FURTHERMORE
By Gerry Moran
Like many a student I had a number of jobs throughout those long summer vacations from college. I have been a fruit picker, a waiter, a window cleaner and a bottle-washer. The most ‘colourful’ of my student jobs, however, was my stint as an ‘Art dealer’.
Now ‘Art dealer’ may not be the correct terminology for what I was up to. Nevertheless I was dealing in Art and there was an art to that dealing. It was the mid-70s and I was failing dismally to find summer work to help fund my fees for the following term. As it happened, a friend of mine, Steve, made me an offer I could easily have refused – but didn’t. Because he was emigrating to London, Steve, for a modest enough sum of money, would let me have his portfolio of paintings, which he had been selling, successfully, or so he said, from door-to-door in the suburbs of Dublin for the past year.
Now Steve was no artist, a con-artist yes, but a painter – no. Where or how he acquired the portfolio of paintings – moody, pastel landscapes on a velvet type material – God only knows. Steve and I sealed the deal over a drink (which I bought – as usual) during which he explained to me the three rudimentary rules of selling art door-to-door. Successfully.
First, I should look artistic and slightly undernourished. Being a student that was not difficult. Second, I must emphasise that the paintings are all my own work and that I am selling them to put myself through Art college. Third, I should look utterly dejected should people seem disinterested. That look of despair and dejection, Steve said, may well help clinch the deal. “Oh, and one last thing”, said Steve, “if none of the above work – sell the portfolio to someone else.”
He drained his pint and smiled.
Lady Luck smiled on me as I set out the following day to flog my portfolio of paintings. There was a bus-strike in Dublin and I was hitchhiking from my flat in Drumcondra across town to upmarket Rathgar. Within minutes a car pulled up. I was immediately struck by how well dressed the driver and his front-seat passenger were – dark suits, sharp white shirts and matching dark ties. Placing my portfolio of paintings beside me in the back seat, the conversation began.
About my own age, they were from the States, and on the missions here in Ireland preaching the word of the Lord. I explained that I too was on a mission – selling my paintings to get me through Art college. The deal was done before we reached O’Connell Street. They bought one of ‘my’ paintings and in return they could call to my flat the following evening to share their beliefs with me.
A good start they say is half the battle. And I couldn‘t have asked for a better one. The battle, however, hadn’t even begun. And when it did – I, the artistic, undernourished-looking foot soldier, legging his portfolio of paintings from door to door, failed miserably in the line of duty.
Door-to-door selling left me despairing and despondent. Unlike Steve I had neither the neck, nor the talent for the business. In a two week period I sold one more painting. The rest I bartered for LPs and a small discount on my rent.
All this came back to me when a young gentleman, looking quite artistic, but not undernourished, stood on my doorstep some summers back with a large A3 folder under his arm. He explained that he was an Art student and was selling his work to put himself through college. I leafed through his portfolio of drawings, good quality black and white photocopies I reckoned, of some famous Irish landmarks, all the while thinking of Steve and the two missionaries who, I have no doubt, called to my flat the following evening, but I was out – selling my art.
“How much?” I asked the young man. “They’re €12 each,” he said, looking quite intense. I picked out two and handed him a €20 note. “Deal?,”I smiled. A short pause. And then: “Yes….deal….thank you.”
Forty years on, I was still an Art dealer – of sorts.
