OLD MASTER & DECORATIVE PRINTS
We arrive, a little early and full of coffee. There's just the three of us, Michele, the tall and dapper Italian, Manca the pretty fur clad Slovenian and myself, the slightly nervous Irish. There's some hesitation as we hoover in the doorway debating over who should ask where we are supposed to go. Finally Michele asks a blonde lady behind the reception desk where this mornings auction is taking place. She gestures down the hall. We follow her instructions, walking slowly down the wide reception room, flanked on either side by what seems to be endless paintings and prints. The reception room narrows to a slope which leads down to narrow hall. The walls filled with paintings, some of which are being plucked from the safety of the wall by the hands of a curious man who examines them, holding them close to his face. We continue. We glance into an office to the left and catch a glimpse of a Rothko hanging unassuming amongst a stack of books and catalogues. Turning to the left at the end of the hall we reach the auction. The room is bright and freezing. There's air circulating from vents in the ceiling making sure everyone keeps their coats on and scarves high around their chins. The ceiling is high and the room has the feeling of a glasshouse, with windows running around the top of the room. To the back there's a large door through which numerous people have disappeared after keying something into a pad on the wall. The storage space I presume where a vast number of treasures are held waiting to be rehoused.
We take our spot somewhat to the back. There's plenty of seats to choose from. Being a morning auction, the room is far from full. Those who dare to venture in off the street can easily come to watch the event. The clientele is mostly men, from their late forties well into their seventies. Some have staked out their territory to the sides. On our left a couple of gentlemen, not bothering with seats, have arranged themselves nicely. Throwing their coats over glass cabinets containing prints and papers and placing their catalogues down on top of them. They chat amongst themselves, probably feeling more comfortable than us in this situation which is familiar to them. A man, obviously not content sitting with the rest of the participants, takes his seat and moves it away from the rest, settling somewhere further to the back, floating in the space between the arranged rows and the entrance. To our right are the telephone bidders. They are corralled behind a waist hight counter, each with their own mobile phone and steely determination in their eyes. They chat a little with each other, waiting for the mornings activities to begin. They are dressed in suits and shirts, clever looking glasses on one man, long wavy hair on one of the younger women. At the end of the row of the counters, a woman speaks rapidly in french...no polish perhaps on her phone. There is nearly as many Christie's employees handling phone bids as there are public in the room.
The auctioneer emerges and takes position on a wooden podium. His pin strip suit and pink shirt are enough to wake anyone up who may have been short on their shot of caffeine this morning. He's lively and animated greeting the half full room with great enthusiasm from his raised platform. He surveys the audience and welcomes everyone to Christie's. It is impossible that any of us could have forgotten where we are, they've written the name on every possible surface. A young girl, perhaps a student or intern at the auction house stands to his left sporting a Christie's apron over her white shirt and black trousers and stern look of her face. Milia, the fourth member of our newly formed collective arrives, a little later and somewhat flustered. Clutching a Christie's paddle, she takes her seat a few rows up from us.
Four television screens have been placed around the room, one in each corner. This is how the works are displayed. We watch people leaf through their catalogues, murmuring and scribbling notes. There's a man and a woman to right and few seats back. Another couple sit a few rows in front. Suddenly it begins.
“Lot 113..the....with...and I'm starting at 240,260,280....300pounds. I have 300pounds”
It all happened so fast, did someone bid, did I miss slight of hand? A twitch? A nod? I carefully look around but no one seems to be budging. How did he arrive from 240 suddenly to 300pounds? Within this time however the bids are flying straight out of the mouth of Tim, the Clark Kent lookalike situated right at the front of the action. He's keeping a firm gaze on the auctioneer and speaking quietly into his phone. The auctioneer accepts each bid and retorts with his own, pointing at his notes but eyes still on Tim. The exchange lasts no more than two to three minutes until the auctioneer accepts defeat with nothing left on his notes to point at, looks at his audience for another challenger for Tim but to no avail. Tim gracefully accepts his victory, passes word on through his phone and its on to Lot 114.
Emma Moore
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