People often ask me if brocantes are held year-round in France, regardless of the weather—whether it’s sunny, cloudy, or freezing cold. The truth is, they are! Brocantes take place every weekend, no matter the season.
But here’s where it gets tricky—don’t confuse a market with a brocante. You see, when people think they’re heading to a “brocante market,” they’re expecting antiques—old things, paintings, silver, jewelry, books—But if you go to a typical market, you’re likely to find something quite different—potatoes, onions — not at all the same bag of goods.
A brocante is a treasure hunt for history and stories, a market is wonderful too. It certainly soothes the appetite if you’re looking for food.
So, whether it’s January or December, you can always find a brocante open for your wandering, and the charm is that you never know what unique piece of the past you might uncover.
No longer do I rush to the brocante at the crack of dawn. I used to, back moon ages ago, hunting down those elusive treasures like a bloodhound on a mission. But after 35 years, what I’ve realized is, it’s not so much about finding the one thing, but about sifting through a mountain of stuff.
There’s always something—whether it’s for me, for a client, or just something that catches my eye. I’m never disappointed—well, not completely. There’s that brief, petty moment when I see something I absolutely love and someone else’s grubby hand is already on it. And that little grudge kicks in—just a sharp little “grrrr!” But it passes. Because two inches away is another beautiful thing. Some people like to believe if something’s meant for them, it’ll be there. I don’t quite buy into that. But I do know there’s always more to be found, and tomorrow is another chance. If not tomorrow, well, the next day, or the day after that—because someone’s always emptying their armoire, drawers, garage, attic…
I’ve learned—it’s not about finding the one but about embracing the abundance that life offers. Life doesn’t always give us what we want when we want it. The lessons we learn along the way, whether it’s how to negotiate- how to let go- or how to appreciate the frayed ribbon left in an old book.
Someone recently asked me how one becomes an antique dealer, how one learns the trade. It’s a intriguing question-
I’ve been in love with antiques since I was 14, and the real knowledge comes from passion and time. You also need to understand what’s current—what’s trending, what’s in style, what people want. It’s not just about old furniture and knick-knacks. It’s about knowing the shifting landscape of design, architecture, and how people are living.
To become an antique dealer is not just about the transaction, it’s about cultivating an understanding of people, history, and the evolving tastes. It’s about appreciating the story behind the curtain of another era, the craftsmanship that defined it, and the emotions tied to those objects. It’s not just a business—it’s a dance between history, art, and the people who value it.
You need to know your clientele—what resonates with them, what connects to their sense of style, what speaks to their homes and lives. Your selling point isn’t just the objects themselves, but how you curate and present them, how you tell the story that allows someone to connect with a piece. It’s about when a 1920’s mirror might be the perfect touch for someone’s living room or when a dusty set of books holds the punch to transform a bookshelf into a statement.
And while knowledge of the market and trends is essential, it’s a deeper understanding that sets apart a true antique dealer. It’s about learning what people are looking for before they even know they’re looking for it.
It is an art of connection.
The brocantes in France are a world unto themselves, a sensory overload of history, character, a touchable museum. Walking through the aisles of a brocante is stepping back in time. That is the fun of it all- letting those old things take you back to their moment in time- letting them tell you their story and connecting you to yours.
At the heart of collecting for me it is about making a home without worrying about perfection. It’s about real life, not showcasing the most expensive things.
Once upon a time, I found a small locket. When I opened it, there was a tiny curl of hair, tied with the smallest blue ribbon. I imagine a mother, her hands gently cutting a small piece of her child’s hair, curling it carefully, and tying it with a ribbon before placing it inside the locket. That tiny locket has traveled through time, enduring where so many other things have not—the fragile glass, the delicate hair, the tiny ribbon—and it has made its way into my hands. The journey is simple, yet its path is complicated. And hopefully, the journey is long, filled with an appreciation for beauty along the way.
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