“Every work of art is a bridge. But some lead to beauty, others to mystery, still others to memory — and only a chosen few, to revelation.” — From the reflections of Guji Amashukeli by the pavilion with the silver dove. To this beautiful thought by the artist, I’d add that sometimes, one encounters bridges that lead nowhere — or worse, into a dark cul-de-sac where revelation is hard to come by. But then again, each work of art has its own viewer.
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
London has been sweltering for the second week in a row, and exhibitions have become one of the best ways to spend time wisely — among fascinating people, in air-conditioned beauty. Royal Hospital Chelsea has once again — for the third year — welcomed the stands of Treasure House Fair 2025. This “Fair of the House of Treasures” is the reincarnation of the renowned interdisciplinary Masterpiece art fair, held annually from 2010 to 2022, and rooted in the tradition of summer art fairs going back to the 1930s. By now, it’s far more than a sales event — it’s a kind of ritual gathering where art dealers and collectors (both newcomers and the well-established), museum curators, society figures, artists, and art-world bloggers converge to discuss not just antiques, but contemporary art as well.
It’s worth noting that the organisers have succeeded in assembling a truly intriguing roster of participants: 70 carefully vetted galleries, each presenting compelling works. For aspiring collectors, such fairs are an ideal chance to “train the eye” and hear expert insights into trends.
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
What matters is not just what’s on display, but how it’s presented: the exhibition structure unfolds like a well-written novel, full of paradoxes and contrasts. There’s no visual overload here — the selection is thoughtful, the arrangement spacious, and the viewing experience almost private.
Here, for example, is a fragment of the Aguas Zarcas meteorite, which once pierced the roof of a doghouse in Costa Rica, presented alongside the very same charred wooden board bearing the impact scar. (It’s important to read the labels: at first glance, some objects — like Lynchian owls — are not what they seem.) This is no mere relic — it’s a material event, as a cosmogonist might say.
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
Or take the tiny silver-and-sodalite bird by Guji Amashukeli, a master whose works serve the procession of Notre Dame and the Pope of Rome. Between the celestial and the domestic, the tangible and the sacred — there runs a barely perceptible thread. And here, having seen it, touched it, even tried it on (if wearable), you feel just a little closer to history.
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
Another example: a childhood drawing by nine-year-old Prince Charles, depicting a dragon regatta — a paper cloud torn from the memory of the future monarch, now gently lit by the maturity of royal restraint. And again, it’s curious — and moving — to realise the simplest of truths: we’re all human, and all mortal, but some are kings, and others — spectators. Art reminds us of this, sometimes with disarming ease and humour.
Treasure House Fair is less about the passion of collecting, and more about collecting as a way to resist the disintegration of time. This year, the dialogue is particularly vivid — not only between eras, but between ways of seeing art. A surrealist landscape by Cedric Morris hangs next to a Picasso, while a 1938 table by Gio Ponti (Giovanni Ponti, 1891–1979) seems to laugh in response to the sombre severity of chairs by Thomas Chippendale.
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
This is the new eclecticism, much discussed by the fair’s curators this year. Look closely at the exhibits and their interplay, and you’ll see not a whim of fashion or gallerists, but a curatorial synthesis: from a carousel piglet to a gilded nude sculpture by Hepworth, from a Buddhist map of the universe to a French Art Nouveau floral brooch — all of it comes together as a single score, where the soloists are Memory, Object, and Myth. And that is especially precious in uneasy times.
The fair also includes events designed to deepen knowledge. One of them is the Sculpture Walk, themed for 2025 as “Rupture ~ Connection”, curated by Melissa L. Gustin (Walker Art Gallery, National Museums Liverpool). The format is intriguing: no signs, no explanatory labels — just intuition and sensation. Sometimes the “sculpture” turns out to be, for example, an eighteenthcentury child’s wardrobe shaped like a doll’s house. Such a rupture transforms the object into an apophatic sculpture — something that speaks more than it can ever say outright. It’s precisely these collisions that define the spirit of Treasure House Fair — a place where categories don’t just blur, but become elegantly posed questions.
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
This is a space for self-education. And it’s a pleasure to find that not only museum curators but also gallery representatives are happy to engage in conversation. The latter, in particular, are full of stories and facts — their aim is to sell, and yours is to figure things out. It’s a chance to discover what truly appeals to you — and, perhaps, understand yourself a little better.
“Festival” is exactly the right word. But I’d add: this is not a festival of art, but of what can become art — through the right gaze. It’s the gaze that turns a chair into monarchy, a mineral into eternity, a toy horse into the image of freedom. Everything here depends on our hands, our minds — and a touch of imagination.
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
Photo by Andrew Kitsen
For me, Treasure House Fair is not just an exhibition — it’s a visual essay, written in the language of vitrines, colour, and shadow. It’s a point where museum-like reverence and theatricality call a truce and open the gates to a new audience. And maybe true art isn’t what’s on display, but what emerges in between: between the artist’s hand and the viewer’s attention, between the past and that very moment of the present — when you, holding your breath, meet the gaze of a silver beast staring at you from a two-hundred-year-old future and reminding you of what you love, what you fear, what you dream of. And through that encounter — you become just a little happier. Because I truly believe: art, like beauty, can make us just a little better.
