| Friday, October 16, 2020

Dear Friend, 
 

Taking up a full block in the old center of Paris, Hôtel Drouot is where some of the world’s most important collections of fine art, objects, and artifacts in the world exchange hands.  Even if you can’t afford a hatpin, coming to Drouot is an education. 
 
After all, the French auction house is where the estates of Ingres, Delacroix, Courbet, Manet, and Brassai were sold. Drouot held the first curated representative sale of Impressionists. Of a group called the “Peau d’Ours,” or the Bearskin, represented by Picasso, Matisse, Gauguin and others. Of “les arts primitifs” in 1955 and of “Art Deco” in 1972. Here, you could bid on the jewels of the Tsar Alexander II or the jewelry of the wife of the last Shah of Iran.

Drouot has its fancy sales, like those above, that draw oglers and flaneurs as well as passionate collectors with deep pockets. But the hundreds of sales that take place over the year offer a similar opportunity to gaze upon and learn about fine art and furniture…and to acquire lovely things for reasonable sums.

Like all auction houses, Drouot provides previews, essentially exhibitions in which you can look and usually touch. Auctioneer’s assistants are only too happy to answer questions. Beautifully illustrated catalogues with informative descriptions of objects and art are available at Drouot. And once you get on mailing lists, they are free.

Though I would have liked to have drifted in and out of the Paris auction house as part of my education générale, by the time I got to France, I had a household of children, a couple of horses and a weekend chateau. The later was in dire need of furnishing. Shortcuts to knowledge were essential.

Drouot offers professional training for art dealers and specialists. It is also pleased to offer its august knowledge to amateurs like me. Perusing the catalogue, I settled on French furniture from Louis XIV to the Consulat, or from about 1640 to the early 1800s. This would be more useful, I hoped, than “Copies, pastiches and fakes from the Renaissance to today. »

The class was held in the little Théâtre des Champs Elysées on Avenue Montagne. Every Tuesday afternoon for three months, I would arrive early to have coffee at a nearby café, the venerable Carrette.

Carrette feels like Paris before “soixante-huit,” the great cleavage of 1968, when une bonne, a maid, still wore a cap. The waitresses wear a uniform with a black apron and write down your order on a little pad. The coffee comes in a silver pot on a silver tray, with crusty cubes of demerara sugar and hot milk. There is a kiosque on the corner with the latest magazines, newspapers, and literary reviews.

And tout le monde comes to Carrette: Russian babes from Avenue Foch, elegant grand-mères from Avenue Henri Martin, nicely dressed tots having chocolat chaud and a pain au lait with Maman, teenagers in expensive jeans and Montclair jackets, semi-retired men reading the paper, and a person like me, enjoying the passing scene and the autumn skies of Paris. Throughout the semester, the skies grew darker as the days shortened, and gradually the plane trees on the sidewalk dropped their leaves and pompom-shaped seeds.

The class itself was less relaxing. This was my first exposure to the rigors of the French mind. We weren’t just expected to listen and look at slides; we were called on to identify images of furniture, by year and by cabinet-maker. Since the lights were dimmed to make seeing the slides easier, falling into the arms of sleep was a constant threat. Once I came partially awake to hear our professor asking me to date a chair leg. The hairs rose on the back of my neck. By sheer luck, I had seen the exact chair in a book while sitting on the terrace of Café Carrette.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. But I had to take my chances.

Once through the glass and metal doors of Hôtel Drouot, one goes upstairs…or down to the basement.

The ventes courantes, literally “running sales” are where the contents of attics, garages and unloved houses end up. Here, old unused wedding gifts and lace curtains grey with dust wait forlornly for a pair of loving eyes. But it’s also where the two large paintings on either side of the fireplace in the grand salon of Chateau de Courtomer came from. It’s where I found the folding screen, painted with roses and peonies, in the grand salle à manger. It’s how I came upon the Japanese painting next to the kitchen. And it’s where I bought ten armoires to furnish the bedrooms – since the 18th-century architect of the Chateau did not consider closets of importance.

At that particular sale, I felt like a celebrity. I bid on one wardrobe after another, causing heads to turn. “Adjugé!” the auctioneer exclaimed with rising excitement, each time. As a particularly cumbersome late 17th-century wardrobe, about 8 feet tall, deeply carved out of heavy walnut, came on the block, he looked at me like a hungry puppy, begging me with soulful eyes to bid. I offered 75 euros. He cracked down the hammer swiftly before I could change my mind.  I might note that twelve years later, this armoire is still in a storage room at the Chateau, placidly awaiting a space large enough to accommodate its majestic proportions.
 
Not all sales are so friendly. I needed to buy bedside tables in quantity, and went to have a look down in the sous-sols. But there were two other buyers who had no intention of ceding so much as a hatpin to my bids. The pair looked like bouncers in a Bulgarian nightclub. As they upped the bid each time I lifted my card to the auctioneer, they smirked and jabbed each other in the sides with heavy-set elbows. I had inadvertently trodden on strange territory, and I beat a retreat.
 
The clientele upstairs are more refined. Here will be a connoisseur carrying a magnifying glass, frequently referring to his auction catalogue, jotting down notes. The patrons murmur. The auctioneer has an elegant tie. Confronted with walls of paintings and fine examples of antique furniture, I try to be disciplined. But when the salle exploded into applause one afternoon after I had “won” a Louis XVI secretaire-commode, I suspected I had let my passions run away with my pocketbook. Still, every time I pass through the petit salon at Courtomer and look at that secretary, I remember a fellow bidder congratulating me on my “bel achat.” In our bedroom hangs a pastel portrait of a young man in a blue coat and a powdered wig, also from a sale at Drouot; it even looks like one of our children! The 18th-century barrel-top desk, with its billowing curve and gleaming patina, is another cherished find, as is the Louis XV bureau plat, both in the library. That desk makes me want to sit down and write a letter. And the bureau plat, or writing table, with its crusty leather top and heavy bronze mounts, is like an old friend. The Chateau is home to many more trouvailles from Drouot…an ivory crucifix, a velvet sofa, a clay head from Ancient Egypt, fabric scraps from the Fertile Crescent…and of course, more paintings, prints and furniture.
 
Fortunately, a Chateau is an on-going project. Skimming the latest catalogues as I enjoy a cup of chocolat chaud on a crisp October afternoon, I suspect I shall soon have another excuse to visit Drouot…

A très bientôt, au Chateau de Courtomer,