It’s just past 7:30 p.m., and the gallery is finally quiet — the last collector, a hedge fund type from Knightsbridge, lingered long enough to drain both the Bordeaux and my patience. I’m writing this from the velvet sofa in my office, still surrounded by fragments of today’s madness: swatches, sales sheets, and the unmistakable scent of freshly uncrated oil paint.
This morning began with a call from Renata at the ArtYearly offices — apparently, they want to spotlight our new discovery, Hedge Fund, in their September issue. His works are so now and suddenly in great demand. I’ve had three private viewings already this week, and there’s serious interest from a Middle Eastern museum group. I don’t think he quite realizes the price point he’s about to command — yet.
At lunch, I met with Lionel at Claridge’s to discuss the Oboe Ngua piece he insists on consigning through an auction house. I tried, subtly, to dissuade him — it’s a beautiful work, yes, but early and frankly a little tortured. Not ideal in this market. But Lionel is one of those clients who buys with his heart and sells with his ego. Dangerous combination.
Back at the gallery, the lighting had gone awry — again — and Charlotte was nearly in tears trying to prepare the exhibition wall for the P.T.Wilding show. His widow had come by unannounced, her perfume filling the space like some kind of ironic echo of David’s early nudes. She approved of everything. “He would have liked this,” she said, nodding toward a cold, abstract canvas from his later period that P.T. once told me he only finished to get out of a creative slump. Art has its truths, but rarely its honesty.
As for me? I’m tired in that quiet way that feels I should buy something expensive. But this is the life I chose: Mayfair, madness, and margins. Tomorrow, I meet the Russians at 10 a.m., preview a mysterious Herford at 1 p.m., and attend a dinner at the Connaught I didn’t ask to be invited to — which means, naturally, I must go.
The art world is absurd. And I adore it.
