Art, Bullshit and Broken Dreams
Here's the thing, I almost started an art syndicate
So, my girlfriend and I were in Paris recently—yes, we’re moving in together, and yes, I’m now legally obligated to care about throw pillows and wall art. Romantic, right? Anyway, we decide to hit this market that looked less like the charming streets of Montmartre and more like your auntie’s dusty basement. Think: heaps of random crap, people heckling, and me wondering if I’d accidentally booked a connecting flight to Kabul.
We’re sifting through piles of junk—half-expecting to find a cursed monkey paw or an old CD of Nickelback’s Greatest Hits—when I stumble into this tiny shed. Or bay. Or whatever you call a glorified broom closet pretending to be a store. And then—boom—jaw on the floor! Right there, staring me in the face, is an absolutely enormous oil painting of Napoleon Bonaparte, allegedly painted while he was in exile. I mean, the dude was stuck on an island, so he probably had time, right? Thing was fucking massive 6 or 7 feet tall, 4 to 5 feet wide?
The guy selling it speaks about three words of English. I pull out my phone, do a quick ChatGPT search, and it’s telling me this piece is worth 1 million euros if tweak (which I’m assuming is short for “if legit”). His bid starts at 300K euros. and was almost inclined to believe there is a deal here until he starts to talk. Tells me there are only three in the world, and even he isn’t sure where the other two are. Super promising.
I ask for authentication. He asks for proof of funds first. Which, fair—except I’m about 299,999 euros short on that price tag. But hey, I’m not one to back down from a good deal. After 20 minutes of going back and forth, I somehow get him down to 100K euros. I’m a shark. Price elasticity of demand. Only problem: I still don’t have 100K euros. Or even the mental bandwidth to figure out how to ship this beast back to my fifth-floor West Village walkup. (Pretty sure Paul, my roommate, would murder me if I took down his Pulp Fiction poster for Napoleon.)
I considered starting a syndicate of 20-something lads with engagement ring dough burning holes in their pockets. “Babe, do you want lab-grown or the real thing? Because I’ve got an oil painting that is one step away from making your dreams come true.”
So I did the prudent thing any man in my situation would do — walk away, as if I had a more important deal to tend to.
Later that evening I texted my lad from Sothebys’s while sipping in IPA from the hotel bar (Yes, I’m resourceful when tipsy). Turns out, there are indeed three copies of this painting. Last one sold for 50K GBP. This one? 100% fake. C’est à la vie, I guess?
Here’s the thing: Art is subjective. My bank account is not.
Until next time,