The weather was unbearable today , humid, oppressive, the kind of heat that makes everything feel slightly damp, including one’s patience. Even the paintings seemed to sag. Even the Rothko in the office hallway looking more like a tea stain than a masterpiece. But still, the collectors came, as they always do. Heatwaves don’t touch wealth.
First through the door was Sebastian Fairchild, in white linen and very expensive disinterest. He’s sniffing around for 21st Century British sculpture, but only if there’s “a story.” I showed him the Geoffrey Clarke I’ve been holding back. He admired it for five full seconds before declaring it to be “possibly too Catholic for my client.” I bit my tongue and poured the coffee.
Meanwhile, the Van Gogh (Not that one) in the back room finally sold , to an Italian hotelier who asked if it was by “the soup guy.” I told him no. He didn’t laugh, just wired the money before I’d finished my sentence. Strange man. Excellent transaction. I must get on to Van Gogh (Not that one) for some more work. They’ve gone a bit quiet.
Charlotte had a minor meltdown trying to locate the provenance letter for a mid-century Hungarian abstract we’re shipping to Geneva. It wasn’t in the archive folder, wasn’t in the drawer, wasn’t anywhere until we found it,naturally,folded inside a whodunnit on my desk, being used as a bookmark. Whoops. I really must digitise everything. Or rather, have someone else digitise everything. Preferably someone patient and obsessed with filing.
Afternoon drifted into cocktails. We hosted a casual walk-through for the preview of the Modern Mythologies show. Mostly regulars , trust fund kids, two fashion editors, and that property developer who only buys blue paintings. He tried to flirt with Charlotte again. Unsuccessfully.
Someone asked me if I “still believe in beauty.”
I said yes. Not because it’s true , but because it sells.
Now I’m here, alone, again, listening to the whirr of the lights cooling above the P1X3L prints. The street outside is quieter than usual , London is quieter – even the dealers at the end of Cork Street have shut up for the night.
Another day, another inch forward in this strange little war between passion and profit.
