There is something quite masochistic in dealing in arts – or, shall I precise, in my case.
For the past three days I helped a dealer for the London Original Print Fair, a yearly event at the Royal Academy of Arts, which showcases, as you may guess, prints, from the Old Masters to the very contemporary.
I worked for a French art dealer, specialised in prints from the 1860s to the 1950s, who was exhibiting a fine selection of works by Redon, Vuillard, Bonnard, Denis, Jacques Villon (pre-cubist periods), Toulouse-Lautrec, Pissarro, Braque etc.,… all very good quality and very enjoyable prints to admire for hours on end.
I say masochistic because I have this tendency to sell very well what I like; even if it means feeling very sad afterwards, because a fine work I would have enjoyed admiring would disappear from my sight, most certainly forever. Not only do I have a difficulty accepting the very commercial nature of art dealing (go spend an afternoon within a busy department of Sotheby’s and you will understand what I mean – so commercial, it is nauseating) but I believe that if I were a dealer myself, I would live each sale as a personal loss. However, I do appreciate and understand the vocation, the beauty of the trade and, often, the deep connoisseurship involved.
This kind of event is, very often, a means for dealers to catch up with each other and with each other’s stock, exchange tips and purchase nice findings from each other, often harshly haggled. I saw some, leaving a now miserable-looking dealer’s stand with a work in their hands and a victorious smile on their face. There is something quite debilitating in watching dealers busily making artwork going from hand to hand, sans relâches, sans états d’âme. Some are more reckless than others; some, with time, have learnt to work together, look after each other’s stand, direct customers to colleagues.
It is a funny trade really, where one mixes artistically cronyism, intuition, extortion, flatteries, and sympathies (I have seen one dealer buying from another because the latter was deserted by customers), pure business, sheer luck, avarice and extravagance.
I was lucky in that ‘my’ dealer seems to be a profoundly humane person, not so driven by money (perhaps not enough) but by the love of his profession, the respect for the craft,and a deep understanding of each artists he sells. This being said, the huge majority of the stands I visited and the works I saw infinitely beautiful jewels of prints, and I would have considered buying works by dozens if I had had any financial means. I have learnt an incredible amount of things in three days, and would now consider seriously working in a museum’s print room – but not a career in the art market.
However, one can only notice with bafflement the publics’ lack of understanding of the artistic value of a print, since I saw many customers put off by the idea of ‘repetition’ or ‘series’ and who would not buy a print unless it were signed (that is, not on the plate, but by hand), while signature is a very modern consideration.
It is also a time for customers to catch up with their favourite dealers; most of the things ‘my’ dealer sold were to regular customers. I met some incredibly sweet people, some much colder: you can’t compare apples and oranges, and some people would happily remind you that you are only a flunky.
For the past three days I helped a dealer for the London Original Print Fair, a yearly event at the Royal Academy of Arts, which showcases, as you may guess, prints, from the Old Masters to the very contemporary.
I worked for a French art dealer, specialised in prints from the 1860s to the 1950s, who was exhibiting a fine selection of works by Redon, Vuillard, Bonnard, Denis, Jacques Villon (pre-cubist periods), Toulouse-Lautrec, Pissarro, Braque etc.,… all very good quality and very enjoyable prints to admire for hours on end.
I say masochistic because I have this tendency to sell very well what I like; even if it means feeling very sad afterwards, because a fine work I would have enjoyed admiring would disappear from my sight, most certainly forever. Not only do I have a difficulty accepting the very commercial nature of art dealing (go spend an afternoon within a busy department of Sotheby’s and you will understand what I mean – so commercial, it is nauseating) but I believe that if I were a dealer myself, I would live each sale as a personal loss. However, I do appreciate and understand the vocation, the beauty of the trade and, often, the deep connoisseurship involved.
This kind of event is, very often, a means for dealers to catch up with each other and with each other’s stock, exchange tips and purchase nice findings from each other, often harshly haggled. I saw some, leaving a now miserable-looking dealer’s stand with a work in their hands and a victorious smile on their face. There is something quite debilitating in watching dealers busily making artwork going from hand to hand, sans relâches, sans états d’âme. Some are more reckless than others; some, with time, have learnt to work together, look after each other’s stand, direct customers to colleagues.
It is a funny trade really, where one mixes artistically cronyism, intuition, extortion, flatteries, and sympathies (I have seen one dealer buying from another because the latter was deserted by customers), pure business, sheer luck, avarice and extravagance.
I was lucky in that ‘my’ dealer seems to be a profoundly humane person, not so driven by money (perhaps not enough) but by the love of his profession, the respect for the craft,and a deep understanding of each artists he sells. This being said, the huge majority of the stands I visited and the works I saw infinitely beautiful jewels of prints, and I would have considered buying works by dozens if I had had any financial means. I have learnt an incredible amount of things in three days, and would now consider seriously working in a museum’s print room – but not a career in the art market.
However, one can only notice with bafflement the publics’ lack of understanding of the artistic value of a print, since I saw many customers put off by the idea of ‘repetition’ or ‘series’ and who would not buy a print unless it were signed (that is, not on the plate, but by hand), while signature is a very modern consideration.
It is also a time for customers to catch up with their favourite dealers; most of the things ‘my’ dealer sold were to regular customers. I met some incredibly sweet people, some much colder: you can’t compare apples and oranges, and some people would happily remind you that you are only a flunky.
