From London with Love: The Art of the Market
Photos by Maya Stoilova
My dearest artlings,
You know the drill: Banksies shredded to pieces, Bananas eaten, Picassos locked into vaults never to emerge again. This is the world of auctions. Then there are the galleries, typically devoted to established artists and thereby known as “blue-chip.” Finally, you have the dealerships. Run by families or singular dealers, these form the art world’s most secretive spaces. (Most are by appointment only.) All three spill out into New Bond Street, where I am presently headed.
I turn a corner, and New Bond Street stretches out: Yorkstone pavements, Georgian façades, and glittering boutiques. But now, on a September morning, it is at its best: quiet, solemn, empty. The only figures skidding down are financiers–typically private equity, who share spaces with the art folk; and the galleristas themselves, hunched as they drag up the iron grilles, the morning sun flashing against the metallic buckles of their ballet flats. In a few hours, the street will stir into a skit, with chauffeurs idling, shoppers strolling, and dealers pacing on the phone.
I, too, have a part to play—mostly juggling. The last time I was here this early, I hauled a blanket-wrapped Chagall down the road while my colleague steadied a Moore with one hand and leaned against a black cab with the other; all whilst rushing back to the lists, the calls, the catalogues, and the provenance checks. Such is the art world, behind the scenes.
But outsiders don’t see this: the work, the haggling, the fun happens in the back-and-forth of buying, shipping, and selling. A dealer might scoop up a work at auction, then flip it to another dealer at what we call “trade price”—still low, but higher. That second dealer, in turn, sells it on to a client for double, sometimes triple. The more hands a work passes through, the fatter the price tag becomes. (The alternative also exists: dealers sometimes arrange among themselves who will bid on what, avoiding competition and keeping prices low. Other times, they buy collectively for shared ownership—cutting auction costs and inflating their eventual returns.)
What clients see is a bit of a farce. The auction houses are filled with hidden treasures; but many of them are buried under piles of unsatisfactory works. It takes a trained eye–and lots of digging–to spot them. The galleries know their artworks are not worth the price; the haggling has been factored in. And dealers—well, they are the great illusionists. A painting might pass through three hands in weeks, each trade inflating its value. I once watched a small avant-garde sketch, bought for a few thousand at auction, climb into the tens of thousands before landing in a collector’s townhouse. Nothing about the work changed—only the ones dealing it.
So a word of caution: if you want to collect, be curious—ravenously so. Channel all your nosy, gossipy impulses into the pursuit. Trace the artwork’s movements. Investigate its auction history: was it hammered down below the estimate, or did bidders drive it higher? Perhaps a dealer managed to snag it? If so, for what price? How many galleries paraded it–and for how much–before it finally entered a collector’s home?
In a world that thrives on detail, the intricacies of this journey can cost half the market their careers—because it’s the artwork’s movements that fuel the market, keeping dealers, galleries, and auction houses in business.
Bonne chance,
Maya