Learning by Immersion in a Notoriously Mysterious and Perilous Profession, And my Competitors Didn't Give Me Credit Simply for Trying

Birch Hollow Photo by Suzanne Currie

 

     If there is any striking difference between city situated auction sales, and country events in small town Canada, it's that the social-club which forms in support of these liquidation and estate sales, showing up like it's a service club meeting, makes being anonymous just silly wishful thinking. Now, let me clear; being anonymous is in most cases, in the auction protocol, a desirable situation. It's just not possible in a small community, and region, for regulars at these sales, not to know who you are, and most often on a first name basis. There are many advantages to being able to roam about, at these sales, without attracting voyeurs, keenly aware of what you are examining, and fondling, in the case of real nice century quilts, and whether or not you might be cheating on your spouse with someone else, looking over your shoulder and sharing oohs and awes over the object of that moment's attention. It's small town thinking through and through, so learning how to get some privacy becomes a performance art. It can be done, but it depends on the quality of your acting skills.

     Here's an example. The reality that I was always bargain hunting at the auctions I used to attend, means what you think it does. I had to fill a store on about a third of everyone else's budget who operated an antique shop. I had shallow pockets, to their sort-of deep ones, and the only way I could out-perform them in the spending department, was to be better informed on everything I was planning to bid on, and hopefully win when the auctioneer's gavel hit the podium block. I would try not to draw curious stares, when possible, so I'd wait until there was a large movement of auction-goers, and follow behind or just inside their grouping, to block myself from those of my competitors who wanted to know how serious I was about specific pieces of which they had an interest. If they knew I was likely to bid on a rocking chair or pine cupboard, they would watch me intently when the bidding started. I didn't like to reveal myself in this way, because it was a disadvantage to getting a good price on these items of choice, if these other dealers recognized that I had, by paying attention to certain pieces, given a visual evaluation of what the antique was worth; and what it might be sold for in my own shop. Each antique dealer and collector, of course, had areas of specialization, and it was not hard to follow the bouncing ball so to speak, to judge all kinds of body language from afar, as we all in some way, postured to give ourselves full advantage. Sort of like a hockey scout checks out the competition during warm-up to tip off the coach and players about any potential injuries that might have shown up in the pre-game skate, or in the shots warming up the goaltender.

     I scouted them as much as they studied me, and when it came time to bid on these pre-selected pieces, the social intercourse was over, and the competition had begun with fists flying. Not really, but with aggressive bids yelled out, it was obvious there was an intensity stirring in the country air, demonstrating clearly, from bid one, who wanted the piece more, and was willing to throw down some money in advance to show clear intent. I seldom commenced bidding until I could sense a near-exhaustion situation, between the upper bidders, battling in smaller increments and glaring at one another in mild contempt for the intrusion on the mission of acquisition.

     I learned how to bid with a simple, tiny, barely visible nod, and although each auctioneer had their own pick-up and process characteristics, my back up was the fact the auction helpers would register bids, and yell them out to the auctioneer, to make sure the roll continued with interested parties. I would make sure that I was blocked from plain view, especially from my competitors, and my usual moment for making a foray, was when the cadence had slowed down, basically to the last heartbeats of the particular sale, and like an electric jolt back from cardiac arrest, I'd intervene with a ten dollar increment, catching the bidders and even the auctioneer off guard. Often times this jolt of a sudden unexpected bid, from someone who hadn't been bidding until that very second of the final call for bids, was enough to stagger opponents, such that the gavel would come down, sealing my victory. I could only use this method a few times every sale, but it worked pretty well, as long as I could have that very short term privacy, to make my entry into the bid short, sweet and unsettling to the status quo. My colleagues hated me for doing this, but they never seemed to learn that being outrightly visible making bids, especially when it comes to competitors, who can read body language over and above the verbal realities, that are heard, gives an advantage where you don't want to yield such an opening. When I used to attend auctions back in the late 1970's, I didn't have much money to spend, but a lot of time to invest; so I watched and learned, and it came to serve me well, when finally I had a bit more cash to invest.

     The other negative of small town auctions, as delightful as they can be, is the fact most regulars part of the social fabric of these country events, know all too well what you plan to bid on, well in advance of the item(s) being put up for sale. The fact that I didn't have a lot of money to throw around in the early days of auction going, meant I had to weed out competition or I simply would be outbid on just about everything. It was a case, you see, of "following the dealer." This means that auction-goers without portfolio, meaning those who are not affiliated with the antique profession, will follow-up the bids of antique dealers, because they know that by passing their high mark, in bids, will still be a bargain should they be successful in winning the item; because they realize that the antique mark-up for respective shops could be as high as five hundred percent on some of the better antiques. So they can sneak in a few bids over and above where the dealer has surrendered the right of way, and know they got a really good deal in terms of the items actual shop value. So they would watch me as well, and it did make it particularly difficult to get good prices, when these folks had already labelled me for the items I was accustomed to buying. For example, I had a real interest in buying beautifully appointed Victorian arm chairs and pine primitive chairs that would suit a harvest table of the same wood. Even the auctioneer, much to my chagrin, would announce my bid on one of these chairs, as coming from "the chair man." This was, keep in mind, through a sound system, nicely amplified so that everyone in the neighborhood realized I was bidding on yet another chair. Thus, I attracted a lot of unwanted attention, and certainly unwanted bids that eventually knocked me out of the running. I then switched to quilts, and the same thing happened, and then onto old glass, medicine bottles, and finally old books. Well, I won out in the old book category, because I found out that there were very few competitors interested in entering a bidding war with someone of my knowledge and experience buying and selling antiquarian books. And most didn't want to bid, and possibly win, many, many boxes full to overflowing with these musty old books that would be difficult to cart all the way back to their vehicles.

     Don't get me wrong. I loved the social ambience of these charming country auctions, and those boisterous characters who called them from their centre stage podiums. I enjoyed mingling with the audience and communing with my associate antique dealers before the sale commenced. But once the game was on, and positions were assumed around the tables, then it was time to rumble so to speak, and the trophies were hard fought for, increment by increment throughout the long and hot day. Like those hockey clubs, I referred to earlier, we'd shake hands at the end of the game, and comment on the victories and losses over the morning and afternoon, and then settle into the business of loading up the purchases for the long or short trip back to the shop. But never before thanking the auctioneer and staff for giving us  a great day all round. A few of those auctioneers I knew as friends, were Art Campbell, Les Rutledge, his son, Wayne Rutledge (former pro goaltender), Colonel Jim Gray, Peter Green, and Tom Henderson. Thanks for the memories fellows!