The Portrait of Molly Dean

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘Thirty!’ Madam down the front is back in.

  ‘Thirty-two?’ Other side of the room, trying to slow things down. Rob allows it with a gracious nod and pivots back to madam. ‘Same privilege to you. Thirty-five?’

  The lady quickly acquiesces with a flutter of her paddle. Meanwhile, if the girl’s twitchy hand movements are anything to go by, her phone bidder is trying to jump in but has been sidelined by the fast battle between the two room bidders. Now she hesitates, listening hard to her phone as Rob takes the measure of his bidders.

  I ease a little further out of my niche.

  ‘The bid is with the lady at thirty-five thousand dollars!’ Rob looks at his telephone acolyte. She slashes a hand across her throat. He turns to his current underbidder. ‘Are you sure sir? Shame to lose it for just … one … bid.’ He cocks his head. Someone in the crowd titters. ‘No? Not likely to find another Badham of this quality easily …’ His silky tones sing a siren song, but the man reluctantly shakes his head. Rob squares up behind his podium, ready for the finale.

  I cock my elbow, raise a finger.

  Rob’s money-seeking eyes lock on me like lasers. ‘Forty! New bidder!’

  Heads turn as people crane to see who has jumped in, but I’m slouched against the wall, leafing through my catalogue.

  ‘Madam?’ Rob has already played the crowd for laughs on this one and he’s ready to wrap it up and move on. ‘Any further bids? Sold!’ His smacks a small gavel onto the podium, makes a note of the buyer on the sheet in front of him. Normally, buyers need to hold up their bidding numbers at this point, but I am a known quantity.

  While I wait for my next lot to come up, I do a few mental sums. Forty – plus a buyer’s premium of 15 per cent – may seem like a truckload of cash, but this is only a mid-level work. More importantly for me, Badham is rare to the market and the last one sold over a year ago for $170,000. I’ll live with Herbert on the wall for a few weeks then flip him to a private buyer in Sydney. Sydney buyers are very parochial when it comes to paintings and this is not just a beach scene, it’s a distinctive Sydney rock pool. Deep golds and umbers, a steel-blue sea, stylised, angular figures all combine to create the impression of still air, baking heat.

  I’ve been keeping up with the auction, noting the prices in my catalogue as lots are sold. You never know when that sort of info will come in handy. Now my next lot is up, a popping Margaret Preston oil. It’s everything you want in a Preston painting: exploding with colour, dynamic brushstrokes, and the nod to Japonisme that is the hallmark of some of her best work. Margaret’s stuff has become very popular in the last twelve months and, as I expect, multiple bidders in the room, on four phones, and on the books, quickly push the price up. I throw in a few highly visible bids. It’s already more than I’d spend so I don’t really want to be the winning bidder, but the opposition is so fierce, I can cast a smoke screen safe in the knowledge I will not be the one stuck with a ridiculously overpriced – but sensational – still life of riotous Australian native flowers. Slowly, the bidders drop out. One by one they falter. By the time only two are left, the price is already $30,000 above the reserve and, to me, at least twenty-five grand above the current market for Margaret. They keep at it, leapfrogging each other in a slow race to the finish. The tension in the room rises with the price, compounded by the fact that one of the bidders is on the phone. Every time the room bidder makes a move, a frisson of anticipation ripples through the crowd as everyone waits to see if the girl murmuring so importantly into her phone will nod her head, wave her hand. It’s like the crowd at Wimbledon: hushed, with heads flicking back and forth, back and forth.

  She nods. The figures jump: $72,000. The crowd sighs and seems to lean collectively toward the place where the room bidder sits. Rob rests his forearms on the podium, focuses on his target and conjures up a sympathetic half-smile. The rest of us cease to exist as he locks in. ‘Oh dear.’ He is tweaking the line, making sure he has firmly hooked his catch. ‘That was an awfully long time before they decided to bid. I thought you had it there. What do you think? One more? Just one thousand? Or maybe show ’em you mean business and go for a knock-out bid – seventy-five?’ Rob seems to lean even further over the audience. ‘You’ve come this far.’ One hand curls up from the podium, each finger unfurling in turn until they point to the bidder, palm up. It is a subtle yet powerful gesture: come with me, I’ll help you over the last hurdle. A paddle flicks. Rob straightens, all business. ‘Seventy-five?’ He gets confirmation. ‘Seventy-five thousand, against you on the phone. Fair warning! Are you all finished? All done? Selling at seventy-five thousand in the room. Once, twice, three times.’ He hovers his gavel hand above the podium for an extra few seconds, seconds that must feel like an eternity to the buyer. Cracks it down. ‘Sold! Congratulations to buyer number … one-five-nine.’

  A smattering of applause breaks out, part release of tension, part admiration. Whether the admiration is for the buyer and his fat chequebook, or for Rob and his ability to beguile, well, I know which performance I’m clapping. Then Margaret is whisked away and forgotten, and we all refocus our acquisitive eyes on the next lot.

  We’re only two lots away from Molly now and I scan the row of phone bid girls. How many are on a call? Usually the house calls a phone bidder a couple of lots before time, making sure they have the connection and the auction can keep its momentum up. Three girls are actively bidding on the current lot, one is shuffling paper, and one has her phone held slightly away from her ear. She is letting her party listen to the action, so whoever it is, they’re hanging on for one of the next few lots.

  One lot to go. This is the tail end of the auction, works by lesser artists (or utter crap by famous names), and the room has emptied out a bit. People scuttle or stride out, their gait depending both on their success and on their level of courtesy. The polite make an apologetic escape in the suspended moment between lots, the arrogant bulldoze a path whenever, careless of the bidding, of the auctioneer’s sight lines. At the same time as this egress, many of those who had been standing move into the vacated seats, exposing the few of us still adhered to the perimeter, barnacles when the tide rushes out. A second staffer is now on the phone, whispering nothings. ‘Can you hear the auctioneer? I’ll relay the bids to you. Yes, yes. I’ll tell you when the bid is with you.’

  Suddenly, Molly is here. The warmth of the spotlight flatters her, and there are a couple of soft sounds of surprise from the otherwise wearying crowd. Badly hung as this painting was at the viewing, some are only noticing her for the first time. In the catalogue, her anonymity remains. No last-minute salesroom notice to indicate that artist or sitter has been recognised.

  I want this painting. I’m actually surprised how much. Normally, no matter how much an artist or subject hits my personal connoisseur’s buttons, the pragmatic me breaks it down to minimum possible expenditure versus maximum possible gain.

  ‘Lot 186, Australian School.’ Rob’s voice is as strong as it was hours ago at the start of the sale, but his enthusiasm has left for the evening. Why waste energy on a cheap painting by no one in particular? ‘I have a bid on the books so I’ll start at two hundred.’

  Both girls’ hands go up.

  ‘Three hundred with Amy’s bidder, four hundred with Sophie’s’. The allocation is arbitrary, and both phone bidders are probably annoyed. One because he was immediately pipped, the other because he’s suddenly bid more than he thought.

  ‘Six hundred with me.’ He glances at his papers as though to allay any suspicions the absentee bid might be manufactured. Eyeballs the girls. ‘Thank you. Seven hundred with Amy. That knocks my absentee bidder out.’

  Amy is looking perky and smug, beside her Sophie (presumably) is slouching, a sure sign her punter has pulled the plug. Suddenly one of the other Stepford girls, the paper shuffler, leans forward. She was hidden behind the others, but now I can see that she, like them, has a
phone pressed to her ear. She nods frantically at Rob.

  ‘Eight hundred, new bidder.’ Rob is languid, care factor zero.

  Amy talks, listens, half lifts her hand from the desk, talks again. ‘Nine hundred.’ It sounds more question that statement. Her client is flagging.

  The other phone bidder snaps back, the girl’s hand punching the air.

  ‘One thousand,’ Rob relays the obvious.

  I raise a finger, just a little, as though I’m making a don’t-want-to-impose request of a passing waiter. Rob’s response is instant, an almost imperceptible straightening of the spine, a bloodhound when the first scent molecules hit those highly specialised receptors.

  ‘One thousand two fifty.’ Bidding increments change when you hit a thousand. ‘Fifteen hundred.’ Again the last-minute phone bidder has struck back. I can see the other two phone bidders are definitely out and without looking at Rob, I nod.

  ‘One seven fifty.’

  Chairs creak as the dregs of the crowd sense a stoush. Something interesting is happening, but they don’t know why. A couple of people have made me, and the direction of their gaze is a signpost for others. From the corner of my eye I see Damien Savage and another dealer looking my way, but until I see another room bid, they cease to exist.

  ‘Two thousand.’ The remaining phone bidder has returned, but slower. Genuine hesitation, a gambit or slow response from the phone girl? I’m still well within my budget for this painting, and in the time it takes to inhale, I decide go on the attack. I look at Rob and hold three fingers in the air.

  His eyes open a bit wider. ‘Three thousand!’

  It’s a move that could come straight back and bite me, hard. Not only could the other bidder call my bluff, but I’ve just made it clear to the entire room, dealers included, that I really want this painting. Every single one of them is now asking themselves, ‘What does she know?’ and the dealers are also wondering if they trust my knowledge enough to buy it out from under me. But while they’re all doing mental gymnastics, Rob is coming down the home straight.

  ‘At three thousand, once.’ He’s going fast. ‘Twice, and three times!’ Pausing to look at the girl on the phone, one final moment for her bidder. She is talking, not making eye contact. A quick check of the room, but no one is going to challenge. ‘Sold!’ No doubt Rob will later claim he knocked it down quickly just for me. He is, after all, one of those men who is brilliant at taking credit where absolutely none is due.

  ***

  I hang around for a couple more lots, just a bit of final window dressing to suggest I’m not particularly excited about anything, then ease out into the hallway, making my getaway.

  Damien Savage is waiting for me. ‘What have you bought, Alex?’

  He doesn’t mean the Badham. I keep walking; I hate being buttonholed like this. ‘Nothing you’d be interested in. I have a client who likes attractive women.’

  He throws back his head and laughs. Bonhomie 101. ‘Oh I’ve got a couple of those sort of collectors, but your girl is wearing far too many clothes to tempt them.’

  Eeew. File that under things I don’t want to think about. I decide there’s no harm in playing. The painting is mine, and he’ll find out something soon enough. ‘It’s a Colahan. Like I said, not quite your thing.’

  ‘Ah. Well bought at three thou.’ He touches an imaginary hat brim.

  ‘I saw you picked up a couple of impressive works. The early Brack could just about sell itself.’

  ‘True, but I’ll get a much, much higher price.’

  I fix a smile on my face. We’ve reached the accounts desk and Damien makes a show of discreetly falling back as I collect my invoice. Given that we each know precisely what the other has bought and how much was paid, I have to wonder if he’s taking the piss. My account is less than 10 per cent of the amount he’s dropped this evening. It’s definitely time to get out of here. I clap the dealer on his Ermenegildo Zegna-clad bicep and head for the door

  ‘Well, I’m off. Good to see you, Damien.’ Sketching a wave over my shoulder, I push out into the cool night.

  ***

  The next morning, I’m back at Lane’s first thing with a cheque for last night’s purchases. Naturally, the bank will play with the money for a day or so before seeing fit to clear the funds and magic them across to Lane & Co.’s account, but as a trusted client I can collect the paintings immediately. It’s only just gone 10 a.m. – basically pre-dawn for most of the art crowd – so there are few of yesterday’s buyers here. I quickly sort out the account and move to the collection point. This is essentially the door to the back room where all the lots are kept. Given my marginally elevated status around here, I scorn the idea of hovering in the doorway and step into the cavernous space beyond. Various minions are scampering about between the shelves and racks and it takes a moment before I am spotted. A girl approaches, her blonde hair so laden with product it resists the laws of physics, immobile despite her hurried gait.

  ‘Help you?’ Spoken politely enough but accompanied by a lack of personal space designed to propel me backwards through the door.

  ‘Yes thanks.’ I thrust my paperwork forward, forcing her to step back instead. Simple pleasures.

  She turns and surveys the entire room from where we are, apparently expecting the location of my paintings to be illuminated by Jesus-like beams of light from above.

  I sigh, point. ‘I can see the Badham right there.’

  Her shoulders quiver and she goes to retrieve the painting, her pointy shoes tapping larghetto across the scarred wooden floor. Handing me the Badham, she disappears in search of my other purchase. I expect she’ll dawdle, so I take the opportunity to study the Badham again and figure out what sort of frame I’ll put on it. It’s currently housed in a hideous, cheap thing from the 1960s, and it’s also under glass. Not only is glass unnecessary for most oil paintings, but unless you’re prepared to spend a fortune on non-reflective stuff, it’s hard to see much more than your own face. I’m picturing this painting in a recreation of a ’30s Modernist frame: flat, wide and white. It will look amazing. I don’t understand why some people can’t appreciate how the right frame completes a painting, while even the most exquisite frame can’t save a painting that is inherently crap. Sometimes I buy things just for their frames. When that happens, the painting gets something different (truly bad paintings, I burn) and the frame is added to my stack of spares, waiting for its perfect match.

  My deliberations are cut short by the arrival of Molly, safe in the hands of the girl with the hair helmet. A quick look assures me no one has put their foot through the canvas or scratched their watch across the surface (seriously, it happens) and I scrawl my signature across the bottom of her copy of the docket.

  ‘Thanks, hon. Good to see you again!’ I have no idea who she is, but now she’ll spend the rest of the day wondering if she just dissed an important client. My work here is done.

  ***

  Back home, I prop Molly on the mantelpiece and set to work taking the Badham out of its frame. It only takes a few minutes, but instantly the painting looks better, colours previously overwhelmed by the tawdry glitz of the frame now sing in unison with the tones around them.

  Molly doesn’t need a new frame. Hers is a simple moulding – just a little bit of adornment on the corners and exactly the right shade to enhance the portrait without intruding. As I look at Molly’s portrait now, it is even more obvious that this is the frame placed on the painting when it was new. Nothing has changed since circa 1930, except for the slow discolouration of the varnish and an accumulation of dust and grime. At least, wherever Molly has been for the past seventy years, no one has been blowing smoke in her face. Paintings are affected by what amounts to passive smoking, and I’ve handled many works that have come from a smoker’s home, the spot above the fireplace or, worse, a men’s club. Their yellowed surfac
es have to be seen to be believed, although the damage can be easily fixed. Molly needs a light clean, but it won’t take John long and I’ll confirm that hint of a signature then. Personally, I’m certain of the artist and subject, but I still need to gather the evidence, so when the time comes to sell Molly’s portrait, the proof will make her far more attractive to prospective buyers. I flip the painting over.

  From my pre-auction inspection, I already know there is nothing much for me here. The paper on the back of the painting is pasted firmly to the stretcher but torn in a couple of places. Papering the back is quite common, serving to keep dust away from the rear of the canvas. In this case, the framer’s label still adheres to the lower right corner, but that’s it. I’m hoping there might be some more information underneath the paper, but the label is still an important part of the painting’s past, so I grab a Mylar sleeve and a craft knife, ready to carefully slice around it, before I’ll tuck it away for safe keeping. My knife is poised over the paper when the phone rings, a loud, obnoxious trill. Sighing, I put the knife to one side.

  ‘Alex Clayton.’

  ‘Alex, Rob. Do you have a moment?’

  ‘Sure, what can I do for you, Rob?’ I can’t think why he’d be calling me the day after the auction. Usually Rob would be busy rounding off a successful sale by continuing to schmooze the biggest spenders when they came to collect their purchases.

  ‘Look, I hate to be even having this discussion, but …’

  I wait him out. Nothing good ever comes from being on the back foot in a conversation with Rob.

  ‘The underbidder last night, the one on your Australian School work.’

  ‘Colin Colahan, actually.’

  ‘Really?’ He pauses. ‘Well, that’s perhaps … I had a call this morning from the bidder, and he felt – rather strongly, I must say – that he’d not had a proper chance to bid again, and he’s a tad … upset.’

  When you’re on the phone rather than in the auction room, you have to factor in that you can’t see what’s going on, and it’s sometimes hard to hear the auctioneer. But at the same time, the person fielding your call is also relaying the current bid, telling you if it’s with you or against you, and asking if you want to bid again. They also give you a bit of a nudge if things are wrapping up and you’ve gone quiet. There’s a lot going on, but the auctioneer won’t wait forever. So basically if you dip out, tough.