Sale-rooms
Rien ne va plus
Alistair McAlpine
There can seldom have been moments of such excitement in the sale-rooms as those in 1987 during which the Hon. Charles Allsopp received the last half- dozen bids on Van Gogh's 'Sunflowers'. He finally brought the hammer down at the staggering figure of £22.5 million. This sale, as no other sale, epitomised the change that had come over the sale-rooms in the previous five years: the grand evening sales, with clients there by invitation like some society cocktail party; black ties for the men, designer dresses for women, the latest trophy bought at Sotheby's or Christie's Geneva jewellery sales pinned to their chests; flower arrangements flanking the doorways, each costing the price of a small picture. The clients fought for the right to buy all that was offered to them.
The Hon. Charles Allsopp gave up alco- hol for two days before these sales, donned his jogging shoes and circled Hyde Park. Standing for hours on end in the heat of television lights with all the tension of bil- lions of dollars sitting in front of you and millions of dollars in racks behind, you need to be fit if you are to match the two at the highest possible price.
At that time the auction rooms were using every device to stimulate the buying frenzy that gripped the art world, or rather the people who wished to be part of that world, buying their entry tickets to the tap of the Hon. Charles Allsopp's wooden hammer and bidding with numbers on the end of wooden sticks. The really smart clients — people who had no desire for others to know of their affairs — used the telephone. Behind the auctioneer are banks of telephones; the staff who use them can move a painting's price up a mil- lion dollars at the nod of a head or flick of a wrist. They added mystery to the event, encouraging the public bidders in the room to greater efforts, to hold their numbers ever higher for their friends to see and to admire. These telephones are connected to private homes or offices, or even to restau- rants, around the world, where collectors sit accompanied by their advisers. In Tokyo, one famous collector always bid as he took his meal with the representative of an auction house. The bids for each lot are calculated into a dozen different currencies and these figures are recorded and dis- played in flashing lights on a large screen above the auctioneer's head. The sale- rooms are a casino and people came there to gamble, often spending more than they intended. For a long time they had a win- ning streak.
How different this all used to be! I remember the jewellery auctions at Sothe- by's and Christie's when a stately porter would carry each lot on a tray to the major dealers, who sat at the felt-covered table below the auctioneer's rostrum. Occasion- ally one of these dealers would lean for- ward and pick up a gold box or a diamond necklace, replace it on the tray and sit silent, bidding by some curious code known only to him and the auctioneer. In the days when Charlie Allsopp was a younger man, he was taking such a sale and, noticing that a dealer had fallen asleep with the bore- dom of it all, he became worried as the time to sell a particular lot approached. He knew that this lot interested the sleeping jeweller, so he asked the sale-room porter to tap the sleeper on the shoulder and draw his attention to it.
In those days the few people who attend- ed sales perched where they could, on the furniture that was to be sold later in the week. When Martin Norton of S.J. Phillips was first in business, he was sent by his uncle to bid at Hurcombs of Mayfair, who were in their day a famous auction house. The young Martin Norton bought two George II salvers. In those days silver was sold by the ounce, and he bid 33 shillings an ounce. Mr Hurcomb, who was taking the sale, heard the name S.J. Phillips, looked up and said, 'You must be the new nephew, you can have them at 30 shillings an ounce.' Martin Norton was very impressed. He has now been 63 years in the antique silver and jewellery trade and is still trying to repeat this experience.
There is a romance about the sale- rooms, a mythology has been built up around them. There is always something of value to be found there, always something that others have not noticed. In the early Fifties, a dealer came upon a silver goblet that had been mis-catalogued. It was, in fact, a famous piece recorded in a royal catalogue. Fearing that some other dealer might spot this, he told one of his staff, 'Go and view that piece'. The man stood for three days holding the goblet in his hand, looking at it. The dealer bought the goblet for a very small sum.
The old days are long gone, and the days of hype too are over, when the atmosphere was electric and you did not know what anything would fetch. Now you wonder if it will sell at all. The people who go to the great sales go now not to see high prices, but to see high-priced pictures fail to sell. Last year, there was an incident in a New York sale-room when a painting by Julian Schnabel composed of broken plates failed to reach its reserve and the audience cheered. The people who watch these days watch for failure.
Like all casinos, there is always the possi- bility of losing, and some people have lost heavily. Yet two weeks ago the Hon. Charles Allsopp sold at Christie's a particu- larly fine collection of furniture. The flower arrangements were there, the people were there, and the furniture sold for £8 million, which was generally considered to be a very good price. 'Just like old times,' said the Hon. Charles Allsopp. In all casinos you win and you lose, but the gamblers always come back.
`Before we adjourn, I'd like to wish each and eve!), one of you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. Edsy, merry Christmas and a happy New Year! Verna, merry Christmas and a happy New Year! Ti, merry Christmas and a happy New Year! Frank, merry Christmas.. .
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