Costume auction
Mar. 6th, 2007 08:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pallas_athenaWell, I'm back from the Angels auction at Bonhams, and it was very entertaining. Arguably not as much fun as yesterday's viewing, during which I got to touch things, talk with staff about them and even try them on (the clothes, not the staff); the sale today was much more about peoplewatching and psychology, which was fascinating in a different way.
I got there early and registered to bid, which makes you feel crazily empowered. You give your ID and your address to the auction house staff, and in return you get a "paddle"-- in this case a piece of cardboard-- with your number on it. When you want to bid, you wave the card and make Meaningful Eye Contact with the auctioneer, then just keep nodding till they say a number you disagree with, at which point you shake your head and look downcast. Simple, eh? So they opened the doors at about 10.30 and we shuffled into the room, clutching our cards. The room was quite sumptuous, apart from the rows of plastic chairs for us to sit on. There was a rostrum at the back for the press cameras, of which there were a good many. Along one wall was a long table with a row of auction house staff taking phone bids, and a few with laptops, presumably taking bids online. As we took our seats, the atmosphere was electric. Charged, I think, is the word. I recognised a few of the people I'd met yesterday: the nice-guy-from-Devon-who-never-stops-talking came and sat next to me, and the softly-spoken-baseball-cap-guy sat in the front row, next to a woman who kept her furry hat on throughout the auction. A lady with ENORMOUS hair came and sat directly in front of me (of course), and nearby was another woman in an incredibly ostentatious full-length fur coat. Yet in the crowd in general, men far outnumbered women.
The auctioneer stepped to the stand. She was clothed austerely in black, with a jewelled cross around her neck and a black chiffon scarf over her shoulders. The minute she spoke, you could see how she'd risen to the top of her profession: her voice was a beautiful alto, carrying effortlessly right to the back of the room. If she hadn't been an auctioneer, she'd have been a BBC radio announcer or possibly a Shakespearean actress. If anyone could seduce these testosterone-fuelled hordes into parting with their millions, it was definitely her.
First up were a couple of items worn by Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes: a cape-coat and a dressing gown. These each started at about £100 and ended up going for over 1500 pounds, the bids rising at an exhilarating pace. I had never thought seriously about watching other people spend tons of cash as a form of entertainment, but there I was on the edge of my seat. Poirot, Inspector Morse, the Saint-- yeah, yeah, get to the good stuff already. And suddenly, there it was: a complete Second Doctor outfit, as worn by Patrick Troughton-- eight thousand pounds, to a serious-looking brown-eyed staffer relaying phonebids. "To Charlotte, on the phone," said the auctioneer. Charlotte's phone bidder proceeded to snap up John Pertwee's outfit (with sonic screwdriver) for another eight thousand, Peter Davison's (minus celery) for £4200, and Sylvester McCoy's for £1200. An outfit worn by Tom Baker (coat, scarf, waistcoat,trousers and a selection of squashy felt hats) was the subject of intense rivalry, but the phone bidder won again at TWENTY THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS.
I should mention that the fine print on all these lots said that they had been used "for exhibition and promotional purposes" and had not actually appeared on TV. That's right, someone just forked out TWENTY THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS for an outfit that didn't get a second of screen time. The one item that had been worn by the Doctor in the series, Tom Baker's burgundy velvet frock coat, fetched seven thousand pounds. Dammit, there's no justice!
(If there were, I would have both seven thousand pounds and Tom Baker's coat. And, in fact, probably also Tom Baker.)
More Whovian goodness followed: Weng Chiang's robe (£1100); the Master's outfit from Time Flight (£400), and the Steward's robe, a really gorgeous brocade number (£900). Christopher Ecclestone's leather jacket had been mysteriously withdrawn from the sale. I suspect the interference of pissed-off Daleks.
Some of the star items from the sale were being modelled by bright-eyed young members of the auction house staff: these were the kids I'd seen rehearsing yesterday. This was the case with the Batman and Robin costumes from that episode of Only Fools And Horses (which I haven't actually seen, but I gather that the Limeys consider it to be something of a comedy milestone.) Anyway, the two guys modelling them did some rather enthusiastic jogging-in-place, and then posed with arms akimbo while the outfits were auctioned. They got a round of applause, and the costumes fetched £8500.
Charlotte's mysterious phone bidder struck again when the Dad's Army stuff came up for sale, and again during the War Films section of the auction: a seemingly endless parade of military uniforms, mostly British, though the few German-style costumes sold for more: George Peppard's from The Blue Max, for example, and Kenneth Branagh's from Conspiracy. An Army battledress jacket worn by Clark Gable sold for a mere £380; the Branagh outfit fetched £700 and Peppard's £3600. Go figure. The phone bidder paid in the thousands for several outfits from A Bridge Too Far, as well as Richard Attenborough's jacket from The Great Escape and a few others.
After this came a section of the catalogue called "Actors and Actresses": basically, costumes that the sellers hoped would fetch a high price because they were made for someone famous. Most of these sold for under £500, a few for more; Richard Burton's Henry VIII get-up from Anne of a Thousand Days went to that same phone bidder for £3200. At this point I was thinking: "It's either the V&A, a reclusive Japanese billionaire or Elton John."
At this point, an item I was interested in came up. I'd tried on this stunning green velvet tailcoat at the viewing; it had been worn by Timothy Dalton in an unknown production, and its estimate in the catalogue was low. The auctioneer started the bidding at £40; I was surprised at the adrenalin rush when I flashed my card. I had competition, though: softly-spoken-baseball-cap-guy was on the qui vive. I knew what figure I'd stop at... and then sailed smoothly past it.
This is the thing about auctions, I've discovered: the distance from "I fancy [thingy]" to "hmm, I'll venture a bid on [thingy]" is perilously short, and then someone bids against you and suddenly you're seeing red and thinking "HELL NO YOU'RE NOT GETTING MY THINGY." It's all incredibly psychological, and auctioneers are experts at manipulating the herd mentality. Also, they talk at high speed so you'll rise to the challenge without thinking about it, and the rhythm they establish flips atavistic switches in your hindbrain.
Auctions, like casinos, reward the grand gesture: I'm certain that many people today spent more than they meant to, and I'm equally certain that to them, the combined buzz of spending dangerously high amounts of money plus the kudos you get for doing so in public is at least as important as the physical object you take home to have and to hold.
Eventually, the sensible part of my brain caught up with me and I declined the next bid; SSBCG went home with the tailcoat (as well as about twenty other things.) I wrote "Damn!!" in my catalogue. But hey, here comes a doublet worn by Sir John Gielgud! Sir Laurence Olivier's suit jackets! Errol Flynn's uniforms from The Master of Ballentrae! Ian McKellan's Fascist chic from Richard III! Somewhere around Orson Welles's trousers, I glazed over a bit.
I considered bidding on Catherine Zeta Jones's frock coat from Sheherazade (is it not marvellously goth?) but the numbers soon got too rich for my blood. They also auctioned some jewellery from that film: see where it says "a further jewelled item?" That's a thong. Say it with me, Bonhams: THONG. SPARKLY THONG. That's gotta chafe, though.
And suddenly everyone in the room perks up, because we've arrived at the James Bond stuff. Michelle Yeoh's leather catsuit (cool!), a few sharp Brioni numbers made for Pierce Brosnan (boooo-ring!), showgirl outfits from Octopussy (neat!), Scaramanga's jacket (badass!), Diana Rigg's fur coat (£10,800 to that phone bidder again). Ah, here's the money shot: Sean Connery's dinner jacket from Thunderball. £28,000? That'll do nicely. I've discovered that if you sit in an auction for long enough, huge amounts of money cease to have any impact on your brain. It's only now that I realise that that DJ went for the equivalent of 4 Tom Baker frock coats. Well, which would you rather have?
The auctioneer turns the page and starts to call the next lot. Voices from the crowd remind her that it's time for lunch. She apologises, thanks us all and hurries off to the sandwich bar.
More after lunch! Read on, true believers!
I got there early and registered to bid, which makes you feel crazily empowered. You give your ID and your address to the auction house staff, and in return you get a "paddle"-- in this case a piece of cardboard-- with your number on it. When you want to bid, you wave the card and make Meaningful Eye Contact with the auctioneer, then just keep nodding till they say a number you disagree with, at which point you shake your head and look downcast. Simple, eh? So they opened the doors at about 10.30 and we shuffled into the room, clutching our cards. The room was quite sumptuous, apart from the rows of plastic chairs for us to sit on. There was a rostrum at the back for the press cameras, of which there were a good many. Along one wall was a long table with a row of auction house staff taking phone bids, and a few with laptops, presumably taking bids online. As we took our seats, the atmosphere was electric. Charged, I think, is the word. I recognised a few of the people I'd met yesterday: the nice-guy-from-Devon-who-never-stops-talking came and sat next to me, and the softly-spoken-baseball-cap-guy sat in the front row, next to a woman who kept her furry hat on throughout the auction. A lady with ENORMOUS hair came and sat directly in front of me (of course), and nearby was another woman in an incredibly ostentatious full-length fur coat. Yet in the crowd in general, men far outnumbered women.
The auctioneer stepped to the stand. She was clothed austerely in black, with a jewelled cross around her neck and a black chiffon scarf over her shoulders. The minute she spoke, you could see how she'd risen to the top of her profession: her voice was a beautiful alto, carrying effortlessly right to the back of the room. If she hadn't been an auctioneer, she'd have been a BBC radio announcer or possibly a Shakespearean actress. If anyone could seduce these testosterone-fuelled hordes into parting with their millions, it was definitely her.
First up were a couple of items worn by Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes: a cape-coat and a dressing gown. These each started at about £100 and ended up going for over 1500 pounds, the bids rising at an exhilarating pace. I had never thought seriously about watching other people spend tons of cash as a form of entertainment, but there I was on the edge of my seat. Poirot, Inspector Morse, the Saint-- yeah, yeah, get to the good stuff already. And suddenly, there it was: a complete Second Doctor outfit, as worn by Patrick Troughton-- eight thousand pounds, to a serious-looking brown-eyed staffer relaying phonebids. "To Charlotte, on the phone," said the auctioneer. Charlotte's phone bidder proceeded to snap up John Pertwee's outfit (with sonic screwdriver) for another eight thousand, Peter Davison's (minus celery) for £4200, and Sylvester McCoy's for £1200. An outfit worn by Tom Baker (coat, scarf, waistcoat,trousers and a selection of squashy felt hats) was the subject of intense rivalry, but the phone bidder won again at TWENTY THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS.
I should mention that the fine print on all these lots said that they had been used "for exhibition and promotional purposes" and had not actually appeared on TV. That's right, someone just forked out TWENTY THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS for an outfit that didn't get a second of screen time. The one item that had been worn by the Doctor in the series, Tom Baker's burgundy velvet frock coat, fetched seven thousand pounds. Dammit, there's no justice!
(If there were, I would have both seven thousand pounds and Tom Baker's coat. And, in fact, probably also Tom Baker.)
More Whovian goodness followed: Weng Chiang's robe (£1100); the Master's outfit from Time Flight (£400), and the Steward's robe, a really gorgeous brocade number (£900). Christopher Ecclestone's leather jacket had been mysteriously withdrawn from the sale. I suspect the interference of pissed-off Daleks.
Some of the star items from the sale were being modelled by bright-eyed young members of the auction house staff: these were the kids I'd seen rehearsing yesterday. This was the case with the Batman and Robin costumes from that episode of Only Fools And Horses (which I haven't actually seen, but I gather that the Limeys consider it to be something of a comedy milestone.) Anyway, the two guys modelling them did some rather enthusiastic jogging-in-place, and then posed with arms akimbo while the outfits were auctioned. They got a round of applause, and the costumes fetched £8500.
Charlotte's mysterious phone bidder struck again when the Dad's Army stuff came up for sale, and again during the War Films section of the auction: a seemingly endless parade of military uniforms, mostly British, though the few German-style costumes sold for more: George Peppard's from The Blue Max, for example, and Kenneth Branagh's from Conspiracy. An Army battledress jacket worn by Clark Gable sold for a mere £380; the Branagh outfit fetched £700 and Peppard's £3600. Go figure. The phone bidder paid in the thousands for several outfits from A Bridge Too Far, as well as Richard Attenborough's jacket from The Great Escape and a few others.
After this came a section of the catalogue called "Actors and Actresses": basically, costumes that the sellers hoped would fetch a high price because they were made for someone famous. Most of these sold for under £500, a few for more; Richard Burton's Henry VIII get-up from Anne of a Thousand Days went to that same phone bidder for £3200. At this point I was thinking: "It's either the V&A, a reclusive Japanese billionaire or Elton John."
At this point, an item I was interested in came up. I'd tried on this stunning green velvet tailcoat at the viewing; it had been worn by Timothy Dalton in an unknown production, and its estimate in the catalogue was low. The auctioneer started the bidding at £40; I was surprised at the adrenalin rush when I flashed my card. I had competition, though: softly-spoken-baseball-cap-guy was on the qui vive. I knew what figure I'd stop at... and then sailed smoothly past it.
This is the thing about auctions, I've discovered: the distance from "I fancy [thingy]" to "hmm, I'll venture a bid on [thingy]" is perilously short, and then someone bids against you and suddenly you're seeing red and thinking "HELL NO YOU'RE NOT GETTING MY THINGY." It's all incredibly psychological, and auctioneers are experts at manipulating the herd mentality. Also, they talk at high speed so you'll rise to the challenge without thinking about it, and the rhythm they establish flips atavistic switches in your hindbrain.
Auctions, like casinos, reward the grand gesture: I'm certain that many people today spent more than they meant to, and I'm equally certain that to them, the combined buzz of spending dangerously high amounts of money plus the kudos you get for doing so in public is at least as important as the physical object you take home to have and to hold.
Eventually, the sensible part of my brain caught up with me and I declined the next bid; SSBCG went home with the tailcoat (as well as about twenty other things.) I wrote "Damn!!" in my catalogue. But hey, here comes a doublet worn by Sir John Gielgud! Sir Laurence Olivier's suit jackets! Errol Flynn's uniforms from The Master of Ballentrae! Ian McKellan's Fascist chic from Richard III! Somewhere around Orson Welles's trousers, I glazed over a bit.
I considered bidding on Catherine Zeta Jones's frock coat from Sheherazade (is it not marvellously goth?) but the numbers soon got too rich for my blood. They also auctioned some jewellery from that film: see where it says "a further jewelled item?" That's a thong. Say it with me, Bonhams: THONG. SPARKLY THONG. That's gotta chafe, though.
And suddenly everyone in the room perks up, because we've arrived at the James Bond stuff. Michelle Yeoh's leather catsuit (cool!), a few sharp Brioni numbers made for Pierce Brosnan (boooo-ring!), showgirl outfits from Octopussy (neat!), Scaramanga's jacket (badass!), Diana Rigg's fur coat (£10,800 to that phone bidder again). Ah, here's the money shot: Sean Connery's dinner jacket from Thunderball. £28,000? That'll do nicely. I've discovered that if you sit in an auction for long enough, huge amounts of money cease to have any impact on your brain. It's only now that I realise that that DJ went for the equivalent of 4 Tom Baker frock coats. Well, which would you rather have?
The auctioneer turns the page and starts to call the next lot. Voices from the crowd remind her that it's time for lunch. She apologises, thanks us all and hurries off to the sandwich bar.
More after lunch! Read on, true believers!