Inside the Home and Showroom of Oculus’s Alfie di Trolio, London’s Coolest New Vintage Design Dealer

“If you asked a child to sketch what their fantasy chair or bed looked like, they might draw something that looks like an Oculus product,” says Alfie di Trolio, who deals vintage furniture and objects under the name Oculus and works as a set designer in London. It’s a pretty perfect description of the pieces he seeks out for selling — handmade, imperfect, a little wonky and weird. “They’re functional pieces but there’s something super decorative and super silly; often the scale is a bit more exaggerated than it needs to be,” he adds.

Guided mostly by intuition, di Trolio gravitates toward metal work, specifically wrought iron, which allows for “these overblown, extravagant forms but they’re kind of like a line drawing — they still have this lightness.” Weighty wooden pieces are hardly out of the question, though, like “chunky old cabinets where you feel like someone’s chopped down a tree and carved inside.” So, what makes for an Oculus object? There’s a feeling of excitement di Trolio gets, a tumbling curiosity around how the object came to be. “It’s like, I can’t imagine who made you! What were they doing? Were they in therapy? I look for these things that feel kind of folk, that someone made in their garden shed with bits of stuff that were lying around. They maybe made it over a long time. I tell myself these stories. I don’t really know.”

There are a few name designers and pieces he’ll always go for: a 1980s coffee table by Matthew Hilton or a 1990s Conran bed frame that’s both baroque and delicate. “I slept on a mattress for like a decade, I thought I hated all beds,” he says, until he found this one. “It’s very present. I walk into my bedroom and I’m like, wow, you’re absurd.” But Oculus is largely centered around artisanal objects with a mysterious provenance that provoke a certain wonder and even provide a kind of entertainment. It tracks that Oculus started as a pandemic project. “Dealing in furniture and objects really came about in one of those early lockdowns. You know, you’re kind of bored out of your mind and like, What am I gonna do? I can’t make another soufflé, I can’t go for another walk. And eventually you start to think, like, I’m gonna learn to knit. You do this, you do that, trying all these things. And this was one of those things that landed.” It turned out people liked and wanted what di Trolio had sourced, initially objects like candleholders, bowls, and small ceramics, and eventually chairs, lamps, and larger items.

Di Trolio operates out of a live/work loft in Camberwell, South London, a floor in a former brick factory, that affords him the room he needs to acquire and house Oculus stock. “I always say I’m greedy for lovely things. I want to have them around me. There’s kind of a hunger for them.” If an Oculus piece doesn’t immediately sell, di Trolio might live with it for a while. “Some pieces just don’t find their new home and they become part of my space and feel a bit more permanent than the other pieces and I quietly mark them as no longer available.” More than a mere location, the space has become something of a world. “The windows are south facing so I get lovely light during the day and then warm light from the west as it gets into the evening.” Using that natural light, di Trolio shoots the Oculus items about once a month with photographer Richard Round-Turner, who also shot the space for Sight Unseen. “We drink coffee and have chats and shoot slowly, really trying to investigate these objects that can sometimes be quite complex shapes and maybe difficult to understand. I always try to imagine what someone who’s never seen it in the flesh needs to see to get a really good sense of it — the scale, qualities of the material, patina, how it might interact with other pieces. In this way, the approach is quite close to how I like to work when I’m on set.”

Before set design, di Trolio worked creative roles in retail, mainly for Liberty, after studying fine arts as an undergrad — which provided him with a kind of intellectual training that guides both his set design work and what he does with furniture dealing. “When you study fine art, there’s a lot of time spent thinking and looking, and thoughts sort of percolating. You’re taught to unpack this thing, understand it, turn it upside down, put your brain in different places, and you take that way of thinking — everything is framed through that.” Still, though there are similarities and crossovers between the two endeavors, di Trolio sees Oculus as distinct from his work as a set designer, working as he does exclusively in still life and primarily with discrete, tabletop-size objects like watches and fragrance. “The tone of voice in my set design is much quieter and gentler. Everything’s very reduced.” It’s about getting to the essence. Oculus, on the other hand, is noisy and boisterous. More is more.

It’s implicit in the name Oculus itself, the architectural feature in the ceiling of Rome’s Pantheon, one of di Trolio’s “all-time favorite” buildings. The large hole at the top of the dome lets in light but also allows in the elements, as well as showers of rose petals on religious occasions. An outrageous moment in a building that otherwise embodies a kind of mathematical harmony. “It’s an example of this perfectly resolved thing that kind of seems bonkers and hedonistic,” he says. “When I think of an oculus I think of that exact hole in that exact ceiling in Rome. It feels vibe-y.”

While set design effectively pays the rent, it wouldn’t really be accurate to call Oculus a side hustle. Di Trolio devotes extraordinary care and attention to finding the right objects and then finding new homes for them. It’s a commercial venture, sure, but not driven — or limited — by profit motive. “Oculus is kind of this exercise in enjoying these ridiculous objects and because it’s not my primary income I’m able to take some more risks with it. It’s just, here’s this fantastic thing that I love… I feel like it can be a little bit more experimental and risky and silly.”

Working on set and at photoshoots keeps di Trolio in London, with little time to source pieces through travel. He mostly does it through online auctions and a few “slightly scruffy, under the radar places” locally. “I don’t have these secret dealers in barns in the countryside. It’s basically all just there, on the internet. In theory, anyone could find this stuff. There’s just something in the edit, in the selection that makes Oculus what Oculus is.” Just don’t expect your pieces to be so pristine and re-worked they’re devoid of character. Di Trolio renews upholstery and updates wiring but often leaves surfaces alone. “It’ll be clean and hygienic when it arrives at your house, but I’m not going around and scaping off layers of rust. I like that layer that accumulates. It takes a long time for that to happen. In my house, on my windowsill there’s this vase of crunchy old dead flowers, they’re special because they’ve got so old and dry. It’s not just the flowers that you go and buy at the shop. These accidentally got left here for two or three months and you’re more precious now than you were when you were in the flower market, you’ve hung around for a long time. It’s the same with not wanting to over-restore things.”

Though it can be costly and a bit tricky, di Trolio will theoretically ship anywhere. He’s recently started selling at the Spotlight Market in London and by appointment at his place, but most Oculus sales occur mainly via Instagram DMs, which keeps the communication direct but contained, even a little old-fashioned. “I’m basically like a medieval person. Very lo-fi.” But the back-and-forth, as opposed to an impersonal “add to cart” click on a website, instills a human element. “There’s a real joy in having to talk to someone,” he says. “When people are inquiring or buying things, I’d like to think there’s a way I can give them some of the excitement or insight around this piece. It’s not just buying and selling product, it feels special. It would be a bit sad for me if someone hits ‘buy,’ I put it in a box, and send it to wherever… I’d like to have that conversation, answer that weird question, I like that connection. I like that you have to write away to someone in order for this thing to find its new home.”

PHOTOS BY RICHARD ROUND-TURNER