Meet The Chelsea Book Whisperer

Ahead of Chelsea Arts Festival next month, Johnny de Falbe, of John Sandoe Books, talks to Lucy Cleland about taste, culture and conversation.

Meet Johnny de Falbe, The Man Behind John Sandoe Books

Johnny de Falbe sits perched like a wise old owl, bright eyes darting around surveying his territory, spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. He is surrounded by towers of books, each stack a deliberately designed curation of voices (or, quite frankly, just wherever some of his 28,000-strong stock can fit). His vantage point allows him to see who comes through the door of his 18th-century Georgian-fronted shop, John Sandoe Books, on Blacklands Terrace off the King’s Road. And who comes in is just as curious and eclectic as the authors whose books he purveys. One colleague once described him as ‘possibly the best connected man in Chelsea’.

De Falbe wouldn’t countenance such a ridiculous vanity, of course. He’s far too bookish to think that having Bob Geldof, Neil Tennant, William Boyd, Elton John, among others, as customers should be of any interest. And although he doesn’t shout about it, there are some wonderful photographs on the wall of these esteemed patrons, which I’m sure help contribute to staying relevant in an increasingly fickle world.

Because what does it mean to be an independent bookseller in the 21st century? ‘For me, it’s more interesting than ever to be a bookseller. When I started out, there were plenty of independent bookshops, and I was driven by my own enthusiasm – my own taste in books. Over time, that has shifted. Today, my job is to run a shop that caters to the widest spectrum of readers.’

That word ‘taste’ features large in our conversation. ‘There’s a strange thing about the word “taste” in English,’ says de Falbe. ‘People avoid it because it smacks of elitism. And yet it exists. People come to us for our taste.’ And despite the Amazon juggernaut dominating book sales, John Sandoe Books is thriving – and not just among the older, loyal Chelsea denizens (though of course they still exist, albeit in dwindling numbers). ‘Most of the people hanging around the shop are young – and they like the bricks-and-mortar of the place. They like the physicality of a book,’ he says.

The shop’s reputation stretches far beyond SW3. ‘We’ve had customers fly in from South Korea or the Middle East, tracking us down through Instagram,’ says de Falbe. ‘A young woman came in recently, covered from head-to-toe, and handed me a list of obscure titles. “I wouldn’t be able to get these in my country,” she said. When she paid, she told me the books would “break her head”. By which she meant: open her mind. That’s what books are for.’

At John Sandoe Books, titles are stacked wherever his 28,000-strong stock can fit. (© Lucy Cleland)

John Sandoe produces four painstakingly written catalogues a year, which act as a calling card; they are less about the hard sell and more about expressing their identity (or ‘taste’). ‘People keep them for years,’ he says. It’s also about trust and discovery: serendipity. ‘Things happen by accident, and that’s a good thing. A bookshop should let you find the unknown. Customers want someone to say: “I loved this – you might too.’’’

We talk about BookTok, the TikTok phenomenon that can catapult a title to astonishing fame. Is this the enemy of the curated catalogue? Not necessarily. ‘Anything that makes people read is good,’ de Falbe concedes, you sense, with hesitation. ‘But our job isn’t to be trend-driven, it’s to provide a counterpoint; a place where people encounter books they didn’t know they wanted.’

Of course, sitting among this labour of love, I’m sure it’s not all romance and Shakespeare sonnets. The economics must be punishing, with thin margins and the pressure to discount. ‘We survive through loyalty and by offering something Amazon can’t – personal service, expertise, atmosphere.’

Johnny de Falbe, surrounded by his John Sandoe stacks. (© Lucy Cleland)

That atmosphere is palpable the moment you step through the door. Dark wooden shelves groan with titles. A ladder leans against a wall of spines, a vase of sunflowers sits on a windowsill. The books themselves are things of beauty; imprints chosen for the design and quality of the physical book just as much as for what’s inside them. A striking cover can do half the sales job, and my eyes are drawn to a Vintage Parade’s End by Ford Madox Ford or Michel Houellebecq’s Atomised; there are shelves of pared-back blue Fitzcarraldo Editions and you can’t go wrong with a Penguin Classic. Curiously, there are no signs: ‘I want people to get lost,’ says de Falbe. ‘If they don’t know where they are, then they ask – and that opens up conversation. Signs block conversation.’

And that, I guess, is what a 21st-century bookseller does – just as every bookseller has done before him: facilitates the discussion of ideas. Long live the bookshop.

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