I got the auction bug when I lived in Milan and a friend invited me to join her at a pre-sale exhibition at Milan’s Il Ponte auction house. It was in a classic Milan noble palazzo, where a massive street door and dark wood conciergerie opened onto a courtyard. From there, a ceremonial staircase led to frescoed salons on the piano nobile, where the gilt and damask furniture and dark Old Master paintings for sale looked very much at home. Discreet young women, who probably grew up in similar palazzi, patiently let us try on the jewelry we were interested in.
Though I had come along just for the ride, I ended up placing a written bid on a 1950s bracelet. I was afraid the excitement of live bidding would sweep me into a ruinous bidding war or stick me with an item I didn’t want or couldn’t afford because the auctioneer interpreted some stray gesture as a bid.
I won the bracelet. The auction charges kept it from being a bargain, but it felt like one anyway, especially since I took it home in a Zip-Loc bag instead of a fancy box from a store.
Piles of china were stacked on steel shelves and the artwork — most of which only its creators could love — hung on a pegboard wall.
I eventually became a regular at the sales of lesser items that Il Ponte held in a warehouse on Milan’s outskirts. Here, the chandeliers for sale hung from steel trusses rather than frescoed ceilings. Piles of china were stacked on steel shelves and the artwork — most of which only its creators could love — hung on a pegboard wall.
The ambiance and lower stakes gave me the courage to bid live. I soon discovered that I could resist getting swept into overspending. I was not so strong when it came to rescuing items that no one else wanted. Thanks to this, a pink porcelain dessert set hand painted with cherubs, a 1930s toy kitchen, and some odd vases, none of which I really needed or wanted, all found forever homes with me.
After returning to the U.S., I found a new auction house here in New Hampshire. W.H. Smith is located on a former farm and its atmosphere is as folksy as Milan’s was starchy. Auctioneers call bids in America’s unique staccato “cattle rattle.” The merchandise is Connecticut River Valley rather than Lombardy or Venice and features weathervanes and pine settles rather than Old Masters and marquetry. Food, not part of the Milan scene, adds to the country-fair atmosphere; wine and cheese at the pre-sale exhibitions and freshly grilled hamburgers and homemade pies during auctions. The buyers eat nervously with their eyes on the block.
In both countries the buyers were surprisingly similar. Whether in Lombardy or New Hampshire, well-heeled and well-dressed collectors — often tanned older couples — mingle with dealers whose work clothes and wads of cash barely distinguish them from the porters. In both countries, buyers discreetly size up potential competitors in the audience and break into gentle applause to release the tension after a particularly exciting exchange of bids.
Covid put an end to live auctions, but not to my buying.
It just moved online.
The change means access to more things from more places. Covid confinement created more bidders, which means prices have risen and become more consistent. Bargains are rare. Though I had a great win because a cataloger read “Venini” backwards and I got a beautiful vase for a song.
Whether on-line or on a live block, every object tells a story, usually sad. Families fall on hard times and people die. Children do not care for things their parents saved for or treasured. Sometimes portraits of the sellers emerge from the objects; the wedding presents that were popular at one time or regional artworks and interests.
On-line auctions have exposed me to the odd — to my eyes — things that others collect, such as Lladró porcelain figurines and coins or arms. The sheer quantities of some items make you wonder about the exclusivity of brands such as Lalique, Wedgwood, or Herend. Given how much of is being sold, you wonder if any porcelain, jade, or cinnabar remains in China.
Whether in Lombardy or New Hampshire, well-heeled and well-dressed collectors — often tanned older couples — mingle with dealers whose work clothes and wads of cash barely distinguish them from the porters.
Online auctions have softened my snobbery. Constant exposure has made me see there is imagination and skill in those Lladró figurines. I’m frequently tempted by (but haven’t bought) paintings of Paris in the rain or the Amalfi coast in the sun. However cheesy, many are very well painted and even the bad ones strike emotional chords with their evocation of moods and moments I have known.
Live auctions can’t compete with the abundance and range of online ones, which can satisfy any existing desire. They have also created some new ones, such as my expanding collections of porcelain birds and brutalist Czech glass.
Email alerts for items you like means you will always know when something is up for sale.
My worry is no longer about lacking self-control in live bidding. It is about the time I fritter away following up those alerts; “Five new sales that might interest you!” or “Six new items of Czech glass!”
In fact, right now I have to go; there is a vase I need to check out!
