In late 2008, I was fired from Wacombe and Willis, an international public relations agency that specialized in representing Fortune 500 companies and undiscovered high-tech startups that were just getting their first round of venture capital. Because I loved technology, I was tagged with servicing all of the startups that came in the door (ankle biters is what my colleagues called them, because they were small, had no budgets, but demanded the same media coverage that our Fortune 500 clients received). The startups that came through our door didn’t represent a very profitable business model to the firm, and it was ultimately decided to change course and drop those clients who couldn’t pony up more than a $10,000 per month retainer fee. When the little guys went, the firm used the opportunity to jettison my overpriced head as well. They gave me a paltry severance and thankfully didn’t contest my unemployment filing. And it helped that I was able to corral a couple of ankle biters who wanted me to work for them on a freelance basis. But even with all of those things, I wasn’t able to pay my half of the mortgage for the house that I still owned and lived in with my now ex wife, Rachel.
Rachel was patient with me at first. She knew we were in the midst of a major recession and knew jobs in my area of expertise were scarce. Thankfully she had a job at a nonprofit that paid fairly well and enabled her to cover the part of the mortgage that I couldn’t pay. And to her credit, she kept this up for a few months.
I would typically start my day working for my freelance clients. By 10:00 a.m., I was surfing all of the job boards and sending out resumes and cover letters. By 11:00 a.m., I was shut down for the day and cracking open my first beer. This was often followed by a couple of vodka shots and chased with another beer or two and a half a pack of cigarettes. By two o’clock I was napping. By 4:30 p.m., I was up, fairly sober, in the shower and dressed to greet Rachel when she got home. This went on for a good couple of months and became quite habit forming.
One not-so-fine afternoon around 1:00 p.m. or so, I was swilling a beer and smoking a cigarette in the backyard, when Rachel dropped in unexpectedly. She needed a report at the office for a meeting later that afternoon that she had accidentally left at home. I quickly stubbed out my smoke and ditched the beer bottle behind a compost bin, but it wasn’t enough to save me when she greeted me face-to-face.
“Have you been drinking,” she inquired?
“Huh,” I shot back stupidly?
“I can smell it. And from the looks of you now, I’m guessing you’ve had more than one.”
“What are you talking about? I’m just taking a break,” I shot back.
“Well, the break’s over,” she announced. “I’m done paying your share of the mortgage. You need to get a job now. I don’t care what it is. You can go to Starbucks and get a job as a barista if that’s what it’ll take.”
With that, Rachel dashed upstairs, grabbed her report and headed back to the office.
“Man,” I thought “I think I’d rather have been caught masturbating to Internet porn.”
As much as I love to lay blame everywhere else but with me, Rachel was right. I needed to get my act together.
The next day, I expanded my job search beyond public relations and freelance writing gigs and found an interesting opportunity in the “Arts” classifieds on Craig’s List. An independent art gallery owner was looking for someone to work 11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. shifts Wednesday through Sunday. The pay wasn’t much ($10 per hour—and I would have to work weekends), but there would be a 10% commission on any works sold, and they needed someone to start immediately.
Rather than submitting a resume directly though the site, like I’m sure a hundred other people did that day, I took a little initiative and jumped on the bus to see the owner personally.
The gallery owner’s name was Terin Phillips, a foppish Italian man with long, wavy salt and pepper hair who wore sweaters around his neck and penny loafers like it was still 1984. I told Terin during our impromptu job interview that I know how to sell, giving him examples of the two movies (“Monsturd” and “RetarDEAD” for those who haven’t read those chapters yet) my best friend Dan West and I produced and directed and how I’m good with people by way of my six years in public relations. With my somewhat limited knowledge of art (I explained that my dad was in advertising, and I was a Film major in college), the owner was impressed enough to give me the job.
The Phillips Gallery itself was fairly generic… lots of white walls with halogen directional lights hanging from the ceiling. Phillips specialized in 18th and 19th century portraitures, the kind you see in museums around the world. The portraits typically consisted of a white man in his mid 30s or 40s, wearing a dark coat, sporting dark seemingly unkempt hair with one hand resting on a book that’s sitting on top of a desk. Regional artists around the world must have painted a million of them in the 200 years before the invention of the still picture camera.
Most of the good portraits that were done by artists who defined the genre have already been snapped up by collectors and museums. The rest of the unsung nobodies that no one really cared about hung on our walls. While the artists and the painters’ subjects weren’t entirely noteworthy, they still commanded some money. This had more to do with the age and condition the painting was in than the artist or the subject of the portrait. Still, the portraits in our gallery typically started at around $10,000 and went as high as $50,000. All I had to do was sell one $50,000 painting, and I’d make a nice, $5,000 commission. I did some quick math in my head and determined I’d only need to sell one $50,000 painting a month to skate buy until the economy rebounded, enabling me to jump back into another full-time public relations gig.
What I soon realized was that no one buys art during a recession. At least three weeks went by, and I hadn’t sold a thing. The owner, who actually lived in the small hamlet of St. Helena, in the heart of the Napa Valley, only came into his gallery once or twice a month and understood the economic situation out there and still continued to pay me. However, even though Terin continued to employ me, I soon discovered that $10 an hour was nowhere near enough for me to cover my half of the mortgage.
I needed to persuade Terin to move me from a five day a week schedule to seven… at least for a month or two until I was caught up on my finances. Thankfully, this wasn’t difficult to do.
Terin actually owned the entire bottom half of the building his gallery was housed in. He bought it outright with his lover Brian and put it in Brian’s name as an LLC. Incidentally, the LLC then charged Tarin back $100,000 a year in rent. It didn’t take a whole lot of digging on my part to turn up the fact that Terin was a trust fund baby. His dad, who passed away a few years earlier, was an attorney who helped exonerate local high-profile sports figures and political leaders charged with everything from sexual harassment to being bought and paid for by the city’s mega corporations. Terin was worth several million dollars, and he needed to keep this particular gallery open as one of many tax shelters.
Terin wrote off the space the paintings took up on the walls, the gallery space itself, the gallery’s phone and Internet line, office supplies and, of course, my time. In terms of additional overhead, Terin didn’t have any, as all of the paintings in his place were there on consignment.
Still, after another two and a half months of me not selling a single painting in the place, he began to question whether or not I was up to the task. Even though this was his personal tax shelter, he did count on some cash coming in to help defray the cost of his annual month-long Paris expedition, which he always claimed as a deduction, telling the IRS he used these trips to source new works for his gallery.
And people frequently ask me why I have such contempt for the rich.
One day, when Tarin called me from his home in St. Helena, he had the audacity to ask, “Are you even in the gallery, or am I talking to you from your home?”
What did he care where he was talking to me from, as long as I helped him to perpetuate his little tax deduction?
Things between Terin and I turned south the day I asked him if I could have Thanksgiving Day off to spend with my family.
Terin flat out said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t give it to you. Thanksgiving brings the tourists into the city. If there’s one day, besides Christmas, where people are most likely to open their wallets up to art, it’s Thanksgiving. I’m sorry, but I need you in the gallery.”
Much of my anger probably had to do with the fact that I had already assumed I would get the time off and had told my mom I was coming with Rachel and the kids. Rachel in turn had cancelled Thanksgiving plans with her family back East so she could spend it with my family up in Marin. Now that I wouldn’t be going home for Thanksgiving, Rachel and the kids would end up spending the day by themselves in San Francisco.
On the day of Thanksgiving, and as much as I’d hate to admit it, Tarin was right. The gallery got more foot traffic in the first seven hours than I had seen in the last five months working there. However, I soon discovered the people streaming in and out of the place weren’t the type of people who typically buy or are even interested in classical art. Most of the people I interacted with that day were folks who admired the works of Thomas Kinkade “The Painter of Light,” or Margaret Keane, the woman who paints pictures of dogs and children with grossly out-of-proportion eyes.
By 6:30 p.m., the foot traffic was pretty much gone, and it was dark outside. I stepped out the front door for a quick smoke and didn’t see anyone on the sidewalk in either direction. Part of me wanted to say, “Fuck it,” and just close up shop early and head home, but the guilty part of my conscience told me that if I did that, I’d soon be the subject of a Murphy ’s Law-style retribution.
After finishing my smoke, I went back into the gallery and fidgeted another ten minutes, checking my watch every five. Five minute before closing time, I began the painstaking process of shutting all of the lights off in the place.
A second before I was about to hit the switch to the main gallery floor, the door swung open, and a self-assured, heavyset man in his mid-fifties, wearing a tailored Navy blue suit strutted in and barked in an East Coast accent, “Hey, you guys still open?”
“I’m sorry, I was just closing up,” I said to the dapper gentleman, while behind my teeth ordering him to, “Turn around now and get the hell out of this gallery, ‘cause I’m goin’ home!”
“Right,” the gentleman said, “But I need some help. I just bought a four bedroom condo in the new Millennium Tower and need to populate it with some art before I head back to New York tomorrow.”
For background, the Millennium Tower is a posh property in San Francisco’s waterfront district that has views of both the Golden Gate and Oakland Bay bridges. A four bedroom condo on a lower floor started at a cool $7 million.
Summoning up my best Ann Landers, I replied, “Understood, but I’ll need you to come back first thing tomorrow, as I have an engagement that I must depart for.”
“That won’t work,” he groused. “I’m flying back to New York in the morning and probably won’t make it back to San Francisco for another six months or so.” He then quickly added, “I promise not to take up too much of your time. Show me what you’ve got, and I’ll get out of your hair.”
Reluctantly, I switched the lights back on in the gallery and locked the front door to make sure no one else haplessly wandered in off the street.
“I’m Rick,” I said extending my hand to the gentleman and giving him a gallery card with the other.
“Roger Singlehurst,” he said taking my hand and squeezing it firmly. “I’ve always felt that San Francisco was a second home to me. And now it is. I’ve just finished picking out the furniture for the place and now I need to populate it with some art. I’ve been looking for something that’s sophisticated, but not pretentious. What I’ve got is a 12-foot long solid white wall that goes from the entryway to the living room, and I need something to cover it.”
Roger looked at the first portrait on his left and asked, “Who’s that?”
Putting on my salesman cap, I stiffened up my posture and said, “That’s a portrait of Antone Sinclair. He was a cotton magnet in the South in the late 18th century. It was painted by Louie Melbach, a North American artist who is known for the way he handled ambient light on his subjects’ faces.”
“Uh huh,” Roger blankly acknowledged, “How much is it?”
It quickly became apparent that Roger didn’t know squat about art, and he was quickly starting to get on my nerves. The portrait in question was listed at $15,000, but for shits and giggles and because I was seething with contempt for this person, I blurted out “$30,000.”
“Uh huh,” Roger nodded. He then walked a little further and pointed to another portrait. “What about that one?”
“That’s Mark Adams. He founded a Pennsylvania steel mill in 1926. It’s painted by Madison Montgomery,” I said. That particular piece listed for $10,000.
“And how much is that one,” Roger inquired?
“$20,000,” I said incredulously, hoping that he would just turn around and walk right on out of the store.
“Right,” he mumbled. But Roger didn’t leave. In fact, he continued moving farther into the depths of the gallery and pointed to a painting of a clipper ship unloading supplies in Hudson Bay. “And that one?”
“It’s called ‘Clipper on the Hudson’ by Milton Hancock, and it sells for $100,000,” I said. At this point, I was just being a patronizing ass. The ‘Clipper’s cost was actually listed at $10,000. It was now fifteen minutes past closing time, and this guy just needed to get out of my store. I was one minute away from uttering a very audible yell and physically escorting him out building by the back of his jacket.
“Tell me about that one,” Roger inquired, pointing to a portrait of a young woman.
Starting to get curt, I semi-snapped, “That’s Susanna James. Daughter of Tobias James, one of the founders of the Encyclopedia Britannica… It’s $45,000.”
“Uh huh,” Roger nodded, “And that one,” Roger asked pointing to a painting of a Golden Retriever with a pheasant dangling out of its mouth?
“That’s ‘Pheasant Dreams,’ by Oscar Serrano. He painted hunting dogs during the late 18th/early 19th century. That painting is currently valued at $125,000.” ‘Pheasant Dreams’ was probably the least valuable painting in the collection, with a list price of $4,500.
“Who’s dog is it,” Roger asked?
Growing more frustrated, I growled, “I don’t know. The painting was acquired at an estate sale some time ago.”
“Okay then,” Roger said walking back towards the front of the store. He pointed to the portrait of Anton Sinclair and said, “I’ll take that one.” He then moved down the room and pointed to the Mark Adams portrait and said, “I’ll take that one.” He kept moving through the gallery and pointing and saying, “I’ll take that one, that one and that one,” indicating that he wanted the ‘Clipper,’ the Tobias James AND the Golden Retriever painting.
At this point, I was stunned into silence. Was this guy simply bullshitting me for sport?
“Listen,” Roger said. “I know you want to get out of here. Let me know how much I owe you for these, and I’ll write you a check and explain where and when I’d like them delivered.”
“Uhhhhhhh,” was the only word I could utter. In a beat, I snapped out of it, composed myself and ushered Roger into the back office. Once behind the desk, I pulled the dust-covered adding machine out of the top desk drawer and began adding up all of the outrageous prices I had quoted him.
Suddenly I had a brain fart (or a “senior moment” as it’s sometimes called). When I got to “Pheasant Dreams,” I had forgotten the price that I had originally quoted him. The only thing I remembered telling him was that it was over $100,000.
Roger stared at me while I stared blankly at the adding machine before me and asked if anything was wrong.
“Fuck,” I thought… And then brilliance struck. I looked at Roger in the eyes and said, “Because you’re purchasing a volume of works with us today, I’m going to let ‘Pheasant Dreams’ go to you for an even $100K.”
Roger’s face exploded with delight, and thanked me graciously.
Two minutes later, Roger was writing a check to the gallery to the tune of $500,000. With my 10% commission, I ended the night $50,000 richer AND I got to stick it to the rich at the same time.
I still enjoy telling that story at parties and other social engagements, but it would be wrong of me to not also include what happened two years later.
After the $500,000 sale, I collected my commission, thanked Terin for hiring me and quit the gallery. The $50K would be enough for me to go back to doing freelance public relations work for at least another year. Six months later I was hired as a public relations manager by a network security company based in the Silicon Valley.
One slow day at the office, I thought it might be fun to do an online search to see if any of the artists in Terin’s gallery had gone up in value, or if he was just selling pipe dreams to people who knew little or nothing about art.
Louie Melbach, who had done the portrait of Antone Sinclair? Zero movement.
The Madison Montgomery? Nada.
The Milton Hancock? His name actually went down in value by a few thousand dollars when it was discovered later that a few of his early works copied the style of another younger artist that he was mentoring.
When I got to Oscar Latoya, I about had a heart attack. His original “Pheasant” painting that Terin had listed for $8,000--the same one that I ultimately sold to the dumb art schlub for $100,000--had been auctioned off six months ago for $5 million.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I said aloud from my corporate cubicle. I made a measly $50,000 that night and two years later that fat bastard walked away with $5 million.
I have to work for the rest of my life to keep up with my mortgage and car payments and thanks to buying one painting, this wanker technically never has to work another day in his life.
It turned out Latoya’s biggest collector was a rich homesteader redneck by the name of Burt Fillmore who lived in the rural outskirts of Milwaukie. He had amassed twenty-five paintings in his farmhouse that burned down in a freak Christmas Eve fire. While Burt survived by leaping out his second floor bedroom window, that house and his Latoya collection did not make it, making any remaining originals worth a small fortune.
