"This next rare piece was believed to be in the collection of the revered Parisian surgeon, Dr. Villette himself, and was purchased by Captain Johnston-Saint, as agent for the Henry Wellcome Collection in June of 1929 in Paris,” the dulcet, tenor voice broadcasts. “Please note the lovely flesh tones that give a delicacy to the figure of a man with a large dagger surrounded by female angels with trumpets. Truly a work of art and a historical marker for the finest collection. We will start the bidding at five hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
At the mention of Dr. Villette and Henry Wellcome, the room of collectors, previously bored and lethargic, become instantly covetous over the four-inch by four-inch masterpiece, paddles flying into the air.
“Six hundred, six fifty, seven hundred,” he states, nodding to a bald man attached to a phone, “seven fifty.” The bidders now frenzied, he continues, “eight hundred, eight fifty, nine hundred.” The paddles stop. “Do I have nine hundred thousand? Gentlemen, ladies, this piece is a pinnacle of cache´. Do I hear nine hundred?” the staunch auctioneer perfunctorily entices.
With a word from his assistant, he announces, “We have a proxy bid of nine hundred, do I hear nine hundred and fifty thousand? Thank you, madam.” He acknowledges a well-coiffed, fifty-something, her head overcome by enormous sunglasses. “We are now at one million dollars. One million?” He looks around the room, his eyewear exaggerating the size of his brown eyes, as an inert tech guru swishes his paddle around, his eyes glued to his phone.
“Thank you, sir. Now, do I hear one million five hundred?” Looking back to the now disappointed woman he quandaries, “Anyone? One million going once. Going twice.” With a competent survey, he opines, “Final warning.” Head up, with no takers, he smacks the gavel terminating the lot. “Sold for one million dollars.”
The small-framed treasure is spirited away, while the lighting dramatically adjusts in the large rotunda this exclusive event occupies. Heavy, dark-green drapes automatically close over the floor to ceiling, French-paned windows, mimicked in the ancient mirrors on the walls behind the audience. A round skylight above, centered in the domed, mirrored ceiling is negated with a push of a button, instantly transforming the garish ballroom. The surrounding, tropical landscape fades to black, with only one focused spotlight dramatically drawing attention to a small, round stage below it.
Every one, of the twenty-nine occupants seated in rows of satin-covered chairs spaced strategically on the marble floor, wait with bated anticipation for the next lot. The audience of bidders varies in age from late twenties to mid-eighties; all impeccably dressed in linen and silk of natural tones. Their assistants, standing sentinel behind the last row of chairs, await instruction via text in black Armani. The room swells with prolepsis; this is the lot they have all come to view.
With only six showcases available, the bidding will be vicious. Paddles at the ready, the audience watches as a new auctioneer commandeers the podium. Surveying the now dimly lit audience; the single spotlight overcasting the round platform behind her has become their immediate center of obedient silence and attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I present our last and final six showcases for the evening.” The auctioneer’s voice, sexy and authoritarian, takes absolute control. “As you know, each offering has been graded for quality and authenticity and will be delivered at the appropriate time with provenance. Reserve must be met, although I don’t think that will be an issue.” The room breaks into an entertained murmur at her comment.
Smiling while switching on a small reading light in front of her, that reveals dark eyes behind clear rectangular eyewear and blond, painfully pulled-back hair, she clears her throat. “Shall we begin?” confirming more than questioning, she continues effortlessly, “The first showcase is a stunning and complete work by Ming Z, known for her use of negative space. This is a magnificent blend of Chinese and Western style.”
The room holds its breath as the overhead spotlight goes out. Ten seconds later the light returns and under it is an unimaginably realistic ink drawing of a majestic woman’s face; her large, fist-sized, tear-filled eyes are in perfect perspective to her adolescent, heart-shaped mouth. A delicate creature on first interpretation, tender and vulnerable, each rendered iris seems to reflect the light from above as if she were standing in the room.
Pulling back and away from her eyes, however, her face is framed by writhing, twisting bands of snakes crying out from a nether world; each snake so realistic, one can almost hear them.
A gasp mutes the room watching the platform spinning the artwork slowly for all to see. The energy of the bidders vibrates as they follow the serpents encasing each arm and leg of the woman bearing the full-bodied tattoo. The snake heads meeting in an orderly, disarrayed line, creates a latticed lacework that follows her pubis to her collar bone, her face insignificant.
“The bidding will begin at one hundred million dollars.”