“This is a Kelly Lakis bag, created for Hermès by a man named Lakis Gavalas, a highly respected Greek designer. It is for either men or women, as you can see”—this, with a smile—“it is well suited to you.” I smiled back, slightly embarrassed he had noticed my vanity. Sharp guy. He continued smoothly. “This is only the second one to come from the workshop. The first one, this same bag in red, was purchased by Jean-Louis Dumas-Hermès, a Christmas gift for his wife.” His voice was both matter-of-fact and conspiratorial. It managed to convey a confidence in me, in my ability to see the common sense in purchasing this bag, the foolishness of leaving without it. The ultimate salesman, in other words. I glanced at the other listeners around us, and a couple of the women were nearly panting. Serge had a way with words, all right. But he could have stopped talking a while back. There was only one word necessary to sell me completely on the Kelly Lakis, and he had invoked it right out of the gate. Ever since I had started this whole Hermès gig, it was undoubtedly my favorite four-letter word—R-A-R-E. Like my steaks, I took my Hermès handbags as rare as I could get them.
18
Ping-Pong I’ll Play, but Purse Penelope? No Way!
I was very pleased with my first Faubourg foray until about twenty minutes after leaving the store, when I remembered that the shoulder bag inside my shopping bag was not a Birkin. It was like one of those times you go to the store for bread and come home with chocolate chip ice cream, but no bread. Whoops. Well, I would just have to go back tomorrow. I was sure my new buddy Serge would be happy to see me, and hopefully happy to sell to me. For now, I had a pressing engagement—today was the auction.
I had been to a couple of art auctions before, so I wasn’t exactly Joe Clueless, but those hadn’t been in France, at a venue on the Champs-Élysées. And my attendance at this auction was far less casual than my browsing and drowsing appearance at the other two—this was all about the money, honey. I was there strictly to score some little trinkets that would make my eBay clients’ hearts beat faster. But it would be a lie if I said I wasn’t damn curious to check out the crowd at this soiree. I’d bet a Birkin there would be some expensive designer outfits on display, and shitloads of bling. And, naturally, copious amounts of Hermès neckties…and scarves…and purses. This was a golden opportunity to see the different kinds of people that collect Hermès. Plus, I couldn’t wait to bear witness to the ludicrous overbidding Grace had mentioned in her e-mail. Nothing more fun than watching some zealous completist collectors go at it. I had seen it on eBay, but as with rock concerts or parades or fireworks or sporting events, I had a feeling the experience might be better live.
I had worried about finding the Artcurial building, but that didn’t prove to be a problem. It was a Beaux-Arts building that straddled an entire corner, resplendent in all its neoclassic glory, ornately dormered and amply befriezed. It was nothing if not conspicuous, even for the Champs-Élysées. It looked like some old French mini-palace that had been painstakingly renovated, which made sense, since, as it turned out, that was exactly what it was. (Although I would later learn the preferred term is petit palais.) I noticed a couple things about the vestibule right off the bat. Number 1: There was a thug in a cheap suit over on my right, aka the security guard, who was trying very unsuccessfully to blend in. (Funny.) Number 2: There was an information desk over to my left, where I could potentially find out where I had to go in this monster of a building. (Useful.) I walked right up and, lo and behold, got the information I needed. Truth in advertising is hard to come by, and you have to appreciate the informative information desk when you actually run across one—it’s particularly rare in airports. So, now, armed with knowledge and the catalog for the Hermès auction, I was ready to rumble. Or, more accurately, bid on vintage luxury items. I winked at the security guard—he blinked in confusion—and ambled into the main hallway.
Frankly, I didn’t see anything petit or mini about the place; in fact, I felt dwarfed. There were paintings and sculptures everywhere, and tons of doors leading off the main hallway, some open, some closed. Beyond each of the open doors was a room set up as a gallery, to promote an upcoming auction and display the items to be sold. Behind the closed doors were the auctions currently in progress—you could faintly hear the auctioneers’ quick-paced patter as you walked by. To help with navigation, each room was marked by one of those signs you see in funeral homes. (You know, the black ones with the removable white letters, the ones that inspire harmless vandalism in a magnetic-poetry-on-a-friend’s-fridge sort of way.) I wandered around awhile, and then headed upstairs to get a good seat.
I finally spotted the magnetic sign that read HERMÈS VINTAGE AUCTION. I was momentarily overwhelmed by the wide spectrum of poetic possibilities in those white magnetic letters, were I allowed just a few minutes alone with them. (For starters, there was: A cute sage movin’ her tin. Or: Her? Me?—Nice vino, stat! Or: Go crave thin mints. I could have stood there composing half-assed anagrams all afternoon.) I moved quickly through the door. The place was dotted with little clusters of fellow attendees, maybe twenty or so people in total. Since that would only fill around 10 percent of the folding chairs, I was definitely early. There were the requisite high-heeled Hermès handbag holders, accompanied by their preemptively bored boyfriends or husbands. (Apparently not all those Kelly and Birkin bags had wallets in them; hence, the menfolk.) Then there were the dowager types, with their rarer-than-average scarves tied around their necks to help hide their age. Neck wattle or no, I instinctively knew any of those women could buy and sell me, and if it could help get them an item currently missing in their collection, they wouldn’t hesitate to do just that. I couldn’t wait to see a couple of these ladies fighting it out for some rare piece of Hermès history.
I must admit, so far I was feeling pretty cocky about my deductive reasoning on Hermès types. Without ever having laid eyes on most of my clients, I had formed a mental picture of these women, and now I had confirmation that I had them pegged to a T. This auction’s cross section of Hermès couture culture was eclectic in style and age, but there was nothing about their appearance that surprised me. I had expected it all—the tailored suits, the discreet pearls, the conservative hemlines, the salon-fresh hair, the Chanel No. 5. Then, as my eyes roved the room, I saw a type I hadn’t expected, a type I could only describe as “frumpy French farmer.” This was, in all honesty, an Hermès fan base I hadn’t anticipated, couldn’t have anticipated, really. But there they were. Dowdy and underdressed, three or four couples all stood together, talking loudly in a hybrid of Hermès-speak and roughneck French—I overheard plenty of scarf design nomenclature, a debate on the condition of various “lots” at the auction, and a heated discussion of the failing health of Monsieur Hermès. You would think the two men involved in that argument were that gentleman’s long-lost brothers or, at the very least, his ex-lovers. Such was the level of emotion and implied intimacy. Seeing them grow red-faced as they argued, I was grateful they had left the truffle-hunting hounds at home—things could have really gotten ugly.
I had seen this type in the stores, but I didn’t know they actually bought anything—I figured they were gawking, or that maybe Hermès hired them to make the store look fuller. And land alive, there they were, here at this auction—a luxury-collecting subclass that lived (and dressed) on the down-low. Why weren’t they at least wearing the stuff? But wait, on closer inspection, they were, or at least the wives were. Each woman had an Hermès scarf on, an item worth easily what the rest of her outfit cost. I had missed that detail at first, briefly blinded by the seedy condition of their ratty cashmere twinsets and ancient tweed skirts. Oh, and over there…I spotted a couple of soiled Hermès ties tucked into the well-worn, moth-eaten cardigans of the men. Weirder and weirder. I wonder what a sociologist would make of it. I wondered what I made of it. Oh, Grace, where art thou? She, of anyone, must know what the story was with this group…why hadn’t she mentioned it? (I later found out she sort of had—in a roundabout way. It turne
d out these “French farmers” were the people who ran the dépôt-ventes.) I left my philosophical meanderings alone for now, though, because it was time to find a seat. Even though the room was still somewhat empty, I wanted to stake my claim. Actually, that did end up being the correct verbiage, because, about ten minutes later, France’s answer to the Gold Rush of ’49 hit the room, with two hundred or more Hermès hunters flooding through the door. Literally, within two or three minutes, it was standing room only for almost half the crowd. I snuggled a little deeper into my chair and got ready for the show.
The auctioneer moved to the front, and we were off. Whoa, this guy was talking way faster in French than I expected…hey, that’s already sold and I didn’t even see what it was. I picked up my catalog and tried to scan ahead, but it was like an algebra test you hadn’t studied for, there was no hope…I would take it as it came. Oh, I like that pocket watch up there, oh wow, it’s a jump-hour watch, those are so cool, and superunusual, and with the Hermès logo, I could sell that for a bundle, hey, my hand just shot up, so I’m bidding, I guess, okay…no, I want it, Mr. Guy-that’s-three-rows-away, put your hand down already, and by the way, that brown suit is SO last year…okay, I’ll pay more than you, fine, have it that way, I want the watch, dammit, I’m raising my hand again…damn you, brown suit guy, put your hand down…Mine is up, see Mr. Auctioneer, notice me, notice me…And look, how sad, brown suit’s hand has temporary paralysis, I guess, by the way it’s slowly swinging down at his side…hey, Mr. Auctioneer is pointing at me…
Oh my God, I had won my very first item. An Hermès jump-hour watch for the bargain price of $1,700. Seemed about right—I could almost definitely sell it for more, but I didn’t even care at that moment. I had beaten Mr. Brown Suit, and that was all that mattered. Take that, buddy. Whew…I was drained already, and it was only one item. I guess this is why the barter system has fallen out of favor—too emotionally exhausting.
An official-looking man came by, collected a credit card from me (for identification purposes), and handed me a paddle—and the adrenaline surged again. Now if I bid, it would be as if I was an overaggressive Ping-Pong player, rather than an elementary school boy who had to take a whiz. Definitely much cooler. I twirled the paddle between my knees and waited for the next match—er, auction lot. The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I bid, I bid, I bid, I won, I won, I won. Sure, I had sucked at Ping-Pong as a kid, but if they ever made auction bidding part of the Olympics, I was gold medal material. I fumbled only once—meaning to grab my paddle to bid, I got my umbrella instead. The bidding was heated, no time to switch, so I swung that umbrella around until all the paddle-holders surrendered in confusion. The auctioneer banged the gavel and announced that the lot would go to the man with the parapluie. This drew a big laugh, and naturally, everyone craned every which way to get a better look at me. I waved to them with my umbrella, and rather sheepishly picked up my paddle. At least I had won.
At the end, I had three clocks—the aforementioned pocket watch, a clock for travel, and a crocodile-sheathed purse timepiece—plus a cashmere blanket, a leather cigarette box, and a desk lamp. Back in the vestibule, I waited to pay behind all the other buyers and half listened to the conversations around me. In a twist of fate, Mr. Brown Suit was standing right in front of me. However, I was fast realizing that Mr. Popularity would have suited him better as a nickname, judging from the number of people greeting him in obsequious tones. As one couple walked away, I heard the husband mutter something to his wife about the “conservateur de musée Hermès.” So Mr. Brown Suit was the curator Grace had mentioned—the guy who bought items for the Hermès museum at the Faubourg but didn’t like paying auction-inflated prices. Imagine, a company with Hermès’s money pinching pennies at the expense of preserving their history. No wonder I had won that watch—I was bidding against one of the only frugal men in French fashion.
When I finally got to the front, it turned out I was not quite so frugal as my brown-suited buddy. I had burned through money at an alarming, bachelor-party-in-Vegas rate—more than $12,000 in under five hours—and I hadn’t gotten so much as a lap dance. The tab was somewhat shocking to me (I had been a wee bi’ caught up in the moment, you see), but I reminded myself that I had chosen exactly the kind of Hermès bric-a-brac that I could sell easily on eBay for a tidy profit. There was nothing to do but sigh and hand over my credit card. I needed a drink. Well, the Ritz was right down the street…
I hit the Hemingway bar a few minutes later, stashing my Artcurial bags under my table with a sigh of relief. I decided a glass of Champagne was the logical end-of-this-workday drink (after all, it is favored by bachelor parties the whole world over). I was trying to make the painful decision about which kind I wanted when I noticed someone repeatedly turning around in his barstool and blatantly staring at me. A very, very good-looking someone, I realized once I finally became aggravated enough to stare back at him. He was a young, dusky-skinned Adonis with jet black hair, a very expensive Christian Dior shirt, and no noticeable physical flaws of any kind. I always hated it when someone called a man “beautiful,” but he really was beautiful, breathtakingly so, a male specimen straight out of a Calvin Klein magazine spread. I felt flattered by his too-obvious attention, but it was typical of my life—why is it that as soon as you are in a committed relationship, gorgeous men appear out of the woodwork? Although it was puzzling that he would be this infatuated without even talking to me first (usually it’s my razor-sharp wit that gets them). His evident interest wouldn’t remain a mystery long, though, because right after my glass of Bille-cart-Salmon Rosé appeared at the table, so did he. I gestured casually at the chair across from me. He sat down, extended a hand for me to shake, smiled a quick yet devastating smile, and introduced himself in an ever-so-faintly-French accent.
“Hi…I’m Luc.” And so, with those three seemingly innocuous words, began the most unusual, lucrative, and tumultuous partnership of my whole Hermès venture. But I didn’t know that yet.
Although he was certainly gay, Luc was after business, not pleasure. He wasn’t looking for romance with yours truly, a reality that triggered feelings of both relief and wounded vanity. Mostly relief—I didn’t want to have to mess with those armoires ever again, and oh yeah, there was that Juan guy I liked too. At any rate, Luc had been at the Hermès auction and had been swiveling and staring simply because he was making sure that I was me before he ventured over to say hello. How I had missed him, I had no idea; possibly he had been dressed as a French farmer. Or sitting behind me, that was more likely, I guess. Either way, he had an interesting tale to tell—albeit a long-winded and self-congratulatory tale. (It ended up that, as with many other strikingly good-looking people before him, Luc was a hell of a lot more attractive before you actually conversed with him.)
Luc lived in Paris and had recently found himself quite the Hermès connection. One of the Faubourg store’s salesmen was reportedly “so in luuve…he will do anything for me, Michael. Philippe will sell me purses whenever I want, he just luuuuves me.” I had a twinge of pity for poor Philippe. Since he couldn’t afford to buy the purses outright, Luc had taken to attending the Hermès auctions in search of someone to bankroll the Birkin buying—and, naturally, pay him a nice commission on any purses he squeezed out of his lovesick “bagboy.” Noticing all my bidding at the auction, he took a leap of faith that I was a reseller. Which I was, actually, for those of you who just tuned in. Luc had laid his cards right on the marble tabletop, and it was up to me whether I took the deal. Very tempting, since I would love to have a Paris connection and save myself the airfare; but very scary, since I barely knew this man. One thing was certain—I sure as hell wasn’t about to hand a relative stranger seven grand and sit in the hotel like some purse Penelope, praying not to get scammed. I was in the habit of playing the Ulysses part in my Hermès heroic quests. After I made that crystal clear to Luc, we bandied possible plans back and forth. Eventually we worked out an arrangement we could both live with. Und
erstandably, Luc was still a bit pouty at my lack of complete and innate trust in him, given the almost-hour we had known each other…he was some piece of work, this one.
Our Top Secret Shopper Birkin-Buying Script ran thus: At nine, I would meet Luc at a café called the Ladurée, right down the street from the Faubourg. I would walk him to Hermès, as far as the door, and hand him the cash. Then we would see what he walked out with. If he indeed got a Birkin, he got 500 euros—roughly a 10 percent commission for ten minutes of shopping. I got the Birkin. Everyone’s happy.
Our negotiations at a close, we shook hands. Luc hinted at a hot date for the evening and departed, drawing appreciative looks from almost everyone he walked by on his way out of the Hemingway. I wanted to do a PSA for all of Paris, to inform the general public that, much like a big jungle cat, Luc was best viewed at a safe distance. Oh well, can’t save the world. And on second thought, I wasn’t in a position to save anything today, especially money. I had spent almost $20,000 before dinner—and I still didn’t have a Birkin. It sure would be nice to have a Birkin from Serge, a Birkin from Philippe, the Kelly Lakis bag, and the auction goodies. The purses were the most important, though…too bad I couldn’t summon those up with a Ping-Pong paddle. Or an umbrella.
Bringing Home the Birkin Page 10