state, which gives a massive yield but of a weak, scratchable quality. Most of these wretched carvings of fishes or horses you see now are done in China, of jade imported there. Green, fresh, soapy, mechanical travesties they are too. Get one (they should be
very
cheap) to teach yourself the feel, texture and appearance of the stuff, but if your favourite little nephew shatters it to pieces one day, don’t lose any sleep. China’s exporting them by the shipload. ‘New-Mountain Jade’ they call it in Canton, Kwantung, China.
But.
That only goes for the new, modern, mine-blasted green jade. The ancients were much more discriminating. To satisfy them, a piece of jade had to be weathered. The new pieces were found exposed on hillsides, and were taken to a craftsman carver, an artist who loved such a rare material. With adulation he would observe where the flaws ran, what colours were hidden beneath the surface. And then, after maybe a whole year of feeling, stroking the magic stone and imagining the core of beauty within, he would begin to carve. New-Mountain Jade (i.e. modern) is soft. The antique stuff is hard,
hard
, and to carve it took time. This means that a dragonfly such as I was holding took about six months. The craftsman had left the dragonfly’s wings, head and body in black, and the underbelly had been skilfully carved through so it was mutton-fat jade, white like the spindly legs. The dragonfly was on a white mutton-fat jade lotus leaf – all less than two inches long, the detail exquisite, all from one piece of antique hard jade. And not a trace of green. Lovely. An artistic miracle.
I did my own private test – put it down a minute, my hands stretched out to cool, then picked it up again. Yes, cold as ice, even after being held in a hot, greedy hand. That’s jade for you. The miracle stone. The ancient Chinese mandarins had one for each hand, a ‘finger-jade’ just for fiddling with, to comfort themselves. It was regarded as a very human need and not at all unmanly to want dispassionate solace as well as human comfort in that civilization, and what’s wrong with either?
Dandy Jack had fetched out about thirty pieces. About half were agate, and of the rest some six were modern ugly deep leaf-green new jade pieces, carved with one eye on the clock and some productivity man whining about output. I found nine, including an orange-peel piece, of old jade, exquisitely carved foxes, hearts, lotus plants, bats, the dragonfly, fungi. It really was a desirable cluster.
‘You’ve got good stuff here, Dandy,’ I said. It hurt to tell the truth.
‘You having me on, Lovejoy?’ He had the sense to be suspicious.
‘Those over there aren’t jade at all. Agate.’
‘The bastard!’ he exclaimed. ‘You mean I’ve been done?’
‘No. You’ve got some stuff here worth half your business, Dandy.’
‘Straight up?’
‘Yes. Those dark things are modern – for heaven’s sake don’t scratch them. It’s a dead giveaway and you’ll never sell them. These though are rare. Price them high.’
I gave him the inky dragonfly, though my hand tried to cling hold and lies sprang to my lips screaming to be let out so as to make Dandy give it me back for nothing. I hate truth. Honest. I’m partial to a good old lie now and again, especially if it’s well done and serves a good honest purpose. Being in antiques, I can’t go about telling unsophisticated, inexpert lies. They have to be nudges, hints, clever oblique untruths that sow the seed of deception, rather than naive blunt efforts. Done well, a lie can be an attractive, even beautiful, thing. A good clever lie doesn’t go against truth – it just bends it a little round awkward corners.
‘You having me on?’
‘Price them high, Dandy. My life.’ The enormity hit him.
‘Do you think they’re worth what I paid?’
‘Whatever it was, it was too little.’ I rose to go. He caught my arm.
‘Will you date and price them for me,
very
cheap) to teach yourself the feel, texture and appearance of the stuff, but if your favourite little nephew shatters it to pieces one day, don’t lose any sleep. China’s exporting them by the shipload. ‘New-Mountain Jade’ they call it in Canton, Kwantung, China.
But.
That only goes for the new, modern, mine-blasted green jade. The ancients were much more discriminating. To satisfy them, a piece of jade had to be weathered. The new pieces were found exposed on hillsides, and were taken to a craftsman carver, an artist who loved such a rare material. With adulation he would observe where the flaws ran, what colours were hidden beneath the surface. And then, after maybe a whole year of feeling, stroking the magic stone and imagining the core of beauty within, he would begin to carve. New-Mountain Jade (i.e. modern) is soft. The antique stuff is hard,
hard
, and to carve it took time. This means that a dragonfly such as I was holding took about six months. The craftsman had left the dragonfly’s wings, head and body in black, and the underbelly had been skilfully carved through so it was mutton-fat jade, white like the spindly legs. The dragonfly was on a white mutton-fat jade lotus leaf – all less than two inches long, the detail exquisite, all from one piece of antique hard jade. And not a trace of green. Lovely. An artistic miracle.
I did my own private test – put it down a minute, my hands stretched out to cool, then picked it up again. Yes, cold as ice, even after being held in a hot, greedy hand. That’s jade for you. The miracle stone. The ancient Chinese mandarins had one for each hand, a ‘finger-jade’ just for fiddling with, to comfort themselves. It was regarded as a very human need and not at all unmanly to want dispassionate solace as well as human comfort in that civilization, and what’s wrong with either?
Dandy Jack had fetched out about thirty pieces. About half were agate, and of the rest some six were modern ugly deep leaf-green new jade pieces, carved with one eye on the clock and some productivity man whining about output. I found nine, including an orange-peel piece, of old jade, exquisitely carved foxes, hearts, lotus plants, bats, the dragonfly, fungi. It really was a desirable cluster.
‘You’ve got good stuff here, Dandy,’ I said. It hurt to tell the truth.
‘You having me on, Lovejoy?’ He had the sense to be suspicious.
‘Those over there aren’t jade at all. Agate.’
‘The bastard!’ he exclaimed. ‘You mean I’ve been done?’
‘No. You’ve got some stuff here worth half your business, Dandy.’
‘Straight up?’
‘Yes. Those dark things are modern – for heaven’s sake don’t scratch them. It’s a dead giveaway and you’ll never sell them. These though are rare. Price them high.’
I gave him the inky dragonfly, though my hand tried to cling hold and lies sprang to my lips screaming to be let out so as to make Dandy give it me back for nothing. I hate truth. Honest. I’m partial to a good old lie now and again, especially if it’s well done and serves a good honest purpose. Being in antiques, I can’t go about telling unsophisticated, inexpert lies. They have to be nudges, hints, clever oblique untruths that sow the seed of deception, rather than naive blunt efforts. Done well, a lie can be an attractive, even beautiful, thing. A good clever lie doesn’t go against truth – it just bends it a little round awkward corners.
‘You having me on?’
‘Price them high, Dandy. My life.’ The enormity hit him.
‘Do you think they’re worth what I paid?’
‘Whatever it was, it was too little.’ I rose to go. He caught my arm.
‘Will you date and price them for me,
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