Stories
The Auctioneer Retires
Real estate agents may cash in their posts for a gold watch when they retire, but what’s given to the auctioneer when young blood threatens his position? A gold Matisse? ROSECRANS BALDWIN looks at the last man of a dying breed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- Boats We Missed (Of Recent Note)
- The Hot ______ of the Summer (Of Recent Note)
- Staycations (Of Recent Note)
Also by Rosecrans Baldwin
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- How Everything Turned Out (June 27, 2007)
- What's the Frequency, Musad? (June 15, 2004)
- The Education of Elisabeth Eckleman: Back to School (June 6, 2005)
Also in Stories
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It was two weeks ago Tuesday, at Sotheby’s annual big contemporary art blowout, that I took Senior Director Angela Polk’s nice, new Helmut Lang blouse by its parachute handles and lifted her right up off the floor, so she dangled perhaps dangerously over an installation of Dinka spears, and caught myself screaming in her face—‘Do I hear you fired me? Do I hear you sold me out to that pip-squeak by the bar?’—that I decided to retire.
Because people just don’t know the pressures facing a contemporary auctioneer. Behind all the glitz, there are very real and severe demands on one’s spirit. Forty years in the game can give you blinders to life outside the house. Maybe, I thought, this is a good thing. Polk took her time running a jag about the OSHA regulations concerning pregnant employees and sharp weapons, but just like that, I was bored. Bored with the auctioneer’s life. Bored with myself. I interrupted her and said, in calmer tones, ‘You have heard my last gavel,’ and just like that, I quit.
Maybe it was my imagination, but when I walked out, there was only silence. Rule no. 1 of The Auctioneer’s Handbook: Silence means a sale. The women wiped their eyes; the men stared at me from silent clusters, and with a flourish, saluted my back. It was like spring ‘88, when I sold a Warhol for $22 million to some stunned dabbler in Monterey—the people saw, here was history being made.
On my way out I spotted the new kid in the lobby by the bar, downing vodka and Sprites as fast as old Hank could pour them. This was Stan Druckman, my replacement, the next generation, the new breed. Now he was 37 years old, but I had coached him in the ways of auctioneering since he was six. Maybe he’ll be one of the greats someday, I remember thinking the morning I spotted him on a playground in Detroit. Now I’m thinking, or maybe not.
He saw me and went down on one knee to receive The Auctioneer’s Humble Greeting, so I might crack him upon the head with my gavel. Instead, I pulled him up by the ears and slapped him around.
He had soft cheeks, like De Kooning. ‘The game’s all yours, kid,’ I said. ‘Here, this old man’s finished,’ and then I stuffed my handkerchief in his breast pocket, the same one Capote had given to me after using it to polish a friend’s knob, on his walking stick, he had said. ‘Good luck.’
And with two words, I was done. Good-bye to the old masters and new money; no more groupies, no more fame, no more five-percent discount to the Whitney. While walking home, I stopped by a Coldwell Banker office and bought an ice house 300 miles north of Albany, two cords of firewood thrown in for free.
Even I was shocked by my boldness. Tomorrow, I thought. We leave at dawn. But first, to say my good-byes.
* * *
My wife was equally surprised about our imminent move north. She took it gracefully, but not until after a few of the back-and-forths so familiar, I’m sure, to other married couples who have passed into their golden years.
‘I hate you.’
‘I’d like to downsize before we leave,’ I mused aloud, pacing our living room. In my hand was a glass of scotch, my evening constitutional. ‘Reconsider if we really need all this stuff once we move. Really, it’s not like the kids are around anymore.’
‘We never had kids,’ she said, in that tone of two people who know each other so well.
‘I think we should get a new stereo. One of those compact, bookshelf models.’
She clinked her leg-shackle with her water cup and sighed. Even after 50 years, when most women are too plump on the eyes, she has stayed remarkably slim.
‘And maybe a laptop computer. Or two. I read this really interesting article recently about wireless networks and married couples—’
‘Who said we’re married?’
I sucked on an ice cube and knuckled down. Such a big change requires sacrifice, and I needed to come clean, to make sure my wife understood what we faced up north.
‘I think the cabin can fit a bed, if we sacrifice my dressing table.’
‘I haven’t eaten in days,’ she whispered, in a way I still find adorable.
‘I think I’ll go out.’
And perhaps I felt inattentive once I was outside, that I hadn’t unlocked her cuffs from the radiator before I left, but it passed. I had a lot on my mind! Plus, we have the rest of our lives to talk, I told myself, but I only have a few hours left to say good-bye to my dearest friends.
* * *
The first was Lady Eleanor de Montpelier, my oldest customer and closest confidante. We have always considered ourselves the last witnesses to a golden age, and shared too many secrets for me not to say good-bye face-to-face. Together we faced minimalism and Studio 54; surely our friendship could survive my departure without too many tears.
‘Who are you?’
‘Eleanor, I have some very important news.’
‘Dennis, throw this man out.’
‘Eleanor, it’s me.’
‘Oh, you’re that funny little man from the auction house…’
The door opened a little and I pushed my way inside. Her man scuttled away. I’m afraid Lady de Montpelier’s last years are robbing her of her memories, but I always force myself to keep up appearances for old times’ sake.
‘Eleanor, I can’t stay, but I have something to tell you: I’m moving away.’
‘But darling, no need for speeches. Where exactly are you going?’
As usual she was dressed immaculately, still carrying the latest designs with style, but there was something strange happening. She stared at me through tiny slits. Was she suspicious? It must be jealousy, I considered, that I didn’t consult her before making up my mind.
But it was enough to make me pause and take in the scene. A number of people in black jackets and dresses were sitting around her large dining table, holding sharp objects, as though they had been interrupted in the middle of something dangerous. Burglars, I thought, but I held myself in control; I have an awful temper around criminals.
I also noticed Lady Eleanor still hadn’t asked me to sit, which was strange, since I remained in an awkward, half-standing crouch over the sofa.
‘We are going to Monaco. A large palace I’ve inherited from a distant uncle.’
‘Oh, but I was born in Monaco! We know everyone there. And David,’ she called to the table. A man with a crooked, corrupt-looking nose glanced at us. ‘Weren’t you born in Monaco?’
‘Actually, yes.’
‘So to exactly which palace are you moving, my funny little man?’ A nickname, from the good old days.
I finally stood up. ‘Rio, actually. Rio de Janeiro. I mean, Orlando. Or maybe Newark, we’re not sure.’
She laughed gaily, too gaily for my tastes. ‘But we have houses in all those places! Now who did you say you were again? I swear, I never forget a face, still you seem so familiar…’
It occurred to me that I still had hundreds of good friends to see before dawn. (Rule no. 2 of The Auctioneer’s Handbook: Leave a crowd in anticipation.) Being relatively not-young myself, and staring at the Lady’s liver-spotted ankles, I was in no mood to be reminded of what happens as we age, and with quick apologies I showed myself out. Plus the people who had broken into her apartment seemed increasingly more aggressive, nearly drooling over the plates they looked to steal.
But forgiveness begets happiness, or forgetfulness; I’m not sure which. Anyway, the night was short, and I had a cab in no time.
* * *
Being an auctioneer has brought me into touch with many of the world’s greatest artists, and the relationships I’ve forged with them have been as rewarding as any I’ve known. Indeed, I’ve had my portrait painted at least two dozen times, and once, while I was in Spain during the war, Picasso himself drew my profile on the back of a bar napkin, in a state of great amusement, because, he said, he found my nose ‘so extremely trueish.’
But it’s with the world-renowned sculptor Frank Koch that I’ve had the most intense—some might say, ‘museish’—relationship, and certainly, if you consider me in light of his most recent work, the similarities are staggering.
He was busy with his tools when I found him, holed away in his dark, giant loft downtown, chipping away at yet another masterpiece.
‘Frank!’ I called out, but as he turned away from his work, I could immediately tell something was different. Like all great artists, he abuses heroin, and I suspected he might be under the influence.
‘Who are you?’
‘This is beautiful…’ I said, walking around one of his pieces to keep the conversation moving. Heroin addicts have a difficult time keeping their focus. Rule no. 3: Move to a new lot when the last one’s finished.
‘It’s so virile and commanding,’ I continued. ‘So masterful. I wouldn’t be surprised if they listed it as ‘godlike.’’ My hands worked over the smooth marble, as though drying my chest after a shower.
‘Don’t touch that.’
‘Oh, Frank—’
‘I said don’t—’
Unfortunately at that moment, a flatbed truck rumbling by outside upset the floorboards and caused the piece to fall over and explode.
‘I fucking said who are you?’ he shouted as we played ‘tag’ until I reached the door, but then I knew he was still somewhat affected by the drugs. Rule no. 4: They are not angry with you, they simply don’t know art.
* * *
I had four more people to see—or a thousand, depending on how you counted it—before I departed for the north country, but it was getting late, and I decided to call on the one person whose visit would mean the most, though it wasn’t for my sake that I was calling.
Stan Druckman opened the door without a word and stepped aside to let me in. Such is the relationship between me and him, between mentor and pupil; Stan is a paragon of discipline and respect. The furniture in his apartment was drab, the air smelled of ordinariness. It reminded me of my own early days in the business, the first paltry salary, though I do think I had better taste in upholstery at that point. Note for teacher, I thought, and laughed. Fumbling around his unkept kitchen, I fixed a drink and paced the floor, preparing for the speech I’d planned down to the word.
Because in my 14th taxi that night, I had realized something very critical: it didn’t matter what New York’s dementia’d aristocrats, burglars, and drug addicts thought of me. They would not be my legacy. No, it was Stan who would carry on my work, who’d train the next generation of auctioneers. I had picked my pupil years before, solely to reach this moment.
‘So what’s up, Dad…’
‘Stan!’ I hissed.
‘I’m sorry. What’s up, The Auctioneer. No really, so what’s going on?’
My eyelids clapped like seals. I could tell he was in no mood to listen, and suddenly I was almost purple with anger. Couldn’t he sense why I was visiting? Was he so ungrateful? But I had to control myself. The future was riding on my shoulders.
I took a deep breath. ‘Your mother and I are moving upstate, and I wanted to leave a last lesson—’
He interrupted me with a laugh, ‘What mother? You bought me off an ex-con at the Ford dealership—’
‘Enough!’
I demonstrated The Auctioneer’s Stern Answer, and he collapsed.
‘I was going to leave you with a little advice, but now I see you’re not even up to listening. Let’s see, Mr. Smart Guy, how well you fare in my shoes. See if you even can walk a mile.’
But by that point he had picked himself up and lifted the telephone, and, as he likes to do when I visit, began calling some friend whose telephone number seems to only have three digits. So I left.
Closing the door, I might have had a tear in my eye, but it was gone when I reached the sidewalk outside his building. I hailed a cab and my resolve returned. Stan could find his own way. A brand new life awaited me and my wife—a life of contemplation and quiet afternoons. Watching the red and blue lights swirl in the driver’s rear-view mirror, I whispered my good-byes to the frantic city and made peace.
* * *
It has been two weeks since my wife and I moved upstate for the pastoral life. There is a wonderful pace to our days here; Milton was not wrong in saying the Adirondacks were made for lovers. Our romance blossoms with the rooster’s crow, and finds solace under twilight’s icy moon. I must say that our home has a nearly opulent amount of square inches, and I don’t think it’s hyperbole to brag that our wood stove is one of the warmest in the district. One friendly man on our street now parks his boat in our front yard. (I suspect so that we may borrow it in the summer without asking.) In short, we have been embraced by our neighbors, and eventually, I’m sure, they will stop their dogs from mauling our Adirondack chairs.
Of course we have seen rough spots. Not surprisingly, there comes a toll from so quickly denouncing the glamour of auctioneering, and even my wife occasionally shows signs of missing the big city’s way of life. Just yesterday she asked me for water, and I had to remind her again, this is not exactly Evian country.
Then again, she is thinner, so maybe if Vogue wants to do a tableau of country living…
But things are better. My soul is restored, and I have even begun to look for new work. Recently I spotted an advertisement posted outside the grocery store, looking for an ‘open-minded business partner to help satisfy demanding ‘clients’ with severe judgments and happy endings.’ And I wondered, after all, what is an auctioneer but someone who knows how to appraise?
Because people just don’t know the pressures facing a contemporary auctioneer. Behind all the glitz, there are very real and severe demands on one’s spirit. Forty years in the game can give you blinders to life outside the house. Maybe, I thought, this is a good thing. Polk took her time running a jag about the OSHA regulations concerning pregnant employees and sharp weapons, but just like that, I was bored. Bored with the auctioneer’s life. Bored with myself. I interrupted her and said, in calmer tones, ‘You have heard my last gavel,’ and just like that, I quit.
Maybe it was my imagination, but when I walked out, there was only silence. Rule no. 1 of The Auctioneer’s Handbook: Silence means a sale. The women wiped their eyes; the men stared at me from silent clusters, and with a flourish, saluted my back. It was like spring ‘88, when I sold a Warhol for $22 million to some stunned dabbler in Monterey—the people saw, here was history being made.
On my way out I spotted the new kid in the lobby by the bar, downing vodka and Sprites as fast as old Hank could pour them. This was Stan Druckman, my replacement, the next generation, the new breed. Now he was 37 years old, but I had coached him in the ways of auctioneering since he was six. Maybe he’ll be one of the greats someday, I remember thinking the morning I spotted him on a playground in Detroit. Now I’m thinking, or maybe not.
He saw me and went down on one knee to receive The Auctioneer’s Humble Greeting, so I might crack him upon the head with my gavel. Instead, I pulled him up by the ears and slapped him around.
He had soft cheeks, like De Kooning. ‘The game’s all yours, kid,’ I said. ‘Here, this old man’s finished,’ and then I stuffed my handkerchief in his breast pocket, the same one Capote had given to me after using it to polish a friend’s knob, on his walking stick, he had said. ‘Good luck.’
And with two words, I was done. Good-bye to the old masters and new money; no more groupies, no more fame, no more five-percent discount to the Whitney. While walking home, I stopped by a Coldwell Banker office and bought an ice house 300 miles north of Albany, two cords of firewood thrown in for free.
Even I was shocked by my boldness. Tomorrow, I thought. We leave at dawn. But first, to say my good-byes.
My wife was equally surprised about our imminent move north. She took it gracefully, but not until after a few of the back-and-forths so familiar, I’m sure, to other married couples who have passed into their golden years.
‘I hate you.’
‘I’d like to downsize before we leave,’ I mused aloud, pacing our living room. In my hand was a glass of scotch, my evening constitutional. ‘Reconsider if we really need all this stuff once we move. Really, it’s not like the kids are around anymore.’
‘We never had kids,’ she said, in that tone of two people who know each other so well.
‘I think we should get a new stereo. One of those compact, bookshelf models.’
She clinked her leg-shackle with her water cup and sighed. Even after 50 years, when most women are too plump on the eyes, she has stayed remarkably slim.
‘And maybe a laptop computer. Or two. I read this really interesting article recently about wireless networks and married couples—’
‘Who said we’re married?’
I sucked on an ice cube and knuckled down. Such a big change requires sacrifice, and I needed to come clean, to make sure my wife understood what we faced up north.
‘I think the cabin can fit a bed, if we sacrifice my dressing table.’
‘I haven’t eaten in days,’ she whispered, in a way I still find adorable.
‘I think I’ll go out.’
And perhaps I felt inattentive once I was outside, that I hadn’t unlocked her cuffs from the radiator before I left, but it passed. I had a lot on my mind! Plus, we have the rest of our lives to talk, I told myself, but I only have a few hours left to say good-bye to my dearest friends.
The first was Lady Eleanor de Montpelier, my oldest customer and closest confidante. We have always considered ourselves the last witnesses to a golden age, and shared too many secrets for me not to say good-bye face-to-face. Together we faced minimalism and Studio 54; surely our friendship could survive my departure without too many tears.
‘Who are you?’
‘Eleanor, I have some very important news.’
‘Dennis, throw this man out.’
‘Eleanor, it’s me.’
‘Oh, you’re that funny little man from the auction house…’
The door opened a little and I pushed my way inside. Her man scuttled away. I’m afraid Lady de Montpelier’s last years are robbing her of her memories, but I always force myself to keep up appearances for old times’ sake.
‘Eleanor, I can’t stay, but I have something to tell you: I’m moving away.’
‘But darling, no need for speeches. Where exactly are you going?’
As usual she was dressed immaculately, still carrying the latest designs with style, but there was something strange happening. She stared at me through tiny slits. Was she suspicious? It must be jealousy, I considered, that I didn’t consult her before making up my mind.
But it was enough to make me pause and take in the scene. A number of people in black jackets and dresses were sitting around her large dining table, holding sharp objects, as though they had been interrupted in the middle of something dangerous. Burglars, I thought, but I held myself in control; I have an awful temper around criminals.
I also noticed Lady Eleanor still hadn’t asked me to sit, which was strange, since I remained in an awkward, half-standing crouch over the sofa.
‘We are going to Monaco. A large palace I’ve inherited from a distant uncle.’
‘Oh, but I was born in Monaco! We know everyone there. And David,’ she called to the table. A man with a crooked, corrupt-looking nose glanced at us. ‘Weren’t you born in Monaco?’
‘Actually, yes.’
‘So to exactly which palace are you moving, my funny little man?’ A nickname, from the good old days.
I finally stood up. ‘Rio, actually. Rio de Janeiro. I mean, Orlando. Or maybe Newark, we’re not sure.’
She laughed gaily, too gaily for my tastes. ‘But we have houses in all those places! Now who did you say you were again? I swear, I never forget a face, still you seem so familiar…’
It occurred to me that I still had hundreds of good friends to see before dawn. (Rule no. 2 of The Auctioneer’s Handbook: Leave a crowd in anticipation.) Being relatively not-young myself, and staring at the Lady’s liver-spotted ankles, I was in no mood to be reminded of what happens as we age, and with quick apologies I showed myself out. Plus the people who had broken into her apartment seemed increasingly more aggressive, nearly drooling over the plates they looked to steal.
But forgiveness begets happiness, or forgetfulness; I’m not sure which. Anyway, the night was short, and I had a cab in no time.
Being an auctioneer has brought me into touch with many of the world’s greatest artists, and the relationships I’ve forged with them have been as rewarding as any I’ve known. Indeed, I’ve had my portrait painted at least two dozen times, and once, while I was in Spain during the war, Picasso himself drew my profile on the back of a bar napkin, in a state of great amusement, because, he said, he found my nose ‘so extremely trueish.’
But it’s with the world-renowned sculptor Frank Koch that I’ve had the most intense—some might say, ‘museish’—relationship, and certainly, if you consider me in light of his most recent work, the similarities are staggering.
He was busy with his tools when I found him, holed away in his dark, giant loft downtown, chipping away at yet another masterpiece.
‘Frank!’ I called out, but as he turned away from his work, I could immediately tell something was different. Like all great artists, he abuses heroin, and I suspected he might be under the influence.
‘Who are you?’
‘This is beautiful…’ I said, walking around one of his pieces to keep the conversation moving. Heroin addicts have a difficult time keeping their focus. Rule no. 3: Move to a new lot when the last one’s finished.
‘It’s so virile and commanding,’ I continued. ‘So masterful. I wouldn’t be surprised if they listed it as ‘godlike.’’ My hands worked over the smooth marble, as though drying my chest after a shower.
‘Don’t touch that.’
‘Oh, Frank—’
‘I said don’t—’
Unfortunately at that moment, a flatbed truck rumbling by outside upset the floorboards and caused the piece to fall over and explode.
‘I fucking said who are you?’ he shouted as we played ‘tag’ until I reached the door, but then I knew he was still somewhat affected by the drugs. Rule no. 4: They are not angry with you, they simply don’t know art.
I had four more people to see—or a thousand, depending on how you counted it—before I departed for the north country, but it was getting late, and I decided to call on the one person whose visit would mean the most, though it wasn’t for my sake that I was calling.
Stan Druckman opened the door without a word and stepped aside to let me in. Such is the relationship between me and him, between mentor and pupil; Stan is a paragon of discipline and respect. The furniture in his apartment was drab, the air smelled of ordinariness. It reminded me of my own early days in the business, the first paltry salary, though I do think I had better taste in upholstery at that point. Note for teacher, I thought, and laughed. Fumbling around his unkept kitchen, I fixed a drink and paced the floor, preparing for the speech I’d planned down to the word.
Because in my 14th taxi that night, I had realized something very critical: it didn’t matter what New York’s dementia’d aristocrats, burglars, and drug addicts thought of me. They would not be my legacy. No, it was Stan who would carry on my work, who’d train the next generation of auctioneers. I had picked my pupil years before, solely to reach this moment.
‘So what’s up, Dad…’
‘Stan!’ I hissed.
‘I’m sorry. What’s up, The Auctioneer. No really, so what’s going on?’
My eyelids clapped like seals. I could tell he was in no mood to listen, and suddenly I was almost purple with anger. Couldn’t he sense why I was visiting? Was he so ungrateful? But I had to control myself. The future was riding on my shoulders.
I took a deep breath. ‘Your mother and I are moving upstate, and I wanted to leave a last lesson—’
He interrupted me with a laugh, ‘What mother? You bought me off an ex-con at the Ford dealership—’
‘Enough!’
I demonstrated The Auctioneer’s Stern Answer, and he collapsed.
‘I was going to leave you with a little advice, but now I see you’re not even up to listening. Let’s see, Mr. Smart Guy, how well you fare in my shoes. See if you even can walk a mile.’
But by that point he had picked himself up and lifted the telephone, and, as he likes to do when I visit, began calling some friend whose telephone number seems to only have three digits. So I left.
Closing the door, I might have had a tear in my eye, but it was gone when I reached the sidewalk outside his building. I hailed a cab and my resolve returned. Stan could find his own way. A brand new life awaited me and my wife—a life of contemplation and quiet afternoons. Watching the red and blue lights swirl in the driver’s rear-view mirror, I whispered my good-byes to the frantic city and made peace.
It has been two weeks since my wife and I moved upstate for the pastoral life. There is a wonderful pace to our days here; Milton was not wrong in saying the Adirondacks were made for lovers. Our romance blossoms with the rooster’s crow, and finds solace under twilight’s icy moon. I must say that our home has a nearly opulent amount of square inches, and I don’t think it’s hyperbole to brag that our wood stove is one of the warmest in the district. One friendly man on our street now parks his boat in our front yard. (I suspect so that we may borrow it in the summer without asking.) In short, we have been embraced by our neighbors, and eventually, I’m sure, they will stop their dogs from mauling our Adirondack chairs.
Of course we have seen rough spots. Not surprisingly, there comes a toll from so quickly denouncing the glamour of auctioneering, and even my wife occasionally shows signs of missing the big city’s way of life. Just yesterday she asked me for water, and I had to remind her again, this is not exactly Evian country.
Then again, she is thinner, so maybe if Vogue wants to do a tableau of country living…
But things are better. My soul is restored, and I have even begun to look for new work. Recently I spotted an advertisement posted outside the grocery store, looking for an ‘open-minded business partner to help satisfy demanding ‘clients’ with severe judgments and happy endings.’ And I wondered, after all, what is an auctioneer but someone who knows how to appraise?
—Published December 9, 2003
