My Life as an Art Dealer

Diary of an Art Dealer

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Diary of an Art Dealer

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.

My Life as an Art Dealer: Parkour and Park Runs are very different things

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By Harissa Beaumont

This week I made a mistake. A big one.

It all started on Monday, during that dangerous, overcaffeinated window between 7:30 and 8am when I feel briefly invincible and capable of self-improvement. I was feeling sprightly—possibly due to the fact that I’d finally invoiced someone on time—and decided it was time to “get fit.”

So when I saw an Instagram ad for a local “Parkour for Beginners” group, I thought: that sounds healthy. I assumed that Parkour was a variant of the Park Runs that everyone I know is entering. I imagined a bit of jogging, perhaps some light stretching, followed by a croissant and a smug flat white.

Reader, it was not that.

It turns out Parkour is French for attempt to die publicly by jumping off municipal architecture. I arrived in leggings with a hopeful energy. Everyone else was in fingerless gloves and had names like Blade and Phoenix. Within minutes, I was being taught how to vault a bench and scale a vertical wall using only momentum and tiny hand holds. Someone mentioned we’d be free-climbing Big Ben by August. I laughed. Everyone else nodded and said they couldn’t wait.

By Wednesday, my thighs felt like they’d been tenderised by Damien Hirst himself. Fiona, ever helpful, Googled “Parkour injuries” and read them out in ascending order of severity while labelling works on ArtLogic. ‘Tibia fractures are common’, she said cheerfully. I decided not to go back and wished I hadn’t already paid the annual membership fee.

Meanwhile, back in the world of fine art—which, to be honest, felt far less dangerous this week—I had two studio visits, both of which involved emotional breakdowns, but only one in front of me. The first artist (mid-career, excellent cheekbones, recently divorced) showed me a new series of works made entirely from shredded love letters and insulation foam reclaimed from the family home. ‘It’s about boundaries,’ he whispered, while I tried not to sneeze from the fibreglass.

The second artist had decided to only work in complete darkness as a protest against the tyranny of the visible. I accidentally trod on one of the pieces.

Then there was a collector—let’s call her Lucinda—who rang to say she didn’t like how a recent acquisition felt near the dog. I had no idea what she meant, and on asking for elucidation discovered that her Labrador had developed a ‘weird tension’ since the painting arrived. I suggested moving the piece to another room. She refused. I suggested moving the dog to another room. She scoffed and asked for a refund as the picture was spreading bad vibes. I said I’d think about solutions.

By Friday, I had returned to Parkour, just to politely bow out of it. I cited “an ankle awareness issue” and “a desperate need to remain uninjured for Basel.” But I will say this: hanging off a high wall in Camden while someone named Raven shouts “TRUST YOUR KNEES” at me gave me a new appreciation for stable, indoor activities. Like filing shipping forms. Or standing in corners of galleries making eyes at collectors.

Until next week,

Harissa

(who will henceforth stick to Pilates and passive-aggressive walking)

Diary of a Mayfair Art Dealer

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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.

My Life as an Art Dealer: London Heatwave! Hot Art and Melting Clients

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This week, London was officially hotter than Marrakesh, Naples, and quite possibly the inside of a functioning kiln. While the city melted in slow motion, I attempted to conduct business from what might as well have been the inside of a toasted marshmallow.

Let me say this clearly: London is not designed for heat. We can handle drizzle, gloom, and that brand of sideways wind that exfoliates your face with grit—but ask us to function in 34°C and we crumble like overcooked oatcakes.

The gallery, quickly turned into a sort of slow-roasting Scandi sauna. The air conditioning broke at 10:13am on Monday. By 10:14am, Fiona had wedged open the front door with a catalogue of post-war sculpture and was fanning herself with a consignment invoice, muttering about holidaying immediately on a Swiss glacier. She began taking client calls with a wet flannel on her head whilst drinking glasses of those peculiarly orange drinks they like in Italy.

By Tuesday, the heat had begun to affect the art. One of the mixed media pieces—composed mostly of wax —started to gently slump. I had to ring the artist, who, to their credit, took the news quite well and suggested it might now be “a commentary on the instability of the climate narrative.”

We had a visit from a client—let’s call him Giles—who arrived in linen shorts, smelling faintly of bergamot. He refused to come fully inside the gallery in case he got “overly warmed.” We stood near the threshold, politely discussing whether his new pool house in Surrey would be better suited to the large painting of a fox with anxiety or the smaller one of a duvet abandoned in a field. Giles eventually left in a sweat-slicked daze, muttering about how we should invest in some ceiling fans. I shut the door and contemplated a swim in thenSerpentine as I scraped my hair off my neck.

On Wednesday, I was meant to visit an artist’s studio in Hackney Wick, but their building had apparently reached an internal temperature of 38°C and they emailed to say they had “entered a meditative state and would remain horizontal for the foreseeable future.” Fair enough.

Thursday brought the ultimate test: an opening. We had optimistically scheduled a group show for the very week London decided to become a wok. The gallery was packed—because nothing draws the art crowd like complimentary wine and the promise of shade. Unfortunately, our wine fridge had given up the ghost sometime before noon and the rosé had become what can only be described as “lightly poached.”

A woman in a backless silk dress fainted gently next to a sculpture made entirely of mirror tiles. Someone tried to fan her with a press release. Meanwhile, an eager collector asked me if the heat was “part of the concept.” I told him, yes, it was “a participatory performance piece about the suffocating nature of capitalism.” He nodded solemnly and asked for the artist’s CV.

Now, as I sit here with a bag of frozen peas strapped to my ankles and an iced chamomile tea melting beside me, I reflect that yes—London may be a city on the verge of spontaneous combustion—but we survived. Just.

Although I’m fairly certain Fiona is now 40% Aperol.

Harissa

My Life as an Art Dealer: The Art of Deception

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By Harissa Beaumont

Some names have been changed to protect the innocent

Monday began, as it often does, with a desperate phone call from a collector who has the purchasing sense of a Labrador with a trust fund. Gerald, a man who once claimed Basquiat was “a type of French bread,” had set his sights on a very specific Damien Hirst piece. Naturally, it was sold years ago and now lives somewhere in Qatar, but Gerald insisted that I “just pop it out of storage.” I explained this wasn’t an option, to which he replied, “Don’t you people have a back door for these things? Like Harrods?”

This conversation lasted 35 minutes.

By midday, the gallery was graced by Lucinda, a hedge-fund widow whose taste in art hovers somewhere between “Instagrammable” and “irreversible mistake.” She sauntered in with a handbag worth more than most cars, declaring she needed something “bold and conceptual” for the guest loo in her chalet. I suggested a small sculpture from an emerging artist in Peckham that explores themes of grief and societal decay. Lucinda stared blankly and asked, “Does it come in lilac?”

Tuesday was worse. The courier for a £250,000 painting by a mid-century modernist misread the address and attempted to deliver it to a kebab shop in Shepherd’s Bush. I had to bribe the gallery assistant with promises of lunch at Sketch to take the Overground and retrieve it, whereupon she discovered the painting leaning against the kebab counter, perilously close to a large tub of garlic sauce.

We also experienced the unwanted arrival of Maurice, a self-declared “art investor” whose understanding of the market is as thin as his knowledge of contemporary aesthetics. He loudly informed me that Banksy is “too mainstream now” and asked whether I could get him “an up-and-coming graffiti chap.” When I pointed out that I deal primarily in fine art, he winked and said, “All the same, isn’t it? It’s just stuff on walls.” I almost called security and had him thrown out.

Thursday’s highlight was the debut of a new artist I’d been championing for months: Sorcha, who creates large-scale installations from discarded electronic waste. Her work is raw, powerful, and exquisitely confrontational. The private view, however, was an utter circus. Sorcha arrived late, wearing what appeared to be a dress made of VHS tapes, and immediately started arguing with a collector who asked if she’d consider “toning down the dystopia.” She might be looking for a new gallery.

Friday morning, I discovered the gallery had been tagged in an Instagram post by a minor celebrity influencer who captioned a photo of herself in front of one of our pieces with, “ART IS JUST VIBES.” I’ve had three inquiries since from people wanting to know if we sell “NFTs of the vibes.” Of course we do, we sell anything, we are art dealers.

Finally, this morning, the landlord informed me he’s raising the rent because “art brings prestige,” which is a delightful way of saying, “I’ve been watching your clients arrive in Bentleys.” I briefly considered explaining that not all my clients arrive in Bentleys; some arrive in Range Rovers and refer to me as “darling.” But instead, I smiled, thanked him, and went to drown my sorrows in an oat milk latte.

If you’re looking for me next week, I’ll be at an opening, holding a glass of lukewarm champagne and pretending I’m not dying inside.