Eleven people,
two offices,
one calendar.

The bureau exists because a certain kind of collector kept asking a question that nobody would answer honestly.

Its founders spent their careers inside the institutions — a press office in the 8e, an Impressionist department in London, twenty years of an opera administration in Vienna. What they had in common was the view from behind the desk: they knew exactly how a seat, a preview or a private treaty is actually decided, and by whom, and how far in advance.

What they also knew was that this information is not for sale. It moves on relationships that take a decade to build and an afternoon to spend badly. So the bureau was built the only way it works — small, slow, and fiercely protective of the people on the other end of the telephone.

Today eleven of us work five desks between Paris and London. We travel roughly two hundred days a year between us, most of it in the four weeks that matter, and we spend the rest of the time on the unglamorous part: the calendar, the deadlines, and the conversations that must happen months before anyone else has thought about the date.