One auction provided a particularly memorable reminder not to always trust first appearances, and of how easy it is to be wrong. When bidding at an auction in Surrey years ago, a rather fine early 18th-century maritime scene was offered that appeared to be very large and in the perfect rustic plain oak frame from the same period, likely the original. When it arrived at our studio warehouse alongside the other new acquisitions, we discovered that the imposing picture was, in fact, just 14cm in height. Fortunately, it still had charm, and sold relatively quickly.

Assessing thousands of newly discovered paintings, drawings and prints each month, you become attuned to true quality, whether it’s hidden behind a discoloured varnish, an earlier restoration or simply evident in the hand of an adept artist. And then framing is all important. An antique frame that is perfectly suited to a particular picture can just ‘click’ into place immediately. When a piece leaves us, we hope a sense of discovery, authenticity and quality goes with it. Human-made pieces from centuries past have a presence that cannot be rivalled. An undisputed original brings all this and more to a space, and these qualities do not disappear easily.

There isn’t a rigid logic to what I collect, but I always buy with place and purpose in mind. The first piece of antique furniture I ever owned was passed down to me: a dark oak Jacobean cabinet that initially I didn’t like, in fact I thought was pretty ugly. Later, when I moved to a larger house, I was able to place it in the hall and I absolutely loved it. It had space to breathe and wasn’t fighting for attention. It taught me how to look at a piece in context, and the value of keeping an open mind. More than anything, it showed me how much a piece can be transformed by its surroundings.

Once a piece has caught my attention, it’s then about the more practical task of checking provenance, condition and everything else that sits behind that first impression. Living with a piece is very different from simply owning it. Over time, you notice different things about it: how it looks in different light, at different times of day, a detail you hadn’t seen before, or a mark left by the maker. The best antiques reveal themselves gradually and become part of the rhythm and atmosphere of a room. I hope that same thrill goes with a piece when it finds its next home, and that it brings as much pleasure to its new owner.

The biggest shift in my collecting came when I discovered the Swedish mid-century market. Until then, I knew I liked vintage oil paintings, but I hadn’t really found my thing. Suddenly I was seeing paintings I was consistently drawn to, and once you recognise those patterns, you begin looking more closely. You understand what continues to hold your attention over time, and your collection begins to take shape almost without you realising it. That’s not to say I only like Swedish art, but it was the first time I realised what I was really looking for. We now curate original oil paintings sourced across Europe, with a particular love for Swedish, French, Italian and Spanish pieces.

A painting is never simply something to fill a wall. I think of it as a reminder of a place, a person, a moment in time. Many people think they need specialist knowledge to buy art, but I’ve never believed that. You don’t need to know the details of an artist’s life or understand a movement to form a connection with a painting. I’ve never believed in overcomplicating it. What matters is whether you are drawn to something and want to keep looking at it. I simply hope people enjoy the pieces they buy from me, and that the paintings become part of the rooms they live in and the lives they lead.

We come back to people who share our values. We want to create pieces for our projects that feel like heirlooms rather than anything disposable; something that’s right for now and continues to feel right years from now. It might be somewhere like a tiny antiques dealer in Italy we visited recently. The collection wasn’t beautifully polished and curated, just shelves and shelves of pieces, all one of a kind and so beautiful. Or showrooms we return to in London, where we’re based. It’s about finding like-minded collaborators whose philosophy mirrors our own. Where every piece, antique or new, is classic and enduring.

We love the 100% linens from LF Fabrics, which we use across upholstery and sheers in our projects. They just fit us perfectly, in terms of what we like to put into interiors: all natural fibres, relaxed, comfortable and calming. We use Armadillo a lot too – their jute rugs appear across almost all of our projects. They are incredibly durable, exceptionally versatile and can go anywhere. Their Eden rug in particular has become a constant in our work; it’s great for family life but also suits somewhere more elevated.

The LA house was for a returning client. It was very contemporary, with a strong indoor-outdoor connection. We focused on adding texture and warmth through timber, linen, wool and jute, layering in lighting. We often style projects with pieces from our studio, and clients will say, “Please leave it, we’ll buy these off you.” They’re all one-of-a-kind objects, so it’s always slightly hard to let them go! Those pieces, like our network of makers, reflect the way we like to work: everything is built around the same language of natural materials, beauty and longevity.

When a project is finished, the question I always ask myself is: Does this feel like it could have been this way forever? If you can’t tell which era it is from, that is a success. This way of working sits at the heart of our interiors at De Rosee Sa. Interiors are a process, something obsessively researched: we are always considering how a space, whether a period property or new, will evolve; how it will absorb new pieces, accommodate change, and reflect the lives lived within it.

Different aspects mean you have a variety of light across the day and across the floor plan. But there are in-between spaces – corridors, transitional areas – that tend to always be darker. I like to commit to colour and, in these cases, paint them deeper and richer; suddenly they have atmosphere and intention. Then the south-facing rooms, flooded with light throughout the day, we will treat in a lighter, brighter way.

If you commit too completely to one era, it can be a bit static and you don’t really have anywhere to go – no room for the antique piece you might have inherited, or equally the contemporary artwork you fall in love with years later. Practicality is very important. I think you’ve got to believe that design can fundamentally sit with, and enhance, the way you live.

Architraves are inexpensive. Paint is inexpensive. The French have always understood this, their boiserie, the incredible commitment to wood, moulding and panelling. The great English country houses have it in their bones. There are lessons in all of those traditions about what it means to commit to the longevity of a building. If you’ve got wonderful mouldings or cornices, you can, in some ways, not do much else. You can let the architecture sing.

There is always an easier way to do what we do. We could use cheaper materials, or design around speed rather than longevity. Many businesses do, because it allows them to produce more, faster. But that has never been what interests us. At Huckleberry, we make furniture intended to become part of someone’s life for decades, not seasons. That requires patience, skilled hands and materials chosen for how they will age as well as how they look when they leave the workshop. The slower route gives us the freedom to focus on quality, proportion, detail and durability. Making things properly is rarely the easiest option, but it is the most rewarding. The process is inseparable from the outcome.

Huckleberry would not exist without our co-founder Matt. For decades, he has been designing bespoke furniture, developing an understanding of proportion, craftsmanship and materials that only comes through years of making. Every Huckleberry piece begins with a sketch, and every design is informed by that knowledge. Knowing how a piece should sit within a space, how it should function, how it should age, and how small details can elevate it. Buying once and buying well is what previous generations understood, and what skilled makers are making possible again. We hope people see that they are not simply buying a piece of furniture, but investing in craftsmanship, materials, heritage and a philosophy that values permanence over disposability.

There is probably an easier way to do what we do, but it wouldn’t result in the pieces I want to put my name to. When we founded Sirimiri, we made a conscious decision not to chase speed or volume. I’ve always believed that the objects we live with every day should be made with care and intention, and that takes time. We work largely made to order, creating bed, bath and table linens tailored to individual spaces. Whether through scale, colour or finishing, each piece is personalised. Linen shouldn’t be an afterthought. This way of working takes longer, but it allows us to create collaborative pieces that are beautiful and made to last.

Longevity begins long before a product is made. It starts with sourcing materials and understanding exactly where they come from. For us that means tracing fibres back to their origin, often all the way to the farmers who grow and cultivate them. Those decisions have a significant impact on the quality, performance and lifespan of our products. From there, longevity comes from thoughtful design and craftsmanship. If something is well made, functions beautifully and continues to bring pleasure over time, it naturally earns its place in a home for years.

When my eldest daughter left for university, I set about redecorating her bedroom, unchanged for over a decade and marked by all the usual signs of teenage life, including the make up spillages and hair dyeing experiments. It was certainly time for a change. Like many young people, especially those in London, I was aware she would be coming to and from our home, living here on and off for some years. I wanted the room to feel layered and comfortable, not too perfect and matching, and full of charm and character. The room is a delightful space, situated on the very top floor of our London townhouse. It was part of what sold me the house; there is something slightly magical about being up in the eaves. It reminds me of the nursery in an illustrated Peter Pan book I used to read to the girls when they were small.

My daughter is an avid reader and loves being surrounded by books, so we made her bookcase even more of a focal point by lining it with a linen check. A bluebell and basil scroll chair from our Parlour collection fits perfectly in the corner, and small hints of red lift the scheme – like a ceramic base from Pooky on her bedside. Finally, I chose pretty, delicate cream and blue bedding to sit against the wallpaper, with a gingham cushion to keep things from feeling too matched. The best interiors are never entirely finished. There are notes here from the bedroom it was before, and I think that is lovely. Rooms become more interesting when they carry something of their past with them.

Andrew Jonathan Griffiths of London-based studio A New Day has arrived at OTZI’s Norfolk workshop with a drawing – or something in the vicinity of one. “I would be over-selling it by calling it a sketch,” he admits. His idea is for a pair of bespoke bedside tables, based on a piece he’s seen and wants to use as a starting point: OTZI’s taper table, a solid timber form wrapped in bridle leather. It’s very lovely, showcasing traditional leatherwork and lacing, with a hardwood top. “We love collaborating with British makers, where you can see the hand in the product. When you’re putting their pieces in people’s houses, you know the story and resonance behind it,” he says. From there, and as always happens with the best collaborations, the conversation takes over.

OTZI sources their leather from, among others, Billy Tannery, a first of its kind small-batch UK tannery run by a friend, Jack Millington, where wild deer hides – a byproduct of deer culling to prevent damage to native ecosystems –  are processed with full-grain integrity. “Most commercial suede is split, but once you start getting to the higher end of suede, you’re using the full thickness of the hide,” says Otis. “You’ve got the full strength of it.” These bedside tables should, in other words, take some living.

The finished bespoke bedside tables will take a taper form in fumed timber, wrapped in full-thickness chocolate suede with a blanket-stitch detail down the side, finished with a red leather circle inlaid in the top – making the conversation part of the object itself. “The level of detail and backstory – like where that hide was from – is what makes it special,” says Andrew. “It makes you think about materials more, and interact day to day with pieces differently than if you’re just buying something off the shelf”. In the maker’s workshop, an idea finds its form.

I’m originally from Toronto, Canada, and moved to England about a decade ago. I first worked in London, then my partner was relocated to the southwest. We had been to Bath before and loved it, so we ended up moving there. As I explored more of Somerset and Gloucestershire, I stumbled across Tetbury, where my studio is now based; it’s full of lovely antique shops and is a bit of a design hub. English interiors are, to me, more of an approach than a style. In North America, there is often a desire for interiors to be perfect, completely curated and all pulled together. But English country interiors are more inherited – a little bit more thrown together, more collected. There is a history.

There is access here to so many incredible antiques, going straight to the source. Tetbury has fantastic little old mills, fabric companies, and antique shops like Lorfords and Brownrigg. Lewis & Wood and Zardi & Zardi are down the road, and Fermoie is not that far away either – we use them a lot. For antiques and art, the Cotswolds is fantastic.

Bringing a relaxed and layered feeling to a home takes time. It’s a process. We usually start with a concept – a palette, the building, the direction – but we don’t define every single thing at the outset. It is a journey of finding the right pieces. A lot of it is about the hunt. I love that part of the job – going to Paris, going to flea markets, finding things you weren’t expecting. Often the outcome is better because it feels more collected and interesting.

A room should evolve. If the bones are good – the kitchen, the flooring – then it can be as simple as changing the colour of an island, or putting a different wallpaper up in one of the rooms, small shifts that keep things fresh. I always like opportunities to style things – even small gestures can keep things feeling alive. That’s really how I think about English interiors: they should feel like something you live in, not a fixed composition.