By Bobbie Samuels
Selling a painting should, in theory, be a straightforward process. The client chooses a work, pays for it, and it is then carefully packaged and delivered. In reality, selling art—particularly to the ultra-wealthy—is more like staging an elaborate heist, except the only crime is against my sanity.
This week’s mission? Delivering a large, aggressively coloured painting of a piece of tarmac by Hedge Fund, to an anonymous Formula One driver—let’s call him Mr X—who decided, after several months of indecision, that it was exactly what his Monaco penthouse needed. “It speaks to me,” he had said on the phone, in the deeply serious tone that men use when they’ve just discovered contemporary art.
The painting in question is by a conceptual artist known for his ironic takes on finance and power structures. It is titled Bit of Road #34, which means there are presumably Bits of Road #1 to #33 lurking in the homes of equally serious men. It is large, it is loud, and it is, unmistakably, a close-up of some rather ordinary-looking asphalt—but in bold colours.
The first problem: Mr X wanted the painting immediately. This meant I had to organise not just a courier but personally accompany the work on his private jet. “We’ll send a car,” his assistant assured me. “Just be ready.”
Be ready for what, exactly, was unclear.
The second problem: packaging. A painting of this size and intensity does not simply get wrapped in a bit of bubble wrap and shoved into the back of a car. No, it requires museum-grade handling. Fiona, my gallery assistant, stood next to the crate as it was being prepared, watching nervously. “What if he changes his mind?” she asked.
I considered this. Mr X had, after all, taken four months to decide he definitely wanted the painting, during which time he had requested photos, a video, a mocked-up image of it in his home, and, inexplicably, a picture of me standing next to it “for scale.” He had then asked if we could commission a bigger version, before realising his walls were not, in fact, infinite.
But, by some miracle, the crate was sealed, a very expensive courier service was booked, and I was soon sitting in the back of a blacked-out SUV with a painting of a road strapped in beside me, being driven towards a private jet terminal. The driver did not speak but exuded an energy that suggested he had transported many questionable things in his time.
At the terminal, Mr X’s assistant greeted me with the air of someone who was both used to doing absurd things and entirely numb to them. “Welcome,” she said, glancing at the crate. “He’s very excited.”
Boarding a private jet with a painting of tarmac is a strangely humbling experience. While other passengers might bring luggage or a small dog, I was carefully escorting what was essentially an abstract road surface onto a Gulfstream. The flight attendants did not blink. Clearly, this was not even in the top five strangest things they had seen.
Upon arrival in Monaco, the situation escalated into what I can only describe as a logistical opera. The painting was too large to fit into Mr X’s building’s lift. “We’ll have to carry it up the stairs,” his assistant declared. The stairs, I should add, were marble, winding, and designed for people who had never carried anything heavier than a champagne flute. I briefly imagined the crate slipping and crashing through several floors of unimaginable wealth.
Eventually, with much sweating and some questionable manoeuvring, the painting was placed exactly where Mr X wanted it—above a very large, very white sofa. He arrived moments later, wearing an expensive tracksuit and an expression of deep artistic appreciation. “Perfect,” he said, staring at the piece. Then he turned to me. “Do you think I should get another one?”
I smiled, because there is only ever one answer to that question.
“Yes,” I said. “Definitely.”
Bobbie