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.