He was kind and accommodating, and I could see how Nash’s mother met and fell in love with him. It was also clear this was where Nash got his gentle mannerisms and keen eye for emotion.
The gavel once again clacked somewhere on stage.
“That’s my cue to get out there!”He clapped his hands, rising on his toes with an adorable spin.
“Good luck, Daddy!” Bee yelled after him.
I watched Jeffrey jog back and step up onto the stage, perpendicular to us, as he addressed the room with his hands in the air. People clapped politely. Nash was also up there, hands in pockets and smiling to the crowd. The auctioneer stood behind a beautiful podium. He wore a suit and had well-coiffed hair, a gavel grasped in his hand as he announced the first lot item and the opening price.
The bidding began.
Looking at the live feed of the room, I saw it switching between the stage and the various bidders around the space. Several people held phones to their ears, the entire thing rather calm compared to what I’d imagined in my head.
The auctioneer wasn’t performing the fast, obnoxious calling I’d expected, but stating the current bid as it appeared on a screen behind him in various global denominations. The piece on auction was being presented by staff members wearing branded aprons and white gloves.
As the bid increased, the crowd quieted, only raising their hands to call out a higher bid when needed. The first lot, a diamond brooch from the 20th century, sold for overfourmillion dollars. A staggering amount discussed among the entire room as though nothing.
I turned to Bee, whispering, “What’s the highest-selling item you’ve sold?”
Bee looked away from the screen, now watching as the diamond brooch passed us, handled by the stage staff before being handed off to the guards. They placed itback into a Pelican case in the back area. “We once had a Van Gogh sell for $260-million.”
I balked.“Jesus,”I exclaimed. “What about more modern art? What’s the highest you’ve sold there?”
She thought for a moment. “We had a Jean-Michel Basquiat go for $110-million. Quite impressive, right?”
These were staggering numbers. My recent piece had sold for half a million, which seemed small potatoes in comparison. “What about the highest-selling art from a living artist?” I continued, curious what my piece was in the range of.
She nodded, thinking briefly. “That would be the Jeff Koons for $58-million.”
My eyes widened.Red’sstarting price was set at the price of my most recent piece, which made sense. “Wow.” Sweat dampened my skin under the sweatshirt. Bee squeezed my hand as though sensing my growing anxiety.
“Once art hits the auction level,” she explained, “prices skyrocket. It’ll be an interesting evening.” She spoke as though she knew what I was wondering about.
What wouldRedsell for?I wondered to myself. What if it sold for a lot more than my previous piece? Would all my art now be worth this much?
I heard the gavel, the third lot item selling at $100-thousand, a Bauhaus-style chair.
Achair.
What kind of world was I living in?
I knew the answer. This was my parent’s world—a world where material items reigned supreme, a world I had been told, time and time again, that I did not belong. Yet, here Iwas. I’d done it by accident. It was almost comical. I let a laugh bubble out.
Bee eyed me, but didn’t ask.
I watched another few jewels auction off, not one for less than a million dollars. My heart was pounding, not from anxiety, but from its much more welcome cousin, excitement. And then, it was time forRed.
I watched the guards from across the room, handing the piece off to a staff member dressed as the others were in gloves and an apron. He had a comically huge mustache, the kind you could curl at the ends.
I watched as he walked opposite us, entering the stage from the other side to show the piece around the room. My anticipation was palpable, my eyes on the screen as patrons whispered to clients over the phone, plenty of them not yet bidding on any of the other items, waiting for this.
The auctioneer announced the piece and the opening bid. I took a long breath and squeezed Bee’s hand. As though she knew the gravity of this moment, she took my hand in both of hers for added support.
I sat forward in my seat, back straight and head buzzing with champagne, and maybe an ounce of hope.
Hands rose. $800-thousand, first counter-bid, a man in a weird velvet suit and metallic shoes—he looked familiar.
Bee squealed.“Oh my gosh!That’s a huge jump.”
