People who deal in tangibles of one kind or another have a term, “leaving money on the table”. Real estate, personal property, and for the people that I’m spending quality time with as fall begins in Texas 2007, what we call antiques are moving across the landscape. No different than any other time when people are exchanging things that have material consequence, we are all at least a little aware of the money we leave on the table. Knowing this doesn’t exactly fill us with a warm glow. Accepting this, however, is probably healthier than any of us realize.
Somewhere along the way years ago I got into the habit of focusing my efforts on selling to other dealers. The reasons are simple, really. Dealers are the most reliable buyers. Generally speaking, they have more knowledge, they have a better idea of what they want, they have a sense of what they can get for the things they buy, and perhaps at some level they understand how much they will enjoy having a certain object in their lives for awhile. I am keenly aware of how much I like having around me the things that please my eye, that fill a room with an “ahhh”, and sometimes even smell good. If you have any memories of family times in an old house, you know that warmth. A hand made cupboard has that warmth. Run your hand across the surface of a table that holds the memories of 150 years of human community.
Leaving money on the table is a Catch-22, a quandary, and the price for doing business. Regularly I give myself little lectures where I say that I’m going to hold out for better money. Sometimes I like something enough that I just say to myself, “I won’t take less than—pick a number—for this.”
I sold a quilt two days ago that brought me great joy every time I looked at it. I had bought it “right”, as we say, and I had high hopes that it would fetch a few hundred dollars. This was its second trip to the semi-annual market I do in central Texas. On the last trip, aside from a couple of dealers with whom I set up, no one even commented on the quilt, let alone ask for a price. I had draped it across the top of an eight-foot-tall display panel where it could command attention. And when the market ended, I folded it and returned it to the laundry bag that had protected it since it entered the market in someone else’s hands awhile back.
My quilt, fanciful circles of vintage fabric, stitched onto a field of red more gorgeous than any other red I’ve ever seen, backed with a yellow the color of the most beautiful sunflower you’ve ever seen, is now in the hands of a really nice woman whose eye was “caught” from across the building, where the quilt was once again draped across the top of an eight-foot-tall display panel. Dealer/buyers with keen eyes and similar taste had been through our set up, and none of them had expressed an interest in this quilt. I had mixed feelings, bittersweet, as I folded the quilt, returned it the laundry bag, and accepted the buyer’s check. “That should have brought a lot more money,” even though I had made a very respectable return on my investment. Wall Street should be so good to me.
I watched her carry the quilt across the parking lot, holding it by the hanger and draped across her back, as the yellow backing with red stitching disappeared around the corner. She was accompanied by her mother and her own little girl—three generations of their family. The quilt is for her second home in the small, country town where we sell. Later that day one of the dealers who sets up with me said “that quilt should have brought a lot more money”. “Yeah, it should have,” I replied.
Well, it’s all just stuff. Name your poison. Suddenly in some part of the world a place gets hot, and the real estate market catches on fire. Outsiders with big money pay big money, and some people who have lived there for generations end up having to sell and move because they can’t afford the property taxes. So you say, “well, they got good money. They can buy somewhere else.” I say, “What’s your point? They didn’t want to move to begin with.” It’s just land to some people, but to other people, it’s their home.
In a small West Texas town, someone has inherited a bunch of stuff from an aunt, so they’re having a garage sale to get rid of things. A beer flat contains a wealth of junk jewelry, including a rare Bakelite necklace. The flat costs five dollars. Luck of the draw, you just happen to be on a driving vacation, six hundred miles from home, basking in the cool, dry air and sunshine of an early November day, roaming through neighborhoods looking for garage sales, and as it turns out, you just happen to know someone who later tells you after you’ve priced it, “I’d put a ZERO behind that 35”. Later you say, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”
A mother dies, and the family is forced to deal with all the earthly possessions she leaves behind. Odd, isn’t it, what people value. A water hose suddenly deserves to be transported 100 miles to a place that already has an abundance of water hoses. A sofa that never has been particularly comfortable and has no family history becomes a treasure. A quilt that was bought “right”, but was given as a gift instead of being sold, gets folded and added to a stack because it holds a memory. A quilt you bought and sold, that again caused you to laugh at Wall Street, won’t let go of you. So two years later you buy it back, and this time you have to put money on the table.
Leaving Money on the Table—Fayetteville, Texas (October 2, 2007)
R. Harold Hollis
Somewhere along the way years ago I got into the habit of focusing my efforts on selling to other dealers. The reasons are simple, really. Dealers are the most reliable buyers. Generally speaking, they have more knowledge, they have a better idea of what they want, they have a sense of what they can get for the things they buy, and perhaps at some level they understand how much they will enjoy having a certain object in their lives for awhile. I am keenly aware of how much I like having around me the things that please my eye, that fill a room with an “ahhh”, and sometimes even smell good. If you have any memories of family times in an old house, you know that warmth. A hand made cupboard has that warmth. Run your hand across the surface of a table that holds the memories of 150 years of human community.
Leaving money on the table is a Catch-22, a quandary, and the price for doing business. Regularly I give myself little lectures where I say that I’m going to hold out for better money. Sometimes I like something enough that I just say to myself, “I won’t take less than—pick a number—for this.”
I sold a quilt two days ago that brought me great joy every time I looked at it. I had bought it “right”, as we say, and I had high hopes that it would fetch a few hundred dollars. This was its second trip to the semi-annual market I do in central Texas. On the last trip, aside from a couple of dealers with whom I set up, no one even commented on the quilt, let alone ask for a price. I had draped it across the top of an eight-foot-tall display panel where it could command attention. And when the market ended, I folded it and returned it to the laundry bag that had protected it since it entered the market in someone else’s hands awhile back.
My quilt, fanciful circles of vintage fabric, stitched onto a field of red more gorgeous than any other red I’ve ever seen, backed with a yellow the color of the most beautiful sunflower you’ve ever seen, is now in the hands of a really nice woman whose eye was “caught” from across the building, where the quilt was once again draped across the top of an eight-foot-tall display panel. Dealer/buyers with keen eyes and similar taste had been through our set up, and none of them had expressed an interest in this quilt. I had mixed feelings, bittersweet, as I folded the quilt, returned it the laundry bag, and accepted the buyer’s check. “That should have brought a lot more money,” even though I had made a very respectable return on my investment. Wall Street should be so good to me.
I watched her carry the quilt across the parking lot, holding it by the hanger and draped across her back, as the yellow backing with red stitching disappeared around the corner. She was accompanied by her mother and her own little girl—three generations of their family. The quilt is for her second home in the small, country town where we sell. Later that day one of the dealers who sets up with me said “that quilt should have brought a lot more money”. “Yeah, it should have,” I replied.
Well, it’s all just stuff. Name your poison. Suddenly in some part of the world a place gets hot, and the real estate market catches on fire. Outsiders with big money pay big money, and some people who have lived there for generations end up having to sell and move because they can’t afford the property taxes. So you say, “well, they got good money. They can buy somewhere else.” I say, “What’s your point? They didn’t want to move to begin with.” It’s just land to some people, but to other people, it’s their home.
In a small West Texas town, someone has inherited a bunch of stuff from an aunt, so they’re having a garage sale to get rid of things. A beer flat contains a wealth of junk jewelry, including a rare Bakelite necklace. The flat costs five dollars. Luck of the draw, you just happen to be on a driving vacation, six hundred miles from home, basking in the cool, dry air and sunshine of an early November day, roaming through neighborhoods looking for garage sales, and as it turns out, you just happen to know someone who later tells you after you’ve priced it, “I’d put a ZERO behind that 35”. Later you say, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”
A mother dies, and the family is forced to deal with all the earthly possessions she leaves behind. Odd, isn’t it, what people value. A water hose suddenly deserves to be transported 100 miles to a place that already has an abundance of water hoses. A sofa that never has been particularly comfortable and has no family history becomes a treasure. A quilt that was bought “right”, but was given as a gift instead of being sold, gets folded and added to a stack because it holds a memory. A quilt you bought and sold, that again caused you to laugh at Wall Street, won’t let go of you. So two years later you buy it back, and this time you have to put money on the table.
Leaving Money on the Table—Fayetteville, Texas (October 2, 2007)
R. Harold Hollis
1 comment:
Harold: what a cool story, really enjoyed! Hope you did well at the show, wish I could have made it out. Maybe next year.
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