The Practice of Looking - and Knowing What to Leave Behind

By Rachel Ashwell

Photograph by Amy Neunsinger

I often say that my home is never finished. It continues to evolve, shaped by time, by use, and by the objects that gather there gradually rather than all at once. I’m not interested in creating a completed look. I want a home that feels lived in, layered, and reflective of life as it unfolds.

Flea markets are one of the places where I return again and again to find new life for my home. I find them the most fun and the most challenging places to shop. They offer the widest range of goods and, in many ways, they are the greatest test of skill.

A trip to a flea market is never about urgency for me. I don’t arrive with a list, and I rarely go looking for something specific. I prefer to arrive open, without expectation, allowing myself time to wander and to look carefully. These are places that reward patience. Once you understand a few basics and don’t take any of it too seriously, there are no hardships- only possibilities.

There is something reassuring about walking rows of objects that have already lived a life. Pieces that have been well-loved, repaired, carried from home to home. I’m drawn to objects that show evidence of that history. Wear doesn’t put me off; in fact, it often draws me closer. A softened edge, a rubbed surface, a small imperfection - these are signs that something has been lived with, and they help me imagine how it might live again.

I was born in England, where the landscape, the seasons, and the homes themselves carry a strong sense of continuity. There is an understanding there that things are meant to last, to be mended rather than replaced, and to grow more beautiful with age. When I later made my home in California, I carried that sensibility with me. What emerged was never about formality, but about comfort - homes that felt gathered rather than designed.

Both of these worlds influenced the way I bring vintage pieces into my home.. Old objects became a way of honoring where I came from while embracing where I was. They allowed me to bring a sense of history into new spaces, letting pieces from another time settle naturally into present-day life. Just as I had learned to do myself.

Trusting Instinct Over Intention

When I’m treasure hunting, it’s as though I have two sets of eyes, simultaneously seeking and editing. One set is always scanning for furniture- pieces that are more easily spotted because of their size. At the same time, the other set is focused on the smaller treasures: mirrors, hardware, fabric, objects that may not announce themselves immediately but bring a room to life once they’re home.

This way of looking doesn’t happen overnight. It’s a matter of training your eye and learning to edit instinctively. Over time, you begin to recognize what you’re drawn to and, just as importantly, what you’re not. I don’t try to force a decision. If something doesn’t feel right, I leave it behind. Trusting that reaction—less of a skill than a time-learned instinct—has served me well.

Patience is essential. A void of nothing is always better than buying the wrong thing. I remind myself of this often. It can be tempting to fill a space simply because something is available, but I never settle for mediocrity. There are enough wonderful treasures to be found that waiting is always worth it. When the time is right and the stars align, the right treasure will appear.

Often, I leave flea markets empty-handed. That has never felt like a failure to me. Walking away is part of the process. Learning when not to buy is just as important as learning when to say yes. When something truly belongs in my home, there is no doubt. I don’t need to convince myself or imagine it working. There is only recognition.

Furniture That Feels Right

Furniture is the anchor in our homes. Because of its size, it naturally commands attention, but it’s how a piece is used - and how it has been lived with- that ultimately brings it to life.

Chairs, in particular, tell stories. Their arms are often gently shaped by years of use, the wood softened where hands have rested again and again. Seats give slightly in a way that can’t be manufactured. You can sense when a chair has learned how to hold someone, and that quality matters to me far more than how it looks at first glance.

I’m drawn to pieces with good bones and honest proportions. Chairs that invite you to sit. Tables that feel generous rather than formal. Weight matters, too. I like furniture that feels sturdy and substantial, not fragile or rickety.

Over time, I’ve learned to look closely before making changes-  to consider what a piece already offers and how little it might need in order to continue its life. Sometimes that means allowing an object to take on a new purpose. A desk that once lived against a wall, holding papers and plans, might be lowered and placed at the center of a room, where it can gather books, flowers, or cups of tea. The form remains familiar, but its function evolves. I’m always interested in pieces that can be used in ways other than those originally intended, as long as they still feel natural and useful.

I’m careful not to do too much. Restoration, for me, is about knowing when to stop. I may clean a piece, tighten a joint, or repaint it lightly, but only if doing so preserves its integrity. My intention is never to erase the past. I cherish pieces that feel authentic, sometimes gently restored and ready for reloving  - never stripped of their history or polished into something they were never meant to be.


Florentine Pieces: Furniture with Grace 

Florentine furniture has a distinct presence. In its early life, it may have had an air of pretentiousness, demanding to be the center of attention. Over time, however, that gaudy gold finish often softens, taking on a quieter glow. When this happens, its value comes not from showiness, but from an unassuming elegance.
Authentic Florentine pieces are typically made from very lightweight wood and are often hand-painted and gilded, sometimes with floral decoration. In some cases, the legs are screwed in for easy transporting, which is something I always check. There are also later plastic versions that can be quite convincing to the eye, so it’s important to be mindful of materials. Earlier wooden versions, while beautiful, are not waterproof, so they’re best used thoughtfully, often with protective linens or coasters to preserve the painted surface.
I place Florentine pieces comfortably in vintage settings, where they blend in with other timeworn beauties, but I also like them in more modern spaces, where they act as a quirky statement. Their charm lies in contrast. When paired with simpler furnishings, their ornamentation feels balanced rather than excessive.
When choosing a Florentine piece, I look for graceful aging. I pay attention to whether the painted details still feel intact and whether the form holds its own without relying solely on decoration. The best examples don’t compete with a room; they add a soft layer of faded glamour. 


Fabric as Storyteller
Fabric is one of the most transformative elements in a home. With relatively little expense and a thoughtful approach, it can change the atmosphere of a space almost immediately, making it feel softer, warmer, and more lived in. It’s often where I begin when a room feels unfinished.

At flea markets, fabric stalls are places where I tend to linger. I’m always on the lookout for weighty linens, cottons, and old grain sacks - pieces that have already been washed by time. I’m drawn to florals and stripes that have softened with age, as well as handworked lace and embroidery that show evidence of care . Sun-faded chintzes hold a particular beauty for me. Their colors mellow, their patterns relax, and they lose any stiffness they may once have had.

I’m not concerned with pristine condition. In fact, perfection often feels uninviting. What matters to me is how a fabric feels in the hand, how it drapes, and how it responds to light. I pay attention to whether it sits comfortably within my palette and whether it adds a sense of ease rather than formality. A length of antique floral matelassé might become a slipcover, a tablecloth, or a cushion. I don’t always decide its purpose immediately. Often, it becomes clear only once it’s home.

Fabric is forgiving. It allows you to experiment without commitment, to soften a space without permanence. Curtains can become bed canopies. Tablecloths can be repurposed as upholstery. Even worn or slightly stained pieces can be beautiful when layered thoughtfully or used in unexpected ways.

Fabric carries memory. It speaks of daily life - of washing, drying, folding, and mending - of objects that have quietly lived alongside people. When we bring these textiles into our homes, we’re not starting a new story. We’re continuing one that began long before us, allowing those layers to settle naturally into the rhythm of our own lives. 
Venetian Mirrors: Imperfectly Perfect Beauty
Venetian mirrors are among the pieces I’m drawn back to again and again. Their beauty lies not in perfection, but in the hand of the maker. The glass is often etched, scalloped, or beaded, sometimes adorned with small, handmade flowers - each one slightly different from the next. Those variations are what give the mirror its character.

I’m rarely put off by signs of age. In fact, I look for them. Slight mottling, small nicks along the edges, gentle variations in the glass—all of these details add depth and softness. What I’m wary of is distortion that interferes with function. A mirror should still be able to reflect a room clearly, even if it does so imperfectly. When the aging enhances rather than distracts, the piece feels right.

Although Venetian mirrors can be ornate, the best ones don’t shout. They reflect light softly, without glare, and they have a way of expanding a space rather than overwhelming it. I often place them where they can catch natural light or reflect something beautiful—a window, a lamp, a quiet corner of the room.
When choosing a mirror, proportion is always my first consideration. I ask myself whether it will feel balanced in its intended space, whether its scale suits the wall and the furniture around it. Only then do I look closely at the details. The imperfections should feel harmonious, not busy or forced. A mirror doesn’t simply reflect a room; it becomes part of it, adding atmosphere and a sense of quiet, timeworn elegance.

Lamps and the Poetry of Light

Lighting is deeply personal, and it’s something I pay close attention to when I’m at flea markets. I’m often drawn to lamps with character- bases made of hobnail glass, marble, alabaster, or ceramic -pieces that feel slightly imperfect or a little wonky- in a way that gives them charm. I’m not looking for symmetry or precision. I respond to form, weight, and balance.

The shade is just as important as the base. I almost always replace modern shades with something softer. Silk shades with ruffles, woven trims, tassels, or even tea-stained lace have a way of diffusing light gently. They soften the glow and make a room feel warmer and more inviting. I avoid anything too stiff or overly structured. Light should never feel harsh.

A lamp is never just functional. It sets the tone of a space and creates intimacy in a way overhead lighting cannot. I prefer pools of light rather than a single bright source, especially in rooms meant for relaxing. When I find a lamp that feels right, I can immediately imagine where it will live and the quality of light it will give in the evening - quiet, ambient, and comforting.

Like everything else I bring home, I try not to do too much. A simple rewire, a new shade, or a small adjustment is often enough. 

Small Treasures, Lasting Meaning

The smallest pieces often carry the most soul. It’s often the details - mirrors, candlesticks, trays, religious objects - that give a home its sense of individuality. These are the objects that speak quietly, but with great clarity.

I’ve never been interested in collecting for the sake of accumulation. I don’t buy objects simply to fill space. Every piece I bring home has to earn its place. I ask myself whether it adds something meaningful, whether it contributes to the atmosphere I’m trying to create. When something truly resonates, it has a way of fitting in naturally.

At flea markets, I’m drawn to objects that feel honest rather than impressive. I respond to pieces with a sense of history - those that show evidence of use or craftsmanship, even if they’re imperfect. A slightly bent candlestick, a worn tray, or a religious object softened by time can feel far more compelling than something pristine. The beauty is often in the wear.

These small treasures are what make a house feel lived in rather than styled. They don’t announce themselves, but they reveal themselves over time. Placed thoughtfully, they create moments of quiet interest—on a bedside table, a shelf, or a mantel—adding layers that reflect who we are and what we value.

In the end, it’s these details that give a home its soul. They tell a story not through abundance, but through restraint, reminding us that meaning is found not in how much we own, but in what we choose to live with.

Leaving Space

One of the most important lessons flea markets have taught me is restraint. It’s perfectly acceptable to leave space. Homes don’t need to be filled all at once, and they don’t need to be filled for the sake of appearances. I’ve learned that expecting too much, too quickly, often leads to compromise.

For many years, I lived with the understanding that my stay in a place might be brief. That way of living taught me a great deal about non-attachment - about creating a sanctuary without forcing permanence where it didn’t belong. I learned that a home can feel complete even when it isn’t finished, and that comfort doesn’t depend on excess.

I became comfortable living with the empty blanks. I waited to find what was right for me, rather than filling space simply because it was there. It is second nature for me to bring home only pieces my heart responds to. I never doubt myself when I come across something I truly love, because I trust that instinct. Until then, I live happily without.

This way of working - of leaving room, of allowing things to arrive slowly - has shaped not only my homes, but the way I move through life. When something is right, it stays with you. When it isn’t, you let it go, without regret.


Coming Home

Treasure hunting reminds me that homes, like people, evolve. They are shaped by what we choose to keep and by what we choose, gently, to leave behind. Nothing is static. Everything is in conversation with time.

I am always guided by the same threads: beauty, comfort, function, whimsy, serenity, warmth. These values remain constant, even as my homes change, even as my life moves forward. They ground me. They tell me when something belongs.

And so I return to flea markets again and again - not to acquire, but to discover. To listen. To trust. To recognize what feels familiar and what feels possible. I bring home pieces that feel restored and ready for reloving, allowing them to settle naturally, and allowing my home to continue becoming a reflection of life as it is lived - of what I love, what I value, and what I aspire to.

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