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DEAR DIARY
Sunday
Up and about early for no very good reason, I pad wearily across the road to visit the, happily independent, coffee shop that lies 200 yards (or, for metric fans, 182.88 metres) away from my front door. As I sip my single-shot latte (essentially, warm, slightly brown and milky) and browse their copy of the Sunday Telegraph, I discover that Sandi Toksvig has found a new love: “I like auctions,” she proclaims. “They are as close to gambling as I get.”
I am pleased to read these words for two reasons. The first is that I too like auctions and as a proselytiser for all things auction-related, I am always glad when this most enjoyable and profitable of pastimes gets a celebrity endorsement. But I am pleased also because Ms Toksvig’s admission serves as the perfect response to a letter I received from one of GAN’s London readers, whom I shall refer to simply as Miss G, in order to save (her) potential embarrassment. Miss G took exception to last month’s ‘Wisdom of the Ages’ feature concerning women bidders, and specifically to the following section:
“Women who are not among the regular habitués almost invariably lose their heads, and because somebody else may be bidding enthusiastically for a coal-box, they forget their first not-too-favourable impressions of this coal-box and the fact that they do not particularly require a coal-box at all, and become dominated by some strange urge to acquire it at all costs. Too often they pay a sum for it that is out of all proportion to its value, but in that case they console themselves with the thought of how much the other woman wanted it, and how disappointed she will be to have seen it go past her!”
“How stupid!” rails my correspondent, ticking me off for printing such sexist drivel (ignoring the fact that it was written by a woman and published almost seventy years ago). “I’m sure that wasn’t how women behaved, even in the 1930s,” states my accuser boldly; “it simply isn’t how people – men or women – think and certainly no women of today would ever bid to spite another.” Oh really? This is what Sandi Toksvig went on to say in her article:
“It is only when faced with a rival bid that I suddenly find myself attracted to something.”
Ha! Have at you, Miss G! The psychology that governed the saleroom seventy – or three hundred – years ago hasn’t changed that much after all, has it? We all want what we think someone else is going to get.
However, Sandi Toksvig needs to take care. Her compulsion to win seems to be getting the better of her. She confesses that she recently purchased a 30-year-old Chevrolet truck that has no power steering and notes drily that she “will need to develop forearms like a stevedore should I ever wish to move it from the drive”. Hmmm. That may be one purchase her rival women bidders (if any) were only to happy to let go by…
Monday
Nothing very much happened today.
Tuesday
A message in my email in-box from someone – or something – called ‘danglewood’. The name seems vaguely familiar but I don’t know why. I open the email and read the following:
“Just a quick message to let you know that after weeks in the darkness (following what was supposed to be a simple change of Internet provider) we have finally managed to access our old address book in order to let you know that we now have a new email address.
“Apologies to those of you who know us and have thought that we had forgotten you, we promise to be in touch again soon, and also apologies to those of you who have received this and have no idea who we are, you may once in the distant past have sent us an email and have remained lodged in our address book, please feel free to delete this, we will not be offended.
“For those of you that have managed to get this far and are still interested or those of you who have no other friends, our new address is danglewood@blt.co.uk.
“Love to all those we love and apologies to those we don’t.”
It’s that last sentence that helps me to remember who danglewood is and to recall, with a shudder, that I am, without doubt, one of the ones they don’t love.
About three years ago, I bought a print at auction and, on removing it from its frame, found a watercolour on card being used as the backboard. It was unsigned but looked like the work of Frederick John Widgery, a West Country artist from the early part of the C20th, and indeed a partial, tantalising inscription made mention of him. The picture showed a town on the edge of a large lump of heath land and I thought that it might depict Exeter, with Exmoor beyond. I didn’t much like it and I didn’t think it was of fine quality so I listed it on eBay with a low start and no reserve.
I was as honest as I could be with the listing, stating that an old inscription had attributed the piece to Widgery and noting the fact that it had scattered foxing in the sky. It sold very well and made £250.
I shipped it and heard no more until three weeks later (a suspiciously long time) when the buyer – one danglewood – contacted me and said that he wanted to return it, because, although it was a picture of Exeter, it wasn’t by Widgery. I was pleased that I had been right about the location but annoyed that the buyer was claiming that I had made a mistake in the listing. He was also issuing veiled warnings about leaving negative feedback unless I complied with his wishes. I replied politely and said that I had not claimed that the picture was definitely by Widgery. My description had been both honest and accurate. I had mentioned the old attribution that linked the piece to the artist but had made it entirely clear that any potential purchaser should make up his or her own mind about it.
In this case, I had strongly suspected that danglewood had decided to take a punt, buy the thing on eBay and put it into a fine-art sale in Devon (probably at Bearne’s in Exeter), where, if he had been right, it would have sold for £1,200–£1500. Evidently, Bearne’s must have told him that while it was close to Widgery in style it wasn’t by the man himself. Danglewood had backed a loser and was understandably annoyed with himself.
When you buy a picture that is ‘attributed’ to an artist, either at a live sale or on the Internet, you must use your skill and judgement to work out whether it is ‘right’ or merely the ludicrously optimistic puff of a fantasist. Some people will use the word ‘attributed’ in good faith (like I do, honest) and some will know that there isn’t a chance that the picture they are selling came within a hundred miles – or a hundred years – of the artist they mention; in either case, it’s down to you to decide, and you will not have any comeback against the vendor or the auction house if you get it wrong.
In rather more measured tones, I had pointed out this ‘buyer beware’ aspect of the word ‘attributed’ to danglewood and reminded him that I had at no time claimed – or, indeed, implied – that the picture was certainly by Widgery. He then tried a different tack, stating that the scattered foxing was more extensive than I had mentioned (it wasn’t) and that the colours in the photograph on the listing didn’t match up with the real thing (they did). I said that it was curious that his original complaint had made no mention of these supposed errors… and so on.
In essence, my email of reply told danglewood to push off, but lest you think that I am a totally heartless beast, I ended it like this:
However, it is always annoying when one gambles on a picture and it doesn’t come off. Therefore, while admitting no responsibility, I am willing to make the following non-negotiable offer(s).
Providing that you agree to leave no eBay feedback about this trade, be it good, bad or neutral, I will either:
(a) on the expiry of the feedback window, send you a cheque for £100 as a gesture of goodwill;
(b) buy the picture in question back from you for £150. The cheque will be despatched on the expiry of the feedback window and on the safe receipt of the picture in question.
Alternatively, you can simply do as you hinted that you would in your initial email and leave me bad feedback – it’s up to you.
I think, looking back, that this was a pretty generous offer, but surprisingly it wasn’t taken up and I never heard from danglewood again… until now.
Wednesday
It seems to be the week for old eBay deals to come back and bite me. In 2006, I bought a watercolour by Norfolk artist Arthur E Davies on eBay for £160 and sold it via my local rooms for a good profit. All of which was fine until today, when I was contacted by a police officer from East Sussex who was conducting a criminal investigation into where my painting had come from and where it had gone. He had contacted eBay and eBay had passed him my details (eBay will tell anybody anything for the price of a phone call, by the looks of things). I explained by blameless part in proceedings and that was that until this week, when, two years after his initial email, the case against a carer accused of stealing from her elderly employer (or the estate thereof, I didn’t get all the details) came up at Lewes Crown Court. I was sent my statement (essentially the email I had sent in 2006 but on a proper witness statement form) and that was that. I had bought the picture in good faith and there was no question of anyone trying to recover the painting or any money from me… but I will book a consultation with the Auction Doctor sometime soon to have a check up on the full legal position regarding innocent parties who unwittingly buy stolen goods in a sale…
Stuart Maclaren