softens gold into something more human. The asymmetry that reminds us we’re not meant to match, but to belong. These pieces, in their quiet defiance of modern uniformity, offer not just beauty—but intimacy.
They are reminders that some of the most meaningful adornments are not new—they are known.
The Value of Wearing Memory in a Disposable World
Let us pause for a moment in this sensory journey—not to itemize, but to philosophize. In an age where everything is marketed as "limited edition" yet produced in millions, true uniqueness has become not just rare—it has become revolutionary. We are drowning in options but starved for substance. And in this storm of replication, vintage and antique jewelry offer refuge. Not just because they are older. But because they hold time like a chalice. Because they carry fingerprints of artisans who will never be algorithmic. Because they demand presence, not passive scrolling.
To collect such pieces is not merely to possess. It is to participate in a continuum. When we choose something worn, crafted, loved—we choose slowness. We choose reverence. We choose imperfection that speaks of life lived richly, not merely designed slickly.
Jewelry of the past reminds us that detail once mattered deeply. That a curve wasn’t just a flourish—it was a signature. That a setting wasn’t just a technical choice—it was an emotional one. And wearing these pieces today is not an exercise in nostalgia—it is an act of resilience. A declaration that we are not willing to forget. That we believe in things made to last. That we still want to feel more than we want to impress.
I return to the catalog now with new eyes. What I saw as rings, pendants, and necklaces are really reminders. Reminders that beauty is not a trend. That craftsmanship is not a phase. That human connection can be transmitted through metal and stone, passed across centuries, and worn again with new purpose.
This is not the kind of luxury that shouts. This is luxury that listens.
And in listening, we remember why we fell in love with objects in the first place. Not because they were flawless—but because they were familiar. Because they felt like home.
The Digital Renaissance of Auction Culture
Once reserved for elites in mahogany-paneled rooms, auctions were once characterized by whispers, white gloves, and a sense of exclusivity so thick it clung like cigar smoke. Yet in recent years, a quiet revolution has unfolded. The world of auction collecting is no longer a cloistered affair. It has become a living, breathing cultural exchange—digital, accessible, and emotionally layered.
The spring auction I immersed myself in symbolized this new chapter. Where once participation required proximity—being present in person or knowing someone on the inside—today’s access is as simple as a click. High-resolution images, carefully composed descriptions, and digitized provenance records have replaced the need to travel in order to feel connected. A woman in Tokyo can fall in love with a ring once worn in Savannah. A collector in Paris can chase a locket once held in Charleston. Borders collapse. What remains is emotion, longing, curiosity.
It’s not merely about browsing beautiful objects. The experience has become educational, social, and oddly intimate. You don’t just scroll—you study. You absorb context. You interpret symbolism. You ask questions, and sometimes, you fall in love. The auction catalog becomes your library, your mood board, your map of meaning.
Lot 68, for example, is a pair of Georgian-era earrings—more than 21 carats of diamonds suspended in two settings, masterfully crafted to transform from daywear to formal evening jewels. This kind of duality feels startlingly modern. To think that 19th-century jewelers were already designing with adaptability in mind reminds us how much innovation is rooted in history. The weight of the stones is impressive, yes, but their functionality—this idea of changeable elegance—adds an intellectual thrill.
The evolution of the auction space is not simply in access; it is in experience. What was once transactional has become narrative. Auction houses now engage in storytelling, crafting emails and videos that show a bracelet in motion, a necklace catching the light at dusk. They speak not only of cut, clarity, and carat, but of lineage and legacy. They are not merely selling objects. They are presenting soulwork.
The democratization of auctions means something profound: more people are allowed to connect with history, to engage in preservation. You no longer need a personal invitation to witness a masterpiece; you just need attention and curiosity. The thrill is not only in the win—it’s in the witnessing. Watching a piece find its next chapter, whether you are the bidder or the bystander, is an act of reverence in itself.
Heirlooms in Waiting: From Lot Numbers to Living Stories
What struck me most in this spring sale wasn’t the sheer beauty of the offerings, but the feeling that many of them were not meant to be tucked away in safes or hidden in drawers. They were meant to live again.
Take Lot 99, for instance—a platinum ring with an 8-carat center stone that glowed with the soft fire of a twilight sky. Framed by smaller cushion-cut stones, its design is restrained yet poetic. The ring wears its drama lightly, relying not on excess but on presence. The BIRKS hallmark etched inside is more than a signature—it’s a whisper of Canadian heritage, a promise of quality forged through time.
What makes pieces like these stand apart is their emotional precision. They aren’t loud, but they are exact. They are not the kind of jewelry you wear to be seen. They are the kind you wear to remember. And increasingly, that’s what draws collectors in today. We aren’t interested in flash. We crave depth. Meaning. The echo of memory in form.
That sense of resonance is deepened through how collectors now share their journeys. Instagram stories document bidding processes. Facebook groups analyze catalog lots. TikTok videos feature unboxings of pieces shipped across continents. What was once a solitary pursuit has become collective. There’s comfort in knowing that others are also searching for pieces that remind them of someone, something, some version of themselves.
One such piece that sparked community conversation was Lot 80, a brooch of onyx carved into the shape of a shield, with old-cut stones set in geometric patterns. It feels medieval and modern all at once. The shield motif—an ancient emblem of strength and protection—could easily be overlooked in a catalog flooded with sparkle. But this one lingered. In uncertain times, people seek symbols. They want to wear their courage. They want to fasten protection close to their hearts. This brooch was not merely ornamental. It was totemic.
And yet, the poetry of these objects is not confined to their original intent. Each new owner brings a different meaning. A Victorian mourning locket may now be used to hold a poem. An Edwardian engagement ring may mark a commitment to self, rather than a partner. We no longer live in a world where meaning is dictated by tradition. We live in a world where personal narrative is sovereign.
Even our research practices have changed. No longer reliant on word-of-mouth or dealer introductions, modern collectors are now scholars. They analyze high-resolution images, cross-reference hallmarks, pull up auction results from decades past. They use Pinterest boards like visual diaries, build mood archives, consult with distant experts via video calls. The result? A collector’s decision is more informed—but also more heartfelt. We are not just investing. We are interpreting.
And through that interpretation, we become part of the jewelry’s future. Every lot number is a placeholder waiting to be renamed by love.
The Soulful Rebellion of Today’s Collector
It would be easy to assume that collecting antique jewelry is the pastime of the wealthy, the established, or the traditional. But what the spring sale revealed is that the opposite is now often true. The most passionate collectors are not just looking to invest—they’re looking to connect.
Lot 61, for example, is a dome-style ring that features a cabochon-cut violet stone embraced by onyx, crowned with a singular sparkling accent. Its aesthetic is sculptural, its mood almost meditative. It doesn’t beg to be shown off. It waits to be understood. A piece like this feels less like jewelry and more like a companion. You wear it not to make a statement, but to ground yourself.
This type of emotional design is what today’s collectors respond to. The new generation isn’t chasing trends. They’re building archives of self. They want pieces that carry mythology—either inherited or created anew. For them, a ring is not just a ring. It is a symbol, a witness, a secret waiting to be told.
Lot 63 offered another unforgettable moment: a Tanzanite ring, the 7.18-carat center glowing like a cobalt star, surrounded by a halo of clean, precise stones. The setting was contemporary, but the energy felt eternal. Tanzanite is not a traditional choice, and perhaps that is the point. Today’s collectors value what is unexpected. They don’t want the obvious prize. They want the ring that makes them feel something they can’t explain.
This is the soulful rebellion of the modern auction-goer. They are not here for showpieces. They are here for artifacts of emotion. They are not here for names. They are here for nuance. They are not defined by what they can buy, but by what they choose to love.
And so the auction becomes a mirror. It reflects back not only our taste, but our desires, our memories, and our beliefs. To collect now is to curate meaning. To bid is to believe—in beauty, in history, in the stories we carry and those we have yet to tell.
As we look toward the final chapter of this series, one truth emerges like light through stained glass: the act of collecting is no longer linear. It is not about accumulation, but about alignment. It is cyclical, emotional, ineffably human.
When Objects Carry Us Home
The culmination of a journey through an auction catalog rarely ends with a winning bid. The real conclusion, if we can even call it that, takes place in a quieter space—inward, reflective, and strangely timeless. As I revisit the moments from the spring sale, what lingers is not the list of final hammer prices, but the conversations. Between collector and object. Between present and past. Between longing and remembrance.
This final installment isn’t a summary. It is a tribute to the silent, sacred dimension of collecting—the one no high-resolution photo or lot number can capture. Because there comes a moment when we stop viewing jewelry as just material and start feeling it as narrative. These are not trinkets. They are memory devices. Tactile metaphors. Pieces that hold not only beauty but biography.
Lot 49 exemplified this poignantly. A diamond pendant from the 1800s, strung on a humble 10k gold chain, it shimmered with an interior life. Its old mine and rose-cut stones didn’t scream. They pulsed. With softness. With age. With humanity. One imagines it once sat against someone’s chest during a letter-writing hour, perhaps pinned beneath a woolen cloak, its diamonds catching the last of the candlelight. Wearing it now would be like opening a window to another century. You’d feel the echo of silence, the grace of stillness, the gravity of a life lived carefully and deeply.
Not far behind in emotional magnitude was Lot 78—a necklace rooted in Art Deco design, yet unbound by time. With its sapphire, ruby, and diamond elements arranged like lines on a musical staff, it played a visual symphony. The piece had structure, clarity, rhythm. But it also had feeling. There was a kind of architectural sadness to it, as though it had once witnessed grand parties followed by lonely walks home. These dualities—joy and quietude, extravagance and introspection—are why such pieces hold meaning. They remind us that jewelry is never static. It’s mood made wearable.
As I walked through the catalog once more in retrospect, I began to understand something I hadn’t articulated before. The deeper draw of antique collecting isn’t about status or style. It’s about continuity. These pieces are bridges—not just between time periods but between selves. They allow us to hold a mirror to who we are becoming by touching what once was.
This is why bidding never feels transactional. It feels confessional.
The Invisible Thread Between Emotion and Object
Collectors rarely speak plainly about why a particular item moves them. We use words like craftsmanship or rarity or period detail—but beneath those words are quieter truths. Maybe that ring reminds you of a mother who always wore sapphire. Maybe that necklace feels like the embodiment of your younger, braver self. Maybe that brooch is what you imagine your future daughter holding someday, asking you to tell the story.
Lot 95 became one such vessel of memory. A ring composed of emerald and diamond, its turn-of-the-century design crisp and hopeful, seemed to invite longing. It was not the green of envy, but of rebirth—verdant, lush, and emotionally alive. A woman I spoke to during the sale shared that her grandmother adored emeralds, and though she had no photos of her wearing them, she remembered the shade precisely. Bidding on the ring, for her, wasn’t an attempt to win. It was an effort to recover a part of someone she could no longer touch.
This, I realized, is why collectors appear to be such romantics. We do not chase jewelry merely for adornment. We seek talismans. Timekeepers. Emotional bookmarks. The ring you wear when you say goodbye. The bracelet you reach for before a first interview. The pendant that steadies your breath before a diagnosis. We imbue these objects with private meaning until they become vessels. They collect us.
And it’s not just women. More men than ever are entering this emotional landscape of collecting—not for ostentation but for expression. They are purchasing antique stick pins and Victorian watch chains, not to mirror wealth but to reflect personal evolution. One man told me his favorite piece was a mourning ring from the 1850s. Not because of the black enamel or the name inscribed inside, but because it reminded him that grief too could be beautiful. That honoring loss was a form of love.
There is a myth that collecting is about taste. But real collecting—the kind that keeps you up at night, refreshing the catalog, searching the provenance, wondering if you’ll ever find another like it—is about something deeper. It is about recognition. Something in that object sees something in you.
This is where auctions become sacred. When the gavel comes down, a transaction is recorded. But before that, a transformation has already occurred. You have declared belief in something intangible. You have decided that a fragment of metal and stone, shaped by someone you’ll never meet, belongs to your story.
Curating Selfhood Through Objects That Remember
As this four-part exploration concludes, I find myself no longer thinking of auctions as markets. I think of them as memoirs. Not written in ink, but in lapis and garnet, gold and pearl. Each lot is a line in a poem too old to be fully deciphered, yet new enough to be finished by you.
Because the truth is, we are all curators. Not just of our homes or our wardrobes, but of our emotional landscapes. We seek objects that reflect what we feel and want and hope for. We purchase based not on logic but on resonance. And that resonance becomes a kind of language—one we wear, display, and sometimes keep hidden, like a secret kept safe in velvet.
I don’t remember the most expensive lots in the auction. I remember the ones that made me pause. That made me wonder who wore them. Who kissed someone goodnight with that ring still on their finger. Who left that locket behind because the pain was too great. Who, one century later, opens a padded envelope and feels the weight of someone else’s love.
Jewelry is intention cast in metal. Emotion carved into form. Memory made durable.
In a world increasingly obsessed with disposability, there’s something revolutionary about choosing what lasts. About wearing things that carry soul. About buying not to show, but to honor. Auctions, at their best, remind us that value is not always visible. Sometimes it’s hidden in the crease of a worn engraving, the softness of aged gold, the click of a clasp that still works after a hundred years.
With the spring catalog now closed, and the dust of bidding settled, what remains isn’t just ownership. What remains is echo. The echo of stories extended, connections made, identities affirmed.
When Objects Carry Us Home
The culmination of a journey through an auction catalog rarely ends with a winning bid. The real conclusion, if we can even call it that, takes place in a quieter space—inward, reflective, and strangely timeless. As I revisit the moments from the spring sale, what lingers is not the list of final hammer prices, but the conversations. Between collector and object. Between present and past. Between longing and remembrance.
This final installment isn’t a summary. It is a tribute to the silent, sacred dimension of collecting—the one no high-resolution photo or lot number can capture. Because there comes a moment when we stop viewing jewelry as just material and start feeling it as narrative. These are not trinkets. They are memory devices. Tactile metaphors. Pieces that hold not only beauty but biography.
Lot 49 exemplified this poignantly. A diamond pendant from the 1800s, strung on a humble 10k gold chain, it shimmered with an interior life. Its old mine and rose-cut stones didn’t scream. They pulsed. With softness. With age. With humanity. One imagines it once sat against someone’s chest during a letter-writing hour, perhaps pinned beneath a woolen cloak, its diamonds catching the last of the candlelight. Wearing it now would be like opening a window to another century. You’d feel the echo of silence, the grace of stillness, the gravity of a life lived carefully and deeply.
Not far behind in emotional magnitude was Lot 78—a necklace rooted in Art Deco design, yet unbound by time. With its sapphire, ruby, and diamond elements arranged like lines on a musical staff, it played a visual symphony. The piece had structure, clarity, rhythm. But it also had feeling. There was a kind of architectural sadness to it, as though it had once witnessed grand parties followed by lonely walks home. These dualities—joy and quietude, extravagance and introspection—are why such pieces hold meaning. They remind us that jewelry is never static. It’s mood made wearable.
As I walked through the catalog once more in retrospect, I began to understand something I hadn’t articulated before. The deeper draw of antique collecting isn’t about status or style. It’s about continuity. These pieces are bridges—not just between time periods but between selves. They allow us to hold a mirror to who we are becoming by touching what once was.
This is why bidding never feels transactional. It feels confessional.
The Invisible Thread Between Emotion and Object
Collectors rarely speak plainly about why a particular item moves them. We use words like craftsmanship or rarity or period detail—but beneath those words are quieter truths. Maybe that ring reminds you of a mother who always wore sapphire. Maybe that necklace feels like the embodiment of your younger, braver self. Maybe that brooch is what you imagine your future daughter holding someday, asking you to tell the story.
Lot 95 became one such vessel of memory. A ring composed of emerald and diamond, its turn-of-the-century design crisp and hopeful, seemed to invite longing. It was not the green of envy, but of rebirth—verdant, lush, and emotionally alive. A woman I spoke to during the sale shared that her grandmother adored emeralds, and though she had no photos of her wearing them, she remembered the shade precisely. Bidding on the ring, for her, wasn’t an attempt to win. It was an effort to recover a part of someone she could no longer touch.
This, I realized, is why collectors appear to be such romantics. We do not chase jewelry merely for adornment. We seek talismans. Timekeepers. Emotional bookmarks. The ring you wear when you say goodbye. The bracelet you reach for before a first interview. The pendant that steadies your breath before a diagnosis. We imbue these objects with private meaning until they become vessels. They collect us.
And it’s not just women. More men than ever are entering this emotional landscape of collecting—not for ostentation but for expression. They are purchasing antique stick pins and Victorian watch chains, not to mirror wealth but to reflect personal evolution. One man told me his favorite piece was a mourning ring from the 1850s. Not because of the black enamel or the name inscribed inside, but because it reminded him that grief too could be beautiful. That honoring loss was a form of love.
There is a myth that collecting is about taste. But real collecting—the kind that keeps you up at night, refreshing the catalog, searching the provenance, wondering if you’ll ever find another like it—is about something deeper. It is about recognition. Something in that object sees something in you.
This is where auctions become sacred. When the gavel comes down, a transaction is recorded. But before that, a transformation has already occurred. You have declared belief in something intangible. You have decided that a fragment of metal and stone, shaped by someone you’ll never meet, belongs to your story.
Curating Selfhood Through Objects That Remember
As this four-part exploration concludes, I find myself no longer thinking of auctions as markets. I think of them as memoirs. Not written in ink, but in lapis and garnet, gold and pearl. Each lot is a line in a poem too old to be fully deciphered, yet new enough to be finished by you.
Because the truth is, we are all curators. Not just of our homes or our wardrobes, but of our emotional landscapes. We seek objects that reflect what we feel and want and hope for. We purchase based not on logic but on resonance. And that resonance becomes a kind of language—one we wear, display, and sometimes keep hidden, like a secret kept safe in velvet.
I don’t remember the most expensive lots in the auction. I remember the ones that made me pause. That made me wonder who wore them. Who kissed someone goodnight with that ring still on their finger. Who left that locket behind because the pain was too great. Who, one century later, opens a padded envelope and feels the weight of someone else’s love.
Jewelry is intention cast in metal. Emotion carved into form. Memory made durable.
In a world increasingly obsessed with disposability, there’s something revolutionary about choosing what lasts. About wearing things that carry soul. About buying not to show, but to honor. Auctions, at their best, remind us that value is not always visible. Sometimes it’s hidden in the crease of a worn engraving, the softness of aged gold, the click of a clasp that still works after a hundred years.