Sometimes the story behind a piece becomes almost as important as the artwork itself.
I saw Romeo Romeo, loved it — and then thought somebody else had bought it.
I was wrong.
It started at an art car boot sale in Brighton.
I met Arron Crascall and, although I knew who he was, I had absolutely no idea he was an artist.
We got talking, I discovered his work and ended up buying a piece.
It was completely unplanned — which, looking back, seems rather appropriate.
Some time later, I walked into a gallery and there it was.
Romeo Romeo.
Huge, colourful, chaotic and impossible to ignore.
It was one of those pieces that stopped me. I didn't need to understand why. I just knew that if circumstances were right, I'd love to own it.
A few weeks later, I looked again.
It appeared to have sold.
And that was that.
Or so I thought.
Then, completely by chance, I bumped into Arron again.
We got talking and somehow Romeo Romeo came up in conversation. I mentioned that I'd seen it, loved it, and assumed somebody else had beaten me to it.
They hadn't.
It was still available.
The piece I'd already accepted had got away suddenly hadn't got away at all.
This time, I wasn't going to make the same mistake.
I bought it.
And I've always loved the strange symmetry of what happened.
A work called Romeo Romeo.
Something I fell for.
Something I thought I'd lost.
And something that, completely unexpectedly, found its way back into my life.
Some pieces you search for.
Others seem to find you.
Romeo Romeo was one of those.
Perhaps that's why the story of Romeo Romeo matters to me.
I've never wanted this collection to be defined simply by names, editions, values or what somebody else thinks I should own.
For me, collecting is much more personal than that.
It's about that moment when something makes you stop.
Sometimes it's the image. Sometimes it's the artist. Sometimes it's what the work makes you feel. And sometimes it's the completely unexpected story of how it eventually found its way onto your wall.
Because over time, these works become markers.
They remind you of places you've been, people you've met, conversations you've had and moments in your life that might otherwise have disappeared.
And perhaps that's what The Allun Lewis Collection is really about.
Not simply collecting art.
Collecting stories.
Collecting moments.
Collecting pieces of a life.
Sometimes the story behind a piece becomes almost as important as the artwork itself.
I saw Romeo Romeo, loved it — and then thought somebody else had bought it.
I was wrong.
It started at an art car boot sale in Brighton.
I met Arron Crascall and, although I knew who he was, I had absolutely no idea he was an artist.
We got talking, I discovered his work and ended up buying a piece.
It was completely unplanned — which, looking back, seems rather appropriate.
Some time later, I walked into a gallery and there it was.
Romeo Romeo.
Huge, colourful, chaotic and impossible to ignore.
It was one of those pieces that stopped me. I didn't need to understand why. I just knew that if circumstances were right, I'd love to own it.
A few weeks later, I looked again.
It appeared to have sold.
And that was that.
Or so I thought.
Then, completely by chance, I bumped into Arron again.
We got talking and somehow Romeo Romeo came up in conversation. I mentioned that I'd seen it, loved it, and assumed somebody else had beaten me to it.
They hadn't.
It was still available.
The piece I'd already accepted had got away suddenly hadn't got away at all.
This time, I wasn't going to make the same mistake.
I bought it.
And I've always loved the strange symmetry of what happened.
A work called Romeo Romeo.
Something I fell for.
Something I thought I'd lost.
And something that, completely unexpectedly, found its way back into my life.
Some pieces you search for.
Others seem to find you.
Romeo Romeo was one of those.
Perhaps that's why the story of Romeo Romeo matters to me.
I've never wanted this collection to be defined simply by names, editions, values or what somebody else thinks I should own.
For me, collecting is much more personal than that.
It's about that moment when something makes you stop.
Sometimes it's the image. Sometimes it's the artist. Sometimes it's what the work makes you feel. And sometimes it's the completely unexpected story of how it eventually found its way onto your wall.
Because over time, these works become markers.
They remind you of places you've been, people you've met, conversations you've had and moments in your life that might otherwise have disappeared.
And perhaps that's what The Allun Lewis Collection is really about.
Not simply collecting art.
Collecting stories.
Collecting moments.
Collecting pieces of a life.
