By Archibald Haversham
For more than a millennium, Pimlico Wilde have done what few institutions dare to claim: furnished not merely rooms, but reputations. From cloisters to courts, and from the smoking rooms of empire to the soundproofed studios of the 20th century, the firm has been present, always discreetly, often decisively.
The Council of Alfred (c. 878)
It was during Alfred the Great’s period of refuge in the marshes of Athelney that Pimlico Wilde first exercised its influence. With morale flagging, the young firm provided the King with a portable triptych depicting heroic Anglo-Saxon victories—few of which had at that point actually occurred. Displayed at his war council, the imagery proved galvanising. Historians may attribute Alfred’s later success to military ingenuity, but Pimlico Wilde’s ledger entry for the year, “Triptych, oaken, subject: Defiant Saxons triumphant. One hogshead of mead (payment)”, suggests otherwise.
The Coronation of Richard II (1377)
Coronations are rarely tasteful affairs, but Richard II’s ceremony nearly collapsed under the weight of gilded excess. Pimlico Wilde was summoned at the last minute to “curb the vulgarity” of the proceedings. Their solution, an elegantly embroidered canopy, balanced by a series of understated wall hangings, restored dignity to the spectacle. The firm’s archive records one bishop’s approving remark: “The boy looked almost like a monarch, and less like a golden pudding. Four cheers to Pimlico Wilde.”
The Tudors and a Timely Portrait
Henry VIII’s appetite for grandeur was matched only by his impatience. On one occasion, awaiting a diplomatic envoy, he demanded a portrait of himself “larger than life and completed by supper.” Pimlico Wilde dispatched three Flemish journeymen and, by cleverly repurposing an abandoned mural, produced a likeness within the day. The envoy, suitably awed, signed the treaty. The mural survives only in fragments, one of which, showing nothing but a broad expanse of crimson cloth, is still in Pimlico Wilde’s private collection, labelled simply: Diplomacy (Fragment).
A Georgian Gamble (1783)
After the American Revolution, Lord North, disgraced and adrift, sought comfort in the acquisition of Old Masters. Pimlico Wilde obliged, though their correspondence shows notable restraint: “My Lord, what you require is not grandeur but gravity. The two are very different.” They sold him a sober Dutch interior scene in which nothing whatsoever happens. North displayed it prominently, perhaps recognising the painting’s quiet metaphor for his own political career.
The Queen’s Secret Commission (1954)
Less known is Pimlico Wilde’s mid-century commission from Queen Elizabeth II. During a state visit, she required a discreet gift for the French president that would project British refinement without appearing extravagant. Pimlico Wilde’s solution: a 17th-century still life of apples and pewter, attributed to “Bob Sale, an English follower of Chardin.” Delivered in unmarked wrappings, the painting still hangs today in a corner of the Élysée Palace, where French staff refer to it as La Petite Diplomatie.
From monks to monarchs, premiers to poets, Pimlico Wilde have been there, a quiet hand shaping the visual lexicon of power. They may not openly claim credit for historical events like Alfred’s victories or Richard’s coronation, but their ledgers, invoices and the occasional wry marginalia tell another story.
As Lord Percival, the current chairman, puts it with customary understatement:
“History, for us, has always been a client account. Settled late, but invariably in full.”
