When I last left you, I was in the wild throes of a temporary vacation, blissfully floating between Italy, Spain, and England onboard the Grand Princess. Distractions have abounded, and I have left my devoted readers woefully lacking any vicarious tales. But the salty breeze of Florida on a delicious October afternoon invites me back to my cruel mistress, and the words that have been itching to find release are once more roaming free.
Fifteen days ago, I slipped back into the United States for the first time in more than six months. My usual returns are welcomed with thunderous applause, namely in the form of my parents at O’Hare Airport after an exhausting overnight flight from Heathrow, but a legitimate homecoming wasn’t quite in the cards. Not yet, at least. Four cruises onboard the Norwegian Jewel stood in the way of my unadulterated adventures in New York City in early November. Although I have been on a menagerie of ships this contract, the NCL Jewel is different. More so than any other ship I have artistically captained, the Jewel is the top of the line in my company. It was definitely the biggest assignment I had been given to date, and despite my cocksure demeanor in most areas of life, I’m not embarrassed to admit that I was intimidated. I would soon find out that my worries were well founded.
First of all, the expectations per week were roughly twice as high as any other ship I had ever been put in charge of. That, in and of itself, is usually enough to dissuade most auctioneers from stepping into the big leagues. The rule of thumb is Go Big or Go Home. And even though I’ve been longing for an extended vacation in the Windy City, I wasn’t ready to go home without a fight. The pressures were huge, the goals were high, and there was little room for error. My program for the first week, combined with the obligatory safety trainings and inane walk-throughs of the ship bowels that every new sign on painfully endures, was enough to wear me down to near exhaustion, and seven days dragged by in an interminable stream of sleepless nights. When my body did succumb to sleep, I was twisted by dreams of torn canvases, nude auctions, laryngitis, empty seats and other catastrophic art dealing predictions that could afflict my first cruise onboard.
I realize that many of you have been following my exploits for two years now, and probably have only a vague concept of what the hell I actually do. Yes, you know I am an art dealer/auctioneer, but unless you have been on a cruise ship and attended an auction, your imagination has probably created some sort of bastardized vision of the horribly boring auctions in swanky museums seen in movies mixed with the suspender strangled presenters in oversized bowties on television shows like Antiques Roadshow. I assure you that (most of the time) that conception of my job is wrong.
Every week, I run a series of 8-10 art based events, whether they are exhibitions, enrichments seminars, sales, or full-fledged auctions. Exhibitions don’t take much effort, just a warm body in the gallery to answer questions (mostly regarding the location of the nearest elevator or how to log into their internet account). Organized sales are a bit more important, when pricing, abbreviated/subtle sales pitches, and a general charm and competency are vital for closing deals and bringing in a steady cash flow. Basically, you can’t be hung over or still wrecked for a sale, and you need to genuinely know about all the works of art on the walls, or else you’ll look like a moron and lose that client for the rest of the week. Credibility is everything in this business, and the second the potential buyers see weakness or ignorance, you might as well drop your pants and dance around the gallery singing show tunes. Your chances of closing the sale would be about the same.
Credibility is inherently linked to perception, and image. You need to always dress the part, three piece suits, slick belts, unscuffed shoes, polished watches, the whole nine yards. You need to watch what you are saying every single second in public areas. Don’t talk politics, religion, sports teams, whether the auctions are going well or not, plans to go out drinking later, whatever. A successful art dealer is a chameleon, effortlessly involving himself in any conversation on any topic, remaining on the outskirts of controversial situations. You have to be every father’s perfect son, every twenty-something’s best friend, and every cougar’s ideal boy toy. Your personal life is non-existent unless clients ask you about it. And usually, if they are buyers, they won’t.
I’ve become a professional at reading people through the smallest details of their appearance. The translation guide to their body language might as well be written on their foreheads with a Sharpie. Everything tells a story. The handshake to the eye contact to the emblems on their golf shirt. This job is not for the faint of heart, nor is it for purely philanthropic distributors of knowledge and advice. Within five minutes of observation or one minute of a casual chat, I can estimate the buying potential within $500. People must become experiments, petri dish personalities that you can analyze under the microscopic guise of a conversation. Perhaps this sounds crass or cold, too deliberate or manipulative to be healthy. Well, as I said, this gig isn’t for everyone. And I’ve certainly never called it healthy.
Seminars should be the saving grace of this job for me, because they place the silver-tongued savvy of an art dealer on the backburner as I dole out genuine information and fascinating anecdotes to the guests. Some of my seminars don’t even relate to my collection onboard, a fact that has shocked other auctioneers in the company, but when it comes to trust, nothing helps like a good skeleton story from Van Gogh’s weirdest closet. I say that they should be the saving grace, but unfortunately, they aren’t. More and more, the importance every week has shifted towards people leaving with art, not enrichment. I used to balance it better in both my mind and in my approach towards the job, but the need for the almighty dollar has reared its head in uglier ways than usual. And I don’t think I can do it anymore.
I don’t even really like this job.
I’ve touched on this many times in the past, how this has always been a means to an end, but I don’t think I can keep lying to myself anymore. Sure, I love the crew bar and the ports, the travel and the beaches, but there has to be something more. Although I am passionate about art, I belong in a university lecture hall, not a martini bar cum auction room three times a week. I have been justifying it to myself as exhaustion, but in reality, I think I’ve reached the end. If I don’t stop selling art or selling out, I might actually start believing all the bullshit. This isn’t what I want to be doing. This isn’t where I want to be. The self-loathing is strong in me tonight, but beneath it lies revelation. And revolution.
I have five days left until I step off the cruise ship and into the real world of friends and loved ones, conversations that don’t need to be cut short and relationships that don’t have an expiration date. Despite all my reservations about this profession, the real shame is that it has pulled me away from what I truly love. And that is a state of affairs that can only end in disaster or misery. It’s been one hell of a road….ocean, whatever. But I think it has to come to an end.
I’m not even 25 yet, but the time seems to be slipping away from me. Birthdays and holidays barely register in my mind anymore. I can’t imagine a worse fate than looking back and realizing that I sailed away one too many times from the things I held dear, only to find that when next I made port, they were gone. For good. Now, for all you landlubbers, don’t start assuming that I am ready to settle down in a 9-5. That still sounds like one of Dante’s deepest rings, but a change is more than overdue. Just don’t be surprised if it is far from an art gallery on a floating mirage of luxury.
I refuse to be tied to a passion I can’t fully believe in, or to a life that I don’t fully enjoy.
In the words of Matthew Arnold, “I am not still bent to make some port I know not where, still standing for some false impossible shore”.
I don’t know where this next leap into the darkness will bring me, but I’ll let you know when I land.
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