I’ll confess, I do not own a Davenport desk, but I have observed them at auction for almost three decades. So why am I writing about them? Firstly, they are another searing example of the vast distinction that can exist between a price at auction and an item’s actual value. Secondly, they are often feats of design complexity, and finally, it’s because they deserve a re-appraisal.
To me, these compact desks with their inclined lifting tops are the R2-D2s of the Victorian age, (though there are earlier examples); a period when anything and everything seemed to be up for design, construction, and elaboration.
A quarter of a century ago, a quality Victorian Davenport would comfortably realise $2,000 and beyond at auction. Since then, this moment in English furniture history has fallen victim to a taste that has lost its connection with the rich and polished woods of mahogany and walnut, and the lavish designs associated with the Victorian aesthetic.
Would you perhaps reconsider a Davenport for your home, not simply because they are small and easy to place, but because to remake one now would cost north of $10,000, if it could be made at all?
That is my simple value proposition. The aesthetic and utility arguments are more challenging ones. Woods and period design, and indeed the necessity for storage at all, are severely challenged by minimalist interiors with a preoccupation for the built-in over the furniture solution, the slimline over the substantial. But if one is to embark upon a brief survey of Davenport design – as I’m doing right now on a train to Birmingham (date stamp: 11.37am 100524) – and start looking for refinement, one will find examples that stand out, particularly the pre-Victorian ones.
At this moment on Invaluable, I can find six earlier examples for sale in the world at auction. They are not all to my taste, but I am taken in by the simple lines, (though retaining the “Davenport-awkwardness”), of one Georgian example, its straight lines and sliding, rather than fixed and sloped, desktop giving a very square, balanced, and restrained feel. I could imagine finding numerous spots for it in a larger home and still quite a few spots in a small apartment. And once placed, boy, would it pack a punch!
Multiple drawers, real and faux. Various compartments, both simple and sometimes pop-up, with the more exquisite examples enjoying concealed candle-rests and other intricacies, are just some of the elements that make these pieces often as exquisite as they are interesting.
Search beyond auction offerings and you will find a plethora of examples for sale around the world, but more typically in the United Kingdom, where the idea for a compact, campaign-style, writing solution was conceived by one Captain Davenport and was realised by the famed furniture maker Gillows of London and Lancaster in the 1790s.
While the sales-spiel accompanying some of these online offerings pleading the usefulness and relevance of these pieces in a modern world feels a little desperate, there is still substance to the claim. The Davenport does lend itself perfectly to manage the holding and centralisation of the technology we now depend on. The laptop, the iPad, and perhaps even a pair of small Bluetooth speakers that could find new purpose for the candle slides that you’ll see in some examples, all lend themselves to finding both a home and purpose in a Davenport. And while this form of desk may not be ideal to sit at for a day of remote work, it would certainly provide a more character-filled way to jump on a video-call or tap out a few emails.
When the desk isn’t in use, you can be sure that it can grace a small space and bring some history and character at the same time.
By John Albrecht, Managing Director & Head of Important Collections
Top Image: A small Milanese bone-inlaid walnut desk in the manner of Adriano Brambilla, last quarter 19th century. Sold for $1,375
July 2024