Thigh bracelets and rogue pots – bargains at awction

Press, 3 October 1983, Page 14

Thigh bracelets and rogue pots - bargains at awction

Helen Brown

are two sorts of people. When you say “auction” to.lhe first group, they think of pink, borer-filled dressing tables and dented prams with three wheels.

Say it to the second lot and they will tell you about the darling little seven-teenth-century chest they picked up last week. They call them “awctions.”

I have always belonged to the first group, but I keep an open mind about most things. When Sylvia took me to the auction rooms, I headed automatically to the main entrance, which was propped up by an army of battered wardrobes.

“Not this way!” she said, unable to conceal her digust. I followed her round the corner to a side entrance and climbed the narrow, creaking stairs. A huge Chinese jar stood at the top, confirming that this was definitely an awction.

I was beginning to feel poor already. We walked into a large old hall, the floor speckled with paint. A couple of tattered Persian rugs hung on the walls, casually waiting for someone to spirit them away to more exotic places. A dowdy flock of people, mostly bespectacled and middle-aged, sat on forms like the ones we had had at school. Their clothes seemed drab and ordinary at first. After a while, I noticed the odd tell-tale sign. An ostrich skin handbag here. A gold watch chain there. Sylvia took a seat near the back. I hoped this wasn’t because she was ashamed of me. I tucked my $25 sale boots out of sight. People’s don’t smile much at antique auctions. Money does not stop your mouth turning down. Not that it means they are more miserable than the rest of us. They are concentrating. That’s all. -/'L'-

It is jolly hard work picking over the remains of peoples’ lives. You need reactions faster than a rabbit crossing a road; eyes sharp as gorse prickles. And a nest feathered knee-deep in credit cards.

A plump auctioneer, who looked as if he would have been happier at the Pio Pio stock sales, waved a red pencil in the air, conducting proceedings.

Beside him, an expressionless young man in a striped shirt held up pieces of antique jewellery.

The two men’s faces were passive, but their eyes flicked around the room like lizards’.

“And now we have a lovely silver thigh bracelet ...” the auctioneer said. It sounded like something your husband bought you before he want away on a long trip. Fearing a gap in my education, I glanced over to Sylvia’s catalogue. A Thai bracelet. Thank heavens.

I had trouble keeping up with the bidding at first. Money seemed to be whizzing round like frisbees. The assistant held up a string of deliciouslymatched pearls. “Aren’t they lovely?” I whispered to Sylvia. “Perfect!” she sighed. With a thrill of horror, I watched as she lifted her hand in the air. $lOO, $l5O ... She seemed hypnotised. I wanted to yell, “Don’t do it!”

But there was an unnatural gleam in her eye. Across the aisle from us, a plumb lady with cottonwool hair edged up to $2OO.

“Don’t let her get them, Sylvia!” my inside voice shouted. A gush of disappointment rolled over me when Sylvia pulled out at $220. I wanted to hurl one of my boots at the smug cottonwool woman, who finished up getting the pearls for $240.

but awction people do not do that sort of thing. Inspired by Sylvia’s boldness, I decided to try for something myself. Less expensive, admittedly. And certainly less modest. A silver brooch of grotesque satyrs. It was difficult to make out what the satyrs were doing from my distance. But it was bound to be interesting. Bidding started at $lO and finished at $4O. Not that it mattered. The auctioneer had not once seen my earnestly flapping hand. “Now for a late addition to the sale,” he said, holding up a modern diamond ring that gleamed sad and lost in a shaft of dusty light. “From a lady who is in dire straits. Desperate to pay the bills, she is.” An electric charge ran through the room. A chance for a real bargain. “It’s insured for $5000,” he said in a voice more suited for bawling at sheep dogs. The assistant carried the little ring down the aisle so everyone could see. . A sandy-haired dealer dug some spectacles from the pocket of his scruffy jacket. He stopped the man and picked up the ring with a claw-like hand.

He held it to the light, glared disapprovingly, and

then shook his head and handed it back.

Bidding started at $lOO. I held my breath for its unfortunate owner. It went for a mere $650.

I began to realise how little insurance valuations, those cherished slips of paper, mean.

A wide gold wedding ring and a solid silver cigarette case collected $3O apiece.

A bronze medal from an estate went for $5. The old soldier who had owned it would have brought it out on special occasions to show his grandchildren, or to dream over. , Good thing he wasn’t around to see. “And now we have a nice little rogue pot ...’[ the auctioneer barked.

“Rouge!” the connoisseurs called back in a single, shocked voice.

“Ah, yes ... a token of love, it says.” Love was still in demand. It went for $l9O. Nobody was interested in the diamante broche. I have had a feeling for the stuff, ever since watching my mother’s love-hate affair with it.

She. had lusted after a diamante watch for years. When she finally got one, diamante was way out of fashion.

She never took to it. Said she couldn’t see the numbers. At first, the auctioneer thought I was scratching my nose, or worse. Trying to be polite, he averted his eyes. There was hardly a jungle of hands to choose from, so after a while he looked uncertainly back at me. I nodded. Fifteen dollars and nostalgia was mine. “What’s your nishal?” he asked.

If I’d just walked in the room, the question would have cripplea me with embarrassment But, having sat there for half an hour, I was an old hand at awctions. “H. 8.