rather than later. I have an appointment this morning, but would three o’clock be possible?’
I’d be back from the auction by then, and I had Annie to mind the shop. ‘Three o’clock would be fine,’ I said as I scribbled down the house number.
As I walked down the hill to Blackheath station I reflected on the art of evaluating a collection of clothesin someone’s home. The usual scenario is that a woman has died and you’re dealing with her relatives. They can be very emotional, so you have to be tactful. They’re often offended if you leave some garments out; then they can be upset if you offer less than they’d hoped for those things you do choose. ‘Only £ 40?’ they’ll say. ‘But it’s by Hardy Amies.’ And I’ll gently point out that the lining’s ripped, that three buttons are missing, and that it’ll have to go to the specialist dry cleaners for the stains on the cuff.
Sometimes the family can find it hard to part with the garments at all and resent your presence, especially if the estate is being sold to pay tax. In those cases, I reflected as I waited on the station platform, you’re made to feel like an intruder. Quite often, when I’ve gone to do a valuation of this kind in a grand country house, I’ve had the maid or valet standing there weeping, or telling me – and this is very annoying – not to touch the clothes. If I’m with a widower he’ll often go into minute detail about everything that his wife wore, and how much he paid for it in Dickins & Jones in 1965 and how beautiful she looked in it on the QE2 .
The easiest scenario by far, I thought as the train pulled in, is where a woman is getting divorced and wants to be shot of everything that her husband ever bought her. In those cases I can justifiably be brisk. But when it comes to seeing elderly women who are selling their entire wardrobe it can be emotionally draining. As I say, these are more than clothes – they’re the fabric, almost literally, of someone’s life. But however much I like to hear the stories I have to remind myself that my time is limited. I therefore try to keep my visits to nomore than an hour, which is what I resolved to do with Mrs Bell.
As I came out of the underground at South Kensington I called Annie. She sounded upbeat, having already sold a Vivienne Westwood bustier and two French nightdresses. She also told me that Mimi Long from Woman & Home had asked if she could borrow some clothes for one of her shoots. Cheered by this, I walked down the Brompton Road to Christie’s then turned into the foyer, which was crowded as the fashion sales are popular. I queued to register then picked up my bidding ‘paddle’.
The Long Gallery was about two-thirds full. I sat at the end of an empty row halfway down on the right, then looked around for my competitors, which is always the first thing I do when I go to an auction. I saw a couple of dealers I know and a woman who runs a vintage dress shop in Islington. I recognised the fashion editor of Elle sitting in the fourth row and to my right I spotted Nicole Farhi. The air seemed clogged with expensive scent.
‘Lot number 102,’ announced the auctioneer. I sat bolt upright. Lot 102? But it was only ten thirty. When I was conducting auctions I never messed about, but this man had torn through the list. Pulse racing, I looked at the Balenciaga gown in the catalogue then flicked forward to the Madame Grès. It had a reserve of £ 1,000 but was likely to go for more. I knew I shouldn’t be buying anything I wasn’t planning to sell, but told myself that this was an important piece that would only appreciate in value. If I could get it for £ 1,500 or less, I would.
‘Lot 105 now,’ said the auctioneer. ‘An Elsa Schiaparelli“shocking pink” silk jacket from her “Circus” collection of 1938. Note the original metallic buttons in the shape of acrobats. Bidding for this item starts at £ 300. Thank you. And £ 320, and £ 340 … £ 360,
I’d be back from the auction by then, and I had Annie to mind the shop. ‘Three o’clock would be fine,’ I said as I scribbled down the house number.
As I walked down the hill to Blackheath station I reflected on the art of evaluating a collection of clothesin someone’s home. The usual scenario is that a woman has died and you’re dealing with her relatives. They can be very emotional, so you have to be tactful. They’re often offended if you leave some garments out; then they can be upset if you offer less than they’d hoped for those things you do choose. ‘Only £ 40?’ they’ll say. ‘But it’s by Hardy Amies.’ And I’ll gently point out that the lining’s ripped, that three buttons are missing, and that it’ll have to go to the specialist dry cleaners for the stains on the cuff.
Sometimes the family can find it hard to part with the garments at all and resent your presence, especially if the estate is being sold to pay tax. In those cases, I reflected as I waited on the station platform, you’re made to feel like an intruder. Quite often, when I’ve gone to do a valuation of this kind in a grand country house, I’ve had the maid or valet standing there weeping, or telling me – and this is very annoying – not to touch the clothes. If I’m with a widower he’ll often go into minute detail about everything that his wife wore, and how much he paid for it in Dickins & Jones in 1965 and how beautiful she looked in it on the QE2 .
The easiest scenario by far, I thought as the train pulled in, is where a woman is getting divorced and wants to be shot of everything that her husband ever bought her. In those cases I can justifiably be brisk. But when it comes to seeing elderly women who are selling their entire wardrobe it can be emotionally draining. As I say, these are more than clothes – they’re the fabric, almost literally, of someone’s life. But however much I like to hear the stories I have to remind myself that my time is limited. I therefore try to keep my visits to nomore than an hour, which is what I resolved to do with Mrs Bell.
As I came out of the underground at South Kensington I called Annie. She sounded upbeat, having already sold a Vivienne Westwood bustier and two French nightdresses. She also told me that Mimi Long from Woman & Home had asked if she could borrow some clothes for one of her shoots. Cheered by this, I walked down the Brompton Road to Christie’s then turned into the foyer, which was crowded as the fashion sales are popular. I queued to register then picked up my bidding ‘paddle’.
The Long Gallery was about two-thirds full. I sat at the end of an empty row halfway down on the right, then looked around for my competitors, which is always the first thing I do when I go to an auction. I saw a couple of dealers I know and a woman who runs a vintage dress shop in Islington. I recognised the fashion editor of Elle sitting in the fourth row and to my right I spotted Nicole Farhi. The air seemed clogged with expensive scent.
‘Lot number 102,’ announced the auctioneer. I sat bolt upright. Lot 102? But it was only ten thirty. When I was conducting auctions I never messed about, but this man had torn through the list. Pulse racing, I looked at the Balenciaga gown in the catalogue then flicked forward to the Madame Grès. It had a reserve of £ 1,000 but was likely to go for more. I knew I shouldn’t be buying anything I wasn’t planning to sell, but told myself that this was an important piece that would only appreciate in value. If I could get it for £ 1,500 or less, I would.
‘Lot 105 now,’ said the auctioneer. ‘An Elsa Schiaparelli“shocking pink” silk jacket from her “Circus” collection of 1938. Note the original metallic buttons in the shape of acrobats. Bidding for this item starts at £ 300. Thank you. And £ 320, and £ 340 … £ 360,
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