Escher God and Birla
“This looks like a plain white empty
canvas to me; why is it priced so extraordinarily?”
The manager, looked disdainfully at me, moving down his reading glasses, and scowled : “Sir. These prices are not cast in gold. You can always bid higher.”
Was it sarcasm or was I confused? Probably I looked confused, so he added helpfully “These are floor prices”.
Not getting the sarcasm, I persisted : “You mean the other way round?” The manager was getting fidgety and was looking around for an escape, “I am sure they are ceiling prices, how much a blank canvas framed on a pine wood frame cost? Certainly not Rs. 12 Lakhs? You could buy a Honda City for this price!”
Finally, reinforcements arrived to his rescue.
An authoritative looking woman, stepped between us. She looked elegant, with careful gray streaks of hair, and a diamond studded handbag. She surely could not be carrying a fake handbag, considering that she was loaded with expensive looking jewelry, all diamond and platinum. “All the patrons of MY art gallery, come in a Mercedes at-least, and most own a private jet or two.”
Looking me up and down she continued. “You have come to a wrong place, you could have spent your time better, inquiring for car loans to buy a second hand Honda. You will find a load of scrap dealers in Chandni-chowk”
I was determined not to be subdued by the snub. I was on a mission to unravel the mysterious dynamics of art valuation, so I had left my ego at home.
Off late, I had never let go an opportunity to hassle anyone whom I though looked at a painting authoritatively in an art gallery, may that be in Delhi, Mumbai, New York, London or Frankfurt!
Most faces looked familiar by now, and they all avoided me like plague, for the fear of being asked stupid questions about art valuation.
Some of the vague answers I had received from both art investors and critics, around the world, were like:
Suddenly, there was a hustle, I could make out an important looking person had entered the scene.
Why did he look important to me? I was pushed aside by the gallery owner for one, second, he had a trophy wife as an arm candy, all gift wrapped in glittering in gold. And, three menacing six-and-a-half foot burly skin headed, safari clad henchmen in tow.
As I was trying to recover my balance, the trophy wife retorted, pointing her manicured finger at the blank canvas, “What's that?”
The perplexed look in the eyes of the important looking man, assured me that he too was as clueless as I was, but was only too sensitive to ask. He looked around for help, looking quite speechless. Or, probably the masterpiece had left him breathless!
The Gallery owner chipped in: “Sir! This masterpiece is the last work of the famous artist long dead.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Escher, in1950.” Said the woman, without looking at me.
But Escher wasn't dead before 1972, I argued.
Waving a hand at me, she continued, “Sir, the whiteness of the canvas depicts the purity of God.”
It was my turn for sarcasm, Escher did not want to interfere with the purity of God, so he refrained from even signing his name on the canvas! To my surprise, she nodded in consent!
At this point, the manager squeezed his way in front of the empty canvas, as pasted a 'SOLD' sign over the price tag!
He bubbled excitingly, “Madam! Mr. Birla just called to say that he will visit us this evening and has bid Rs. 50 Lakhs, for this masterpiece. Since, there is no other art connoisseur in this city, clued up in modern art. I presume it as sold.”
The manager had hurt the important man's ego beyond repair. Who reacted instantly by ripping away the sold sign. He roared: “No its not sold, yet!”.
Taking out his cheque book, “Who said, there are no other art connoisseur around? I can easily pay double.”
Trying to save the man from getting skinned alive, I asked, once again a stupid question.
If it was a 1950 vintage, why it so white and fresh? This question probably looked sensible to the prospective client's arm candy as she looked quizzically at the owner.
If looks could kill, I would have been a mummy! That how hard the owner started at me. She shook with pure rage, but somehow was able to hold back. She looked for an answer, taking a few short breaths.
The manager quipped, “Mr. Birla, had been eying this masterpiece for a long time, we imported it from the French owner, on his behalf and got it resorted.”
Clueless as I am in art restoration, I asked, “Did you hand-wash the canvas with Surf? Or did you dry clean it?”
Visibly perturbed, the manager pulled hard at my lapels and took me aside. Well away from the tamasha. The manager held at my collars with both arms, “why are you bent on killing the deal?”
I took out my mobile, it was my turn to bluff, “I know Esquire Birla personally. He is in London this moment. Shall I call to ask him if he shall be visiting your gallery this evening?”
The manager turned pale, he let go my collars, straightening them, he mumbled “sir, please don't call him. He is our esteemed patron. Sometimes, we have to drop names to impress these nouveau rich. We have to make a living you see. Please understand.”
Politely pulling me along in front of a painting, he said. “sir, Gandhiji said, live and let live. Please respect Mahatma.” Then pointing to the painting he continued: “This is a Basant, priced at Rs. 20,000.”
It was an abstract art, oil on canvas made with knife and without any brushes, I recognized Basant's signature and of-course his style. I nodded approvingly.
“Sir, you seem to like it, I would like to gift it as a token of appreciation for your understanding.”
I nodded, and thanked him quickly, before my conscience could get better of my greed.
Though I could hear a faint voice in my heart arguing against the deal, the good old devil silenced it.
Thank God! For the Devil, manifested as the basic instinct prevailed over my goodness.
While I was dealing with my conscience, the manager got the painting wrapped in a brown hard card-board.
I always suspect that my conscience conspires against me, at critical moments, to keep away the goddess of wealth. Jealous that I may get rich or what? Hey conscience just shut-up, OK?
I now seriously suspect that its my conscience again, that has conspired to push me to write this story against my wishes. But, anyways lets get back to our drama, there is not much left of it anyways.
So, as I was moving stealthily out of the gallery, I could see the triumphant looking nouveau connoisseur waving a cheque at the gallery owner's face. Who was drooling like a dog being shown its favorite bone.
Now that, me and you, both have a first hand experience of the dynamics of art pricing. Please keep the secret to yourself. And, please don't be sadist enough to e-mail this URL to a filthy rich man, who might proudly show off his Rs. 1 crore blank canvas, on which Escher never cast his eyes upon.
The manager, looked disdainfully at me, moving down his reading glasses, and scowled : “Sir. These prices are not cast in gold. You can always bid higher.”
Was it sarcasm or was I confused? Probably I looked confused, so he added helpfully “These are floor prices”.
Not getting the sarcasm, I persisted : “You mean the other way round?” The manager was getting fidgety and was looking around for an escape, “I am sure they are ceiling prices, how much a blank canvas framed on a pine wood frame cost? Certainly not Rs. 12 Lakhs? You could buy a Honda City for this price!”
Finally, reinforcements arrived to his rescue.
An authoritative looking woman, stepped between us. She looked elegant, with careful gray streaks of hair, and a diamond studded handbag. She surely could not be carrying a fake handbag, considering that she was loaded with expensive looking jewelry, all diamond and platinum. “All the patrons of MY art gallery, come in a Mercedes at-least, and most own a private jet or two.”
Looking me up and down she continued. “You have come to a wrong place, you could have spent your time better, inquiring for car loans to buy a second hand Honda. You will find a load of scrap dealers in Chandni-chowk”
I was determined not to be subdued by the snub. I was on a mission to unravel the mysterious dynamics of art valuation, so I had left my ego at home.
Off late, I had never let go an opportunity to hassle anyone whom I though looked at a painting authoritatively in an art gallery, may that be in Delhi, Mumbai, New York, London or Frankfurt!
Most faces looked familiar by now, and they all avoided me like plague, for the fear of being asked stupid questions about art valuation.
Some of the vague answers I had received from both art investors and critics, around the world, were like:
- Art market is more complex than stock
market. I should stick to stocks, for lack of art appreciation.
- I should know the difference between
Cubism and post-modernist art, before I should even think of value of
an art.
- This is not as simple as mathematics
of the Black Shoal option pricing model. Art belongs to a higher
dimension.
- Its a closed club, did I have a membership? Try to go to Sothby's.
- I would only know if I had a million dollars to spare, and a polished taste to go with it.
- I should buy art because it always appreciates, and is better value than real estate.
- Did I know the difference between Raza
Suza and Hussian?
- No! This million dollar abstract art is NOT painted by a monkey. Though I insisted that I read an article in Reader's Digest, that demonstrated that chimps could paint better.
Suddenly, there was a hustle, I could make out an important looking person had entered the scene.
Why did he look important to me? I was pushed aside by the gallery owner for one, second, he had a trophy wife as an arm candy, all gift wrapped in glittering in gold. And, three menacing six-and-a-half foot burly skin headed, safari clad henchmen in tow.
As I was trying to recover my balance, the trophy wife retorted, pointing her manicured finger at the blank canvas, “What's that?”
The perplexed look in the eyes of the important looking man, assured me that he too was as clueless as I was, but was only too sensitive to ask. He looked around for help, looking quite speechless. Or, probably the masterpiece had left him breathless!
The Gallery owner chipped in: “Sir! This masterpiece is the last work of the famous artist long dead.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Escher, in1950.” Said the woman, without looking at me.
But Escher wasn't dead before 1972, I argued.
Waving a hand at me, she continued, “Sir, the whiteness of the canvas depicts the purity of God.”
It was my turn for sarcasm, Escher did not want to interfere with the purity of God, so he refrained from even signing his name on the canvas! To my surprise, she nodded in consent!
At this point, the manager squeezed his way in front of the empty canvas, as pasted a 'SOLD' sign over the price tag!
He bubbled excitingly, “Madam! Mr. Birla just called to say that he will visit us this evening and has bid Rs. 50 Lakhs, for this masterpiece. Since, there is no other art connoisseur in this city, clued up in modern art. I presume it as sold.”
The manager had hurt the important man's ego beyond repair. Who reacted instantly by ripping away the sold sign. He roared: “No its not sold, yet!”.
Taking out his cheque book, “Who said, there are no other art connoisseur around? I can easily pay double.”
Trying to save the man from getting skinned alive, I asked, once again a stupid question.
If it was a 1950 vintage, why it so white and fresh? This question probably looked sensible to the prospective client's arm candy as she looked quizzically at the owner.
If looks could kill, I would have been a mummy! That how hard the owner started at me. She shook with pure rage, but somehow was able to hold back. She looked for an answer, taking a few short breaths.
The manager quipped, “Mr. Birla, had been eying this masterpiece for a long time, we imported it from the French owner, on his behalf and got it resorted.”
Clueless as I am in art restoration, I asked, “Did you hand-wash the canvas with Surf? Or did you dry clean it?”
Visibly perturbed, the manager pulled hard at my lapels and took me aside. Well away from the tamasha. The manager held at my collars with both arms, “why are you bent on killing the deal?”
I took out my mobile, it was my turn to bluff, “I know Esquire Birla personally. He is in London this moment. Shall I call to ask him if he shall be visiting your gallery this evening?”
The manager turned pale, he let go my collars, straightening them, he mumbled “sir, please don't call him. He is our esteemed patron. Sometimes, we have to drop names to impress these nouveau rich. We have to make a living you see. Please understand.”
Politely pulling me along in front of a painting, he said. “sir, Gandhiji said, live and let live. Please respect Mahatma.” Then pointing to the painting he continued: “This is a Basant, priced at Rs. 20,000.”
It was an abstract art, oil on canvas made with knife and without any brushes, I recognized Basant's signature and of-course his style. I nodded approvingly.
“Sir, you seem to like it, I would like to gift it as a token of appreciation for your understanding.”
I nodded, and thanked him quickly, before my conscience could get better of my greed.
Though I could hear a faint voice in my heart arguing against the deal, the good old devil silenced it.
Thank God! For the Devil, manifested as the basic instinct prevailed over my goodness.
While I was dealing with my conscience, the manager got the painting wrapped in a brown hard card-board.
I always suspect that my conscience conspires against me, at critical moments, to keep away the goddess of wealth. Jealous that I may get rich or what? Hey conscience just shut-up, OK?
I now seriously suspect that its my conscience again, that has conspired to push me to write this story against my wishes. But, anyways lets get back to our drama, there is not much left of it anyways.
So, as I was moving stealthily out of the gallery, I could see the triumphant looking nouveau connoisseur waving a cheque at the gallery owner's face. Who was drooling like a dog being shown its favorite bone.
Now that, me and you, both have a first hand experience of the dynamics of art pricing. Please keep the secret to yourself. And, please don't be sadist enough to e-mail this URL to a filthy rich man, who might proudly show off his Rs. 1 crore blank canvas, on which Escher never cast his eyes upon.
© Ashish Banerjee., all rights reserved.
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