Jackdaw GB, Antiques + Vintage

Collecting is a peculiar human urge—part scavenger hunt, part obsession, part noble pursuit of history. It’s older than civilization itself, stretching back to the days when pharaohs hoarded gold, emperors stockpiled treasures, and medieval kings filled their castles with spoils of war. Some called it curation. Others, theft. The line has always been thin.   Image courtesy of unsplash.com A Brief History of Collecting: From Plunder to Passion Before there were museums, there were monarchs with sticky fingers. Egyptian pharaohs packed their tombs with golden treasures, just in case the afterlife had a cover charge. Roman generals looted statues and trinkets from conquered lands. The Renaissance saw the rise of the cabinet of curiosities , a fancy name for “a room full of stuff I took from places I barely understand.” King Louis XIV turned Versailles into an art hoard so grand it made the Louvre look like a thrift store. J. Paul Getty bought so much art he had to build a museum just ...

Not Just Another Tree Hugger This isn’t some twee country stroll. This is Victorian England on canvas—before the railways chewed it up, before factories coughed all over it. A snapshot of stillness, painted by a man who knew exactly what he was doing. George Augustus Williams didn’t scream with colour. He whispered in oil. Born in 1814, George was part of an artistic dynasty so prolific they had to start changing their names just to keep up with the paperwork. His father, Edward Williams, was a competent landscape painter. Six sons followed suit. George stuck to his name. Probably too tired to come up with a new one. Paint First, Ask Questions Later The Williams family was not a hotbed of avant-garde rebellion. They were more like a Victorian version of a franchise: consistent, well-oiled, quietly commercial. While the Pre-Raphaelites were off painting damsels with long  necks, the Williams clan kept one foot firmly in the dirt. George Augustus didn’t just churn out prett...

Raku isn’t just pottery; it’s an alchemy of clay, fire, and philosophy. It was born in 16th-century Kyoto, when tea master Sen no Rikyū sought a vessel that embodied wabi-sabi—beauty in imperfection. Enter Chōjirō, a tile-maker tasked with crafting tea bowls that were simple, earthy, and hand-molded rather than wheel-thrown. The result? A style of pottery unlike any other, built for the hushed reverence of the Japanese tea ceremony. The name Raku —meaning “enjoyment” or “ease”—came later, stamped on a seal given to Chōjirō’s son, Jokei, by warlord Toyotomi Hideyoshi. That seal cemented the Raku family legacy, an unbroken line of master potters that continues today under Raku Kichizaemon XVI . This wasn’t mass production. Each bowl was a meditation, a singular creation made to be held, turned in the hands, and contemplated before a sip of tea. No two were alike, each bearing the marks of fire, clay, and the moment it was born. Raku tea bowl with crane by Ryōnyū (Raku IX), 1810–1838, LAC...

Ah, Romulus and Remus. The original feuding siblings, locked forever in legend, their tale one of ambition, murder, and the questionable parenting choices of a she-wolf. It’s a story older than Rome itself—sculpted in myth, hammered into history, and, quite literally, cast in bronze. The most famous depiction? The Capitoline Wolf , standing fierce in the Musei Capitolini, Rome. A snarling, maternal beast, frozen mid-watch, while two hungry infants suckle at her side. The image is unmistakable—a visual shorthand for Rome’s legendary birth. But, like all great myths, the reality is tangled in debate. For centuries, scholars believed the wolf was Etruscan, dating back to the 5th century BCE. Recent studies, however, suggest a medieval origin—possibly the 11th or 12th century CE. An embarrassment for antiquarians, a victory for medieval craftsmanship, and a reminder that history is never as neat as we’d like it to be. The Capitoline Wolf, a bronze icon of Rome’s origins. The wolf (Etruscan...

Whiskey isn’t just a drink. It’s patience in a glass. Fire and grain, beaten by time into something better than itself. The monks of Ireland and Scotland called it uisge beatha—the "water of life." It soothed the sick, steadied the weary, and gave men just enough courage to make bad decisions feel like destiny. Medicine, comfort, and catastrophe, all in one pour. The Evolution: From Monasteries to Masterpieces By the 18th century, whiskey had outgrown its holy origins. It spilled out of monasteries and into taverns, homes, and high society. Scotland, the eternal perfectionist, took the Irish invention and refined it with almost religious dedication. The great distilleries— Macallan , Glenlivet , Laphroaig —rose like cathedrals to the craft . They tamed the raw fire, aging it in oak until it spoke in deep, complex tones. The Scots took an Irish blessing and made it immortal. Then America came along and did what America does—took something old, stripped it down, and made it ne...

Delftware is proof that the Dutch never met a good idea they couldn’t improve, mass-produce, and sell back to the world with interest. A delicate deception of tin-glazed earthenware masquerading as fine Chinese porcelain, Delftware became one of the Netherlands' quiet but enduring artistic triumphs. Born in the 17th century, when the Dutch were busy ruling the waves and amassing wealth from every corner of the known world, Delftware turned a porcelain shortage into a full-blown European obsession. But how did this scrappy imitation become an art form in its own right, sought after by collectors and still alive today? Let’s dive into the story of Delftware—a tale of trade, trickery, and true craftsmanship. The Delftware Plate has now sold in our Etsy Shop . The Spark That Lit the Kiln: China, the Original Mastermind In the 1600s, China was already centuries ahead in the ceramics game, crafting flawless, shimmering porcelain so smooth it looked like moonlight trapped in cla...