Adventures in the Art Trade, Part One

8/8/2019 Adventures in the Art Trade, Part One

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Adventures In the Art Trade

by Richard Humphries

The only difference between myself and a madman is that I am not mad.

~ Salvador Dali

When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear

and life stands explained.

~ Mark Twain

“I saw in the paper that Pasquale was

acquitted,” my ex-wife said. We were in her

kitchen, chatting. We’ve always chatted well. “I

couldn’t believe it when they indicted him.”

“It’s the art business,” I said, “And unless you

are in it, you haven’t a clue, especially when it



comes to a real Miro versus a fake one. Hell, even

then you can’t be sure.”

“You should write about it, Richard. It would be

an easy project for you. All you’d have to do is tell

the truth.”

A splendid idea. My medications had made me

foggy headed for a spell, leaving my writing in a

cloud. She was right. All I had to do was tell the

truth.

Easy-Peasy.

My first job in the gallery business was in 1974,

my last in 2004. Thirty years slid by while I was

distracted learning a few things.

About Art. And People. And many

combinations of the two.



. . .

At twenty, I was still finding my way in San

Francisco, trying to make a living.

George V., an antiques importer with a huge

warehouse on Battery Street had hired me as a

warehouseman, unloading containers of antiques

every week from England.

Soon, however, the lively Greek guys running

the place assigned me to sales. They had noticed I

enjoyed talking to customers and had a real

enthusiasm for the unusual objects we offered.

It was fun. The pay was okay and the location

was just a short Vespa scooter ride down from our

flat on Telegraph Hill.



I say our flat because things were changing in

my life. Over the past few years my family had

joined me in San Francisco. First, my kid brother.

Then my older brother. Finally Mom and our two

younger sisters came West to live in the beautiful

city.

We had found a large place on Alta Street at the

top of Telegraph Hill. It was priced according to

the formula still in use by the old-time landlords on

the hill; the steeper your climb home, the cheaper

the rent.

All of us crammed into a three bedroom (one

was a large closet) flat at a rate of $325 a month.

It was reasonable but not cheap. I needed to

make more money.



Now.

The manager at the warehouse had given me

some great deals on furniture. But, whenever I

mentioned an actual raise in my wages his English

would fail him.

And so I answered the ad in the Chronicle for

‘Art Consultants’ at a gallery on Fisherman’s Wharf.

The employer offered a monthly draw and a

‘generous commission/bonus plan’.

. . .

“The most important rule,” the bearded guy

said to me on my first day at Swanson Galleries,

“is not to waste the champagne on the customers.”

And there was ‘champagne’. Andre’s Sparkling

Wine came in cases every week. It was the owner



of the gallery’s inspiration to have us pour

‘champagne’ during any serious sales presentation.

Never offer it. Why invite a No thank you?

Never ask permission. Excuse yourself, go to

the back-room, come out bearing a tray holding

glasses and a bottle of Andre’s. The label on the

bottle carefully covered with the white linen napkin

kept ready for such occasions.

“You take her,” Don (the bearded one) said. “Be

good practice for you.”

She was an attractive Afro-American women

and stood before a wall of oil paintings.

“Could you tell me about the artist?” she asked.

“Of course,” I was at a loss. “Back in a sec.” I

nearly ran to the front desk seeking Don’s counsel.



“She wants to know about the artist.” My voice

was strained.

“Easy,” he said and took another sip from his

coffee mug of champagne. “Read this to her.”

He yanked open the short file cabinet under the

desk and flipped out a folder regarding Maurice

Meyer, the creator of the Monterey and Carmel

seascapes my very first customer seemed to like.

The umpteenth photocopy of ‘About The Artist’

biography was nearly worthless. Apparently,

Mister Meyer liked to roam the Monterey Peninsula

and paint pictures in his golden years. The photo

was good though; silver hair, matching goatee,

black turtleneck, nice lighting.



“Let me show you something?” I asked her.

Jack Swanson would not have approved. Never

ask permission from a prospect. “Follow me?”

Leading the good-natured woman to the rear of

the gallery, away from the constant noise of the

San Francisco Experience theme song booming

from the attraction next door, I hung the seascape

on the ‘showing wall’.

All galleries have such a space. An empty wall,

well-lit by lights hooked to a rheostat and faced by

comfy seating. A room dedicated to closing the

sale.

“Please have a seat,” I said as I hung the

painting on the wall, my back to the woman. I



turned and found she hadn’t followed my invitation

to sit as according to the Sales Manual.

What the hell, I’d try my best.

We discussed the Monterey coast and the town

of Carmel. She was interested and asked for my

card. I went to the front desk to choose a card

from the boxes left by ex-Art Consultants,

scratched out the previous name, wrote mine in.

“Don’t let her walk out on you,” Don suggested.

“You mind if I jump in?”

“Please,” I had no idea of what to do. I followed

my associate to the rear room.

Donald had the grace to introduce himself, learn

her name and ignore my nervousness.



“I see you like Maurice Meyer,” he said. His

tone made Mister Meyer a giant in the art world.

“How’d you like to see his most recent work? It

just arrived this morning.”

The woman explained she had to go meet her

husband but had time for a quick peek.

“Come give me a hand, Richard.” I had never

been Richard before in public, always Rick. He

turned abruptly and I followed him into the

gallery’s storeroom.

“Let’s see.” He began sorting through paintings

in a rack, a piece of protective corrugated

cardboard between each of them. “She liked the

blues and greens, didn’t she?”



“Um, yeah.” I had no idea, hadn’t heard a word

from her over my excited heartbeat. “I think she

did.”

“Here. Hold this” He handed a me a large

painting, 36 x 48 inches, from the stacks.

“But this one is all oranges and reds,” I pointed

out.”

“Exactly,” he pulled his pocket square from his

tweed sport coat. “Get a bottle of Andre’s and

glasses.”

I put together the tray arrangement as Don

swept away puffs of dust from the ‘new’ painting

and frame with his hanky.

“Show time,” he smiled in an almost evil grin.



The second painting didn’t work at all for her.

The champagne offer went unappreciated as well.

She extended her hand to me.

“Thank you, Richard,” she said, walking past

Don and into the crowd of Fisherman’s Wharf

beyond our door.

“Always use the ‘something just arrived’ ploy,”

my self-appointed mentor advised me over his

mug of André’s. “And show them something you

know they will hate. Makes wanting the piece they

like easier. And always make sure the second

piece costs more.”

“What if doesn’t, though?”

“It is what you say it is.”

“She said she’ll be back.”



“Look,” Don snorted and took a gulp, “don’t

EVER believe in ‘be-backs’. There is no such thing.

Besides, she said she’s going to Carmel with her

husband.”

“Meaning?”

“C’mon, Buddy,” I was starting to enjoy our

camaraderie. “Carmel has more seascape painters

than sand fleas.”

I spent the afternoon going over a sheaf of

photocopied biographies of the gallery’s artists.

Most had their first solo exhibitions at schools and

community centers and found their inspiration in

Nature and The Sea and The Sunset.

It was easy to script a general artist’s biography

that would fit them all, with a few personal details,



of course. The artist’s age seemed to be an

important category.

. . .

The woman came back with her husband--an

NFL quarterback as it turned out--and I dutifully

hung both of the paintings on the ‘Showing Room’

wall.

He liked the orangey-reddish Monterey sunset.

She still enjoyed the blue-green daylight surf

scene. I lowered the lights and the paintings took

on a life of their own. There is nothing like a real

painting. Really.

The husband decided the best compromise was

to buy both paintings. His one request was to

have the gallery pay the shipping costs.



The sales total was $12,800. After the shipping

costs and including a bonus for top consultant of

the week I made eleven hundred and eighty dollars

for the day’s work.

I didn’t know Art, but I knew what I liked. I

vowed to be an expert in both.

“Do yourself a favor, Bud?” Don asked as we

closed up for the day. “Promise me you won’t let

that sale make you start believing in ‘be-backs’?”

“Sure,” I said, hoping I should have such

worries. How many people bought art? Really?

. . .

My Mom, sisters and brothers let me take them

out to a family style place in North Beach. The

wine came in carafes, the minestrone in a



communal pot, the spaghetti with meatballs in

huge bowls.

We drank red wine and laughed. San Francisco

felt like home to us that night. The steep walk up

Union Street to our flat was a pleasure for the six

of us. Life was good.

. . .

Cover design: www.ryanhumphries.com

http://www.ryanhumphries.com/



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Adventures in the Art Trade, Part One