The Value of Your Art When You're Dead

Thank you, says the tall British man as the tenacious gentleman adds $10,000 to the already $130,000 glorified Calder doodle. Postured people line the perimeter of the room on telephones and occasionally a stiff hand raises to claim the removed painting as it rotates on a grey walled easel. Sitters contemplate their books while the easel turns at the rate the auctioneer takes each overdue breath. Voiceless conversations buzz through tense air.

I raise my hand.  The price increases another ten thousand. My hand goes up again, competing with a young business casual woman holding a phone that correlates to a booth above. Inside a famous face is masked by a row of starchy blue curtains. Another bid, I pitch my final bold raise...And I win!

"SOLD for two hundred and twenty thousand dollars to the young woman by the door in a track suit."

I run as fast as I can: down the East River, over the Williamsburg Bridge, through Hipster Wonderland,  back to my studio in Greenpoint where no one will find me. Back to where I make art and hope someone will value it beyond the cost of the materials.