Isn't That Rich?: Life Among the 1 Percent Read Online Free PDF Page A

actress laughed sardonically.
    I was brought up to view art as inspiration, not a commodity to be traded like natural gas. When I was in my early thirties and able to afford my first real piece, I consulted a close friend’s father, a legendary collector whose name graces a wing at the Metropolitan. I asked for his opinion on an impressionist drawing at one of the auction houses. Later that week, I received his verdict.
    “It’s not so much a fully realized drawing as it is a glorified signature. Better to wait for a good picture that you love,” he said in his lilting European accent. “A painting or drawing is like a woman. You must love her in the evening and also must love her when you wake up in the morning.”
    Things have drastically changed since that conversation, owing to the rise of insta-collectors: art consumers motivated less by passion and more by ego, money, and social access.
    “A dealer I know quite well who caters to this crowd used to call it big swinging dick art,” a reed-thin consultant told me over a salmon roll at Morimoto. She lamented that an art collection is viewed much the same as a stock portfolio.
    “I’ve had clients who have no idea who the artist is they’re actually bidding on,” she said. “One couple who spent millions on a piece—I actually had to correct their pronunciation of the artist’s name. It’s like they bought a Givenchy and pronounced it Give-IN-chy and not Jzhiv-on-shee.” The consultant shrugged. “But I made a good commission on that one, and the piece has already tripled in value.”
    At a top auction house like Christie’s or Sotheby’s, evening sales have the frisson of a courtside Knicks game, along with the seating hierarchy.
    When I started to collect and immerse myself in the art world, a friend of mine, a well-known real estate magnate, kindly offered me his tickets for an evening sale he couldn’t attend.
    I remember the sensation of arriving a bit late and being directed to my friend’s floor seats. “I know he collects, but I didn’t realize he’s at this level,” I heard a woman in Chanel exclaim as I navigated my way to the assigned seat. I was wedged between a poster child for plastic surgery and what appeared to be a South American bon vivant, given the French cuffs and frothy pochette.
    It was both exciting and unnerving as the major lots were revealed. After a frenzied bidding war, the hushed crowds burst into applause. That people actually clap for the person willing to spend the most money was just one sign that art collecting has turned into a blood sport.
    That’s partly because of the herd mentality surrounding it. Like fashion or décor, choosing art should be a matter of taste. But collections are so often dictated by one of an army of architects, art consultants, and decorators who have stepped up to help undereducated overspenders buy the same art everyone else has.
    “People choose decorators the way the wife chooses a handbag. ‘You have so-and-so; I need to use them too,’” a seasoned collector said, shrugging over an espresso and a smoked salmon tartine at Via Quadronno. “Now all these people hire art consultants who procure the art. By the time the project is finished, there is very little individual taste. It’s like the way you see all these girls with flat-ironed hair, a hobo bag, jeans, and high heels.”
    Dana and I were having Sunday brunch at the Park Avenue apartment of an art advisor who has hosted and advised some of Wall Street’s and Hollywood’s biggest names over the years. Our hostess pointed to the artfully set buffet. “Tuna? Salmon salad?”
    As we ate, she recalled growing up on Fifth Avenue, when collecting art was less of a game. “They were a staid, older, intellectual group,” she said. “There were also few young collectors.”
    She sipped her Earl Grey as she turned toward the seven-figure portrait presiding over her dining room mantel. “I’ve seen it go from couture to