From the Warehouse — Our Mission
There is a kind of magic in objects — the way they hold on to stories long after the people who touched them have gone. In this blog, Tom Panto explores a roulette wheel, a Tibetan goddess, a coco de mer, a painted face, a carved dog… each from a different world, yet they sit together without clashing — in quiet harmony, each with its own story to tell. When placed side by side, they start to talk — about beauty, faith, chance, and the endless ways human hands try to make sense of time.
For Jay Arenski, that conversation began long ago. His father was a dealer; the trade ran in the blood. Later, Peter Petrou showed him that every object, no matter how humble or grand, has a soul — and that our task is to listen for it. Over the years, Jay has come to see collecting as a romantic journey: a search guided as much by emotion as by scholarship, by the belief that beauty finds its way to where it is meant to be.
Now, with Tom and Talia, the work continues — finding, understanding, and placing these objects in the care of those who will cherish them next. It is less a business than a kind of matchmaking — uniting people with works of art that speak to them, helping one story fold gently into another.
Because collecting, at heart, is about custodianship. We do not own these works of art; we look after them for a while. They have already witnessed centuries of lives and will outlive ours too. And when they move on from Jay, they will begin new journeys — becoming part of a new provenance waiting to be written: tales of love and triumph, of celebration, and even of the lows of human experience. What matters is the life we give them while they are with us — the moments, the memories, the meaning.
In that sense, provenance never ends. It evolves. And in that evolution lies the true poetry of collecting — a living conversation between beauty, time, and the human heart.
And as Tom, a lover of fashion and form, continues to learn, he begins to see what Jay has always known — that knowledge, beauty, and craftsmanship are not separate worlds but parts of one continuing story, still being written.
Shadakshari Lokeshvara
Jay unwrapped it slowly, as if letting the room catch up. No fanfare — just layers of museum-grade tissue peeled back until the gilt bronze caught the light. Seated atop a double-lotus throne, the figure of Shadakshari Lokeshvara emerged: four arms, serene gaze, consort wrapped in Yab-Yum. Nearly 75 centimetres tall, unmistakably Tibetan.
Jay didn’t launch into philosophy. He pointed.
“This is the four-armed Avalokiteshvara,” he said. “Patron deity of Tibet. Embodied in the Dalai Lamas.”
The central hands were joined in anjali mudra around a jewel. One outer hand held a vajra, the other formed karana mudra. His shakti, cast separately, raised a kartika and kapala — ritual tools of transformation.
The casting was crisp. You could trace the folds of the dhotis, the tension in the fingers, the weight of the tiaras. Some inlays were missing, a few replaced; the seal plate was loose. But it had been professionally cleaned, and the wear felt earned.
Jay had the provenance ready: acquired by the Kienzle family between 1950 and 1985 during travels in Asia, later bequeathed to the Museum für Asiatische Kunst in Radevormwald, and released through deaccession in 2024. He showed me auction benchmarks too — a Vairocana at Sotheby’s, a Chakrasamvara at Christie’s. This one sat right between them in scale and presence.
“It’s not just devotional,” Jay said. “It’s metaphysical — wisdom and method in union. Vajrayana in bronze.”
I didn’t argue. You don’t talk over something like that.
The Black Forest Spaniel
Jay didn’t say anything when he set it down. Just placed the dog on the table — no base, no label, just wood on linen. I’ve seen my share of Black Forest carvings, but this one made me pause. Not because it was rare — though it is. Not because it was big — 46 centimetres wide, 18 high. It was the way it looked back at you.
“Spaniel,” he said. “Swiss. Brienz. Circa 1900. Attributed to Heinrich Mader.”
Mader was one of the carvers who didn’t just shape wood — he gave it weight. And this dog had weight. Not just in mass, but in presence.
The fur was carved in layers — wavy around the ears, straighter down the back, with tufts that caught the light like real hair. The paws stretched forward, one slightly over the other, the head turned just enough to suggest attention. Not alertness. Not sleep. Just waiting.
Jay pointed to the eyes — glass-set, deep, and slightly wet-looking.
“That’s Mader,” he said. “He knew how to stop you.”
And he was right. You don’t just look at this carving. You want to stroke it. You want to feel the muzzle, trace the ears, rest your hand on its back.
There were no tricks in the finish — just warm brown tones, darker in the recesses, lighter on the raised fur. The patina was honest. Not polished to impress, but worn in the right places. This dog had had a life.
Hope we can find him his forever home.
The Neugebauer Portrait
Jay had it propped against the wall, still in its travel wrap.
“Neugebauer,” he said before I’d even asked. “Vienna. 1874. Signed and dated.”
He peeled back the protective layer and there he was — a young man, seated, composed, and watching you without asking for attention.
The canvas was modest — 52 by 42 centimetres — but the presence was anything but. The sitter, thought to be Prince Ludwig Hohenlohe, looked barely twenty. His gaze was steady, introspective, but not withdrawn. There was assurance in it. Not arrogance — just quiet confidence, the kind you see in someone raised to expect responsibility.
Jay pointed out the brushwork.
“Neugebauer was surgical,” he said. “Look at the collar, the hairline, the way the light hits the cheekbone.”
The palette was muted: earthy browns, soft greys, a touch of rose in the lips. No ornament, no flourish — just restraint.
The provenance was clean — Dorotheum, Vienna, 2003. A rare signed and dated example from Neugebauer’s mature period. Not a studio sketch, not a copy — the real thing.
What struck me wasn’t the technique, though it was flawless. It was the way the sitter held the space. He didn’t lean forward or turn away. He just stayed. And you stayed with him.
Jay didn’t say much after that. He didn’t need to. The portrait did the talking.
Meeting the Face of Eternity
When Jay asked me to collect “an Egyptian mask,” I didn’t expect much beyond an interesting errand. Working with Jay has already meant crossing paths with extraordinary things — objects that seem to hum with stories — but this felt different from the moment I opened the crate.
Inside was a face — calm, gilded, and strangely alive — staring back through wide black-rimmed eyes. The striped headdress framed it with quiet authority, and although the paint was faded and cracked, it still radiated serene intensity.
Back at the warehouse, Jay looked up, smiled, and said,
“Ah — you’ve met eternity.”
He explained that this was a gilt cartonnage mummy mask, made around 50 BC–50 AD, at the very end of Egypt’s pharaonic age — a moment when ancient tradition blended with Greek and Roman influence. Layers of linen and plaster were shaped over a form, gilded, and painted to protect the soul in its journey beyond death.
Gold, Jay said, was the colour of divine flesh — incorruptible, eternal.
He showed me the details: the falcon’s wings across the chest, the beadwork collar of Isis, the balanced features that made the face appear both human and divine.
“By this time,” he said, “Egyptian art was no longer isolated. It was speaking to the classical world — a conversation between eternity and realism.”
I stood there taking it in, struck by how something made two thousand years ago could still command such stillness and reverence.
Jay, with characteristic understatement, summed it up:
“That’s the thing about antiques, son — you never really own them. You just meet them for a while.”
And working alongside him, I’m beginning to see exactly what he means.
Amazing Grace
When Jay asked me to “check on a bench coming up at auction,” I assumed he meant something practical — maybe Victorian, maybe rusty. What I didn’t expect was a cast-iron sculpture masquerading as garden furniture.
It stood in the yard, half-shadowed by ivy, its green and gold paint flaking like old theatre makeup. The back and sides were pierced with swirling lily pads and curling vines, and at the centre — staring out with quiet authority — was a classical mask. Above it, cast in bold relief, was a single word: GRACE.
I ran my fingers over the inscription: C.B.DALE C No. 195629. Coalbrookdale. Jay had mentioned them before — the Shropshire foundry that turned iron into poetry. This was their Nasturtium pattern, registered on 1 March 1866, later featured in their 1875 catalogue as design no. 44. Not just a bench, then — a botanical fantasy in metal.
When I brought it back, Jay was arranging giltwood candlesticks and barely looked up.
“Ah,” he said, “you’ve found the one with the face.”
He explained that Coalbrookdale’s garden designs weren’t just decorative — they were allegorical.
“They liked their furniture to have opinions,” he said. “Even the benches had something to say.”
We examined the details together — the polychrome paint, the replaced slats, the way the vines seemed to grow into the mask itself.
“It’s not just a seat,” Jay said. “It’s a conversation between iron and imagination.”
Then he tapped a small diamond-shaped stamp cast into the iron.
“There,” he said. “That’s how you know it’s not just pretty — it’s protected.”
We decoded it together using Designs Registered at the Patent Office, 1842–1883. Each corner gave a clue — day, month, year, class of material. Victorian bureaucracy disguised as geometry.
Eventually we matched it: 1 March 1866 — the date in Coalbrookdale’s records.
“That’s the thing about these marks,” Jay said. “They don’t just prove authenticity. They tell you when someone cared enough to protect a design.”
He looked back at me sitting on the bench.
“It’s not just a seat you’re sat on,” he said. “It’s a registered idea.”
And I realised this bench, like the Egyptian mask, was another kind of portrait — not of a person, but of a moment.
Jay, of course, put it more succinctly:
“Grace,” he said, tapping the inscription. “That’s what you sit with.”
The Spin of Memory
I walked into the warehouse expecting quiet but found Jay Arenski and Peter Petrou deep in conversation over tea — though with Peter, even tea feels like theatre. Between them sat a square box of exotic wood, its lid inlaid with corner spandrels and banded edges, like a miniature parquet floor.
“Go on, Tommy,” Peter said. “Give it a spin.”
Inside was a roulette wheel — not the casino kind, but something far more decadent. Inlaid with brass vines and mother-of-pearl, a pale ivorine finial at its centre. It measured 67 cm across but felt larger — as if it held more than just numbers.
“Early 20th century,” Peter said. “French, most likely. Made for a salon — not for money, but for mood.”
He smiled.
“Wine, women, and song, my boy. You’d spin it after dinner, and wherever the ball landed — that number decided who sang, who poured, or who confessed something scandalous.”
I spun it. The ball danced, clicked, and settled on 17 — black.
“Ah, 17,” Peter said. “That’s the number that broke the bank at Monte Carlo. But here it’s not about luck — it’s about theatre. The spin, the silence, the reveal — it’s a performance.”
Jay raised an eyebrow.
“And the props were always better than the players.”
Peter ignored him.
“Exotic wood for warmth, brass for brilliance, mother-of-pearl for glamour. Even the finial — ivorine, not ivory — tells you it was made with care. This wasn’t built for gambling. It was built for memory.”
We sat quietly, watching the wheel slow to stillness.
“It’s not just a game,” Peter said softly. “It’s a way of remembering — a way of making the evening last a little longer.”
Jay nodded.
“And if you’re lucky,” he said, “you get a good story out of it.”
The Nut of Empire
Jay was halfway up a ladder steadying a painting of Saint Sebastian while Peter Petrou gestured below like a stage director.
“She’s not just healing him,” Peter said. “She’s flirting with martyrdom.”
“She’s performing first aid,” Jay replied.
“With feeling,” Peter added.
On the table nearby sat something far less tragic: a dark, polished object on clawed silver feet, glinting like a relic from a forgotten expedition.
“Ah, Tom,” Peter said when I walked in, “just in time to meet the most scandalous nut in nature.”
It was a Victorian silver-plate mounted coco de mer caddy, late 19th or early 20th century. Hinged lid, pierced scrollwork, rococo handle. Inside, a foil-lined interior gleaming faintly, as if still scented with empire.
Jay descended the ladder.
“Tea caddy or botanical innuendo?”
Peter laughed.
“Lodoicea maldivica, if you want the Latin. Native to the Seychelles. The largest seed in the world — and the most suggestively shaped. Victorian gentlemen called it ‘the double coconut.’ Victorian ladies called it ‘improper.’”
The nut’s form was unmistakable — a voluptuous curve, symmetrical and smooth, nature’s own ode to the human form.
“They thought it came from underwater trees,” Peter continued. “Sailors swore it belonged to sea spirits — mermaids, sirens. That’s why it’s called coco de mer — coconut of the sea.”
He traced the silver band.
“The Victorians adored contradiction — exotic seed, domestic silver. Natural form, manufactured elegance. It’s a nut, yes — but also a metaphor.”
“For what?” I asked.
“For everything they couldn’t quite say,” Peter said. “Fertility, mystery, the allure of the foreign. It was risqué without being rude.”
Jay gave the caddy a gentle turn.
“And it kept the tea dry.”
Peter grinned.
“But it wasn’t just a container. It was a conversation piece — a souvenir of empire — polished, plated, and just provocative enough to pass inspection.”
Jay nodded.
“With the English, it always comes back to tea. Put the kettle on, Tom.”
The Offering — A Romantic Journey
When I first saw The Offering, I understood immediately why Jay Arenski held it so dear. A Black man kneels before a beautiful woman, extending a deep blue bowl of fruit toward her. She leans towards him, her arm raised in a graceful arc, her gaze soft and unguarded. Between them hangs a moment of stillness — charged, tender, and filled with a quiet sensuality. Painted by Alfred Wolmark around 1912, it glows with humanity and emotion.
Wolmark himself understood the longing for acceptance. Born in Warsaw, he fled persecution with his family as a child and found safety and opportunity in England. In this new home he painted what he most valued: harmony, tolerance, and the beauty of connection. His colours — rich crimson, ultramarine, and gold — speak of warmth and compassion; his figures, of equality and shared spirit.
This painting carries its own story of belonging. Its provenance is David Arenski, Jay’s father, in whose study it hung for many years — a constant, radiant presence. When the family collection was later dispersed, The Offering was lost from sight. Years later, by chance, Jay saw it again at auction. “It was like seeing an old friend,” he says. “I didn’t hesitate. I brought it home.”
Yet what moves Jay most is what the painting expresses. “For me,” he explains, “it’s about harmony — the beauty of a moment freely shared. Wolmark, who escaped persecution saw colour, race and faith not as barriers but as the palette of life itself. The Black man and the woman are equals here — each giving, each receiving. It’s a vision of how the world could be.”
Now, after years of living with it, Jay is ready to let The Offering continue its journey. “It’s time for someone else to experience what I’ve felt,” he says. “That sense of peace, beauty, and shared humanity.”
To stand before The Offering is to feel that message instantly — the meeting of two souls, painted with tenderness, sensuality, and faith in all that binds us together.
