Mr. Aviron did not paint for an audience. Instead, Aviron painted for himself. Perhaps the truest form of expression. He painted because the desire to express himself as an artist overtook the need to present a work that would be what was expected of him. Mr. Aviron painted the unexpectedness of his reality. A reality that formed around him. One in which every detail was present, accounted for and celebrated. Mr. Aviron continued to paint, to write, to teach. With his wife by his side, the Aviron's continued together along Joachim's path of creativity. He continued to paint his reality, But by 1944, Mrs. Aviron reached out for help. Bertha began to notice changes in her husband. And so she acted in the best interests of Joachim. Bertha contacted the Curator of the Brooklyn Museum, Mr. John L. Barr. Bertha asked Curator Barr for suggestions on where to present the works of her husband. Mr. Barr directed her to contact Assistant Curator Dorothy Miller at the Museum of Modern Art. Upon receipt of her letter, Ms. Miller responded to Bertha's request for an audience for her husband.s paintings. Miller offered to view Joachim Aviron's work as soon as it was brought in to her office. This was Joachim's chance to place his work in front of an audience eager to see it. Ms. Miller had recently created her first of at least six curated art exhibits focusing on American artists. Joachim Aviron had become an American citizen years prior. He could technically be in the running for consideration of her next show. So why then did the Aviron's not take Miller up on her offer. I can't say. But Mrs. Aviron did not give up on her husband or on her connection at the MoMA. And that is why in 1945, Mrs. Aviron wrote a second letter to Ms. MIller. This letter lacked the matter-of-fact tone that the first letter had. This letter was desperate. This letter spoke of depression, loss of hope and a lack of desire to live. It was a truly moving cry for help in which Bertha painted a picture of being surrounded by paintings that were not being seen by an audience other than the artist and his wife. Imagine being surrounded by what you love, what you have created and feeling as though it is swallowing you up. Mocking you. Reminding you that no one has seen your work and still pushing you to create more.



Had Aviron lost his will? Or was it a response to the current situation of World War II. Abstract Expressionism grew out of the visceral response to the war by a school of New York artists in the downtown scene. Aviron was living far out in Brooklyn, on the edges, the fringe, if you will. He was in Seagate and Coney Island. Perhaps being far removed from the activity of Manhattan, Aviron had created his own reality that threatened to consume him. Add on to that the response to a global war. A war that caused death and destruction. A war that had its own reality. Surely, an artist like Aviron would've had moments of despair. And perhaps his wife, while meaning well, could not understand this full body response. And I think that Curator Miller from the MoMA knew this. She resounded to Bertha's letter within a day. Miller did not focus on the hardships that Bertha perceived, but rather on what could be done. On galleries that should be contacted. On plans to make. On the hope to have in the reality that Aviron had created.



And so what had happened between 1945 and 1963? Did Joachim Aviron take Dorothy C. Miller's advice on what galleries to contact? According to a newspaper article from a local Brooklyn newspaper in 1963, the Aviron's had moved to Brighton Beach around 1956. Joachim's work had been exhibited in both the boroughs of Brooklyn and Manhattan, but records of those exhibitions are lost. He obviously continued to paint, to create and to live. He had not lost hope. He had not lost his will. He had not allowed his reality to consume. Rather, it appears that Joachim found a new desire to pursue his calling.

Ernest Thurn. Who? Exactly. He was even forgotten by his students. He's not a household name. One of the countless artists who time and the history books have forgotten. So I had to dig deep to find any information about him. And to debunk some of the information online about him. Let me share what I know so far. Mr. Thurn was born in 1889 in Chicago. He attended University in Chicago and joined an arts club called the Palette and Chisel Club in 1908.



He began appearing in their theatrical events as early as 1911 and would continue to do so through 1921. It appears that he thought of himself as a commercial and illustrative artist, rather than only a fine artist, and exhibited with the Palette and Chisel club in 1914, 1915 and 1916.



In 1922, Mr. Thurn traveled to Germany and wound up studying under Hans Hofmann until 1927. There's a source online that states Mr. Thurn studied in Paris, France under Andre Lhote at the Academie Julian - this is not true. As far as I can tell, Thurn stayed in Germany from 1922 through 1927. Thurn returned to the States and opened his first art school in the Lincoln Square neighborhood in New York City (often misstated as Lincoln Center) and finally settled his school in Gloucester, Massachusetts. Thurn now considered himself a Modernist thanks to his studies with Hofmann, who he also persuaded to teach at his Gloucester school in the early 1930's. It was here where Thurn met his future wife, Helen Stein, who was a good friend of Marsden Hartley. But Hartley and Thurn did not see eye to eye. One afternoon the pair were driving around Gloucester when Thurn turned and asked Hartley, "What shall we do now?" Hartley replied, "Little I care what you are going to do, I'm going to see Helen." And that was the best of their relationship. From photographic evidence, it appears that Thurn and Stein divorced some time in 1942, just six years after marrying.

I've searched up the scant few examples of his work online and I have to say that none of them look anything like the French Impressionist painting of pollard trees that bears his signature and the date of 1909.



But don't just take my word for it, have a look at these works all by Ernest Thurn and choose for yourself.









The next few decades until Thurn's death in 1971 provide no information on his life. I could find no information regarding a trip to France, Impressionism, landscape painting or anything relating to the style and genre of the painting that bears his name and the date of 1909. It would appear that I have still more questions than answers but I am confident that Ernest Thurn did not paint this landscape. Now I just have to figure out who did. ;-) hkv

So I walked down the block to the dumpster and climbed up the side. It looked as if a flop house had been picked up off its foundation and shook over the top of the dumpster so that everything would fall out. Mattresses mostly. FYI, I was in a sketchy neighborhood so you figure out why so many mattresses. But I digress. There on top of the pile was this print. So delicate. On paper that was so fine, so unbelievably delicate that it is a wonder how it was not destroyed. Was it simply thrown on top? Had it been underneath a mattress and when they picked it up to toss it in, they flipped it over? I didn’t know and I didn’t want to spend anymore time perched on the side of the dumpster for fear that whatever was on those mattresses would regroup and find it’s way onto me. And so I grabbed the print and headed back to my car. With it safely on the passenger seat I went about shopping. Yes. In a store. Pickins were slim so I headed back to my car to research the signature. I’ll say this, I’m thankful for a good dumpster and I’ve never been shy to dive right in. ;-) hkv

Knowing these two things is the start to movement. But in order to know where you are and where you want to be, you have to see the movement. None of that is possible when we are fixated. Case in point, this painting. Perhaps you saw my post on how I took this painting into the bathroom the other day to black light it in hopes of deciphering the signature. I had bought it a couple years ago and was fixated on the name.



Unable to read it, I gave up. The ‘it’ was my failure at reading the name which I saw as the only entry point to unlocking the story of the painting. So when I black lit it, I had not moved from my previous position - still completely locked in place. That is, until yesterday. I was watching my daughters’ Muay Thai class and listening to the coaches speak about movement. They wanted all the students to move while practicing the combination.



I happened to have my laptop with me, so I did a little moving too. Instead of pinpointing my view of the painting from only one angle, I moved. I keyed in a few terms and started to scroll through images. One after another, each with a different view from a different place. Until I saw where I wanted to be. Along the docks of the Louvre, looking past the Pont des Arts and on to Notre Dame. I was in Paris in the turn of the last Century. Hearing the noises of the cranes on the barges on the Seine. Watching as the river flowed. No, I still don’t know the artist. But I’m moving on the path to understanding the painting. And the Pont des Arts? That’s the bridge that had all the padlocks on it. Locks declaring love. Love locked in place. Well they’ve all been removed. Seems the City of Love prefers not to have its love locked in place. ;-) hkv

When I returned home from Brimfield I hung it in my apartment and forgot about it. Forgot to be curious. Forgot to be someone who looks, who sees what is hiding in plain sight. And so last night while my daughters and I were watching TV, I glanced up at the painting and looked. Taking it off the wall and scanning the front for a signature, I saw nothing. And so I flipped it over to check the back.



There it was. ANNOT 96 5th AVE N.Y. I hung the painting back and grabbed my phone. In about 3 seconds I saw. Annot Jacobi nee Anna Ottillie Krigar-Menzel. Her life was full of passion. She was born in 1894 in Germany to a well to do family of artists, composers, professors and singers. Annot’s studies in art began in Berlin around 1914 and in 1916 she became part of the Berlin Succession, a group that admitted few, if any, women artists.



At 22 she fought against WWI by producing a series of pacifist articles and was jailed for 30 days. After her release, she moved to Oslo where she continued to work for peace. Four years later she returned to Berlin and joined several pacifist organizations. Her art was receiving attention and acclaim. There were gallery shows and her art was purchased by the National Gallery in Berlin.



She married and together she and her husband opened an art school. When the Nazis rose to power and demanded that they dismiss the Jewish students, they refused. Her art was confiscated, deemed degenerate and destroyed. They escaped to NYC and opened an art school in Rockefeller Center. More exhibitions. More accolades. She continued to work for peace as WWII raged. Their lives continued as does her story for anyone who cares to look. ;-) hkv

All of this happened over a hundred years ago, but it was what happened recently that I want to tell you about. A fellow dealer had told me about a guy he had heard of who had a portable x-ray machine. I thought this sounded totally legitimate and asked the dealer for this guys number. About a week later this guy showed up at my apartment with his portable x-ray machine - which, by his need for help to carry it up the stairs, didn’t look too portable.



He was wearing scrubs and told me he had to get the machine back to his office. Still thinking this was at least partially legitimate, I placed the painting on my kitchen table. Before I could ask him if I needed a lead apron like the kind the dentist puts on you before they leave the room to take x-rays of your teeth, he had started up the machine. Click, click.



He then handed me a CD and mumbled something about having to download a program in order to see the digital x-ray images as he motioned for me to grab what was now considered my half of the x-ray machine and help him carry it down the stairs and out to his car. When we got to his car, I handed over the cash and he drove off. Still thinking there may be a modicum of legitimacy, I slid the CD into my laptop and hoped for the best. The files were there and the application worked. The digital x-ray images revealed more questions than answers. At least for now. ;-) hkv

My friend had approached me and tasked me with creating art on the walls of her sprawling family home in Central Massachusetts. What? I had no experience in this. Wondering if she had simply sensed my feelings of struggle and wanted to challenge me to break free from the self imposed mindset or if she too had feelings of breaking free from something. I declined. This was no easy choice as I knew it would be liberating for us both, yet I lacked the confidence to believe it was possible. We spoke again a few days later. I had been thinking of her proposal every moment in between those conversations.



The bold choice was to say yes. The safe choice was to say no. And so I boldly went where others had gone before. But who was I to follow in their footsteps? I was a mere vendor, not an artist. Did I have something to say? Was I ready to share it? Would our friendship be intact? Quieting the questions, I simply said yes to them all. And so I dipped my brush into the paint, closed my eyes and visualized a language to communicate that feeling. Of freedom. Of power. Of belief. Of saying yes. I didn’t think about who would like it. Or not like it. I thought about what I wanted to say. For me. For you. For us all.



I wanted to create and communicate movement. Whether we go forward or back, up or down... we are moving. And it is in this movement that we must stay focused on our own journey. We cannot be free to move when we second guess every step and whether it is right or will be seen favorably. So keep going. Keep doing. Keep communicating. ;-) hkv

Because it was at that moment when I realized that context mattered. That I would be the one to ask and answer. I was standing in an indoor parking garage in NYC at 5 am with $1800 burning a hole in my pocket. The day before I had flipped a pair of frames and made that tidy profit.

Rather than pay my rent, I asked myself WHAT IF. I was staring at a painting. A painting of a figure in armor. The flea market vendor told me that he had just bought this painting the day prior in Massachusetts. Fresh to the market. Literally.

Now the proud owner of something completely out of my wheel house, the research began. WHAT IF questions would fuel my curiosity. When I bought the painting, it was filthy and the details were obscured. Only after a cleaning, did the painting begin to reveal itself.

What was a portrait of a figure in armor, was now a portrait of St. Michael. But was there more? So I asked... WHAT IF this mid 16th Century Florentine painting was actually a portrait of Ugolino Martelli presented as Saint Michael.

And WHAT IF he did actually commission it after Catherine de Medici made him Bishop of Glandeves. And WHAT IF the bejeweled armor was an actual suit somewhere in a collection today.

And WHAT IF I could prove that this painting which sold through the 19th Century Old Master gallery W. Scott and Sons in Montreal actually left a paper trail of ownership.

As of today, 12 years later, I still have WHAT IF questions. I still have the same curiosity. I still have the confidence and strength. And you know what I also have? The painting. So, WHAT IF I pour myself another glass of wine, settle in on my sofa and dig yet a little deeper into this mystery.

Because WHAT IF I’m the one who will figure it all out. ;-) hkv

Before the 20th Century, the pearl diver was the only one who could turn up such treasures. Treasures borne from an unwanted parasite, not the proverbial grain of sand. But rather something that could destroy the mollusk. So it responds by coating this intruder with layer upon layer of what is to become a pearl. This is not a fast process. But one that takes years. Up to 20 years. Slow and steady work. Layer upon layer. A singular focus to create beauty where there was none.

Enter the pearl diver. With one breath they descend to the ocean floor. Looking. Searching. Hoping. Which shell will reveal the pearl that could change their life. Which holds the next great pearl surely to be admired by Sultans and royalty the world over. But perhaps that one great pearl will prove to be too much. Too beautiful. Too valuable. Too awe inspiring. Humans by nature are greedy and envious. We often want what we perceive others to have. But we must be careful with our wishes as we may get them.

For what was once a rate and valuable natural wonder is now created in astonishing quantity. The pearl has become more of a grain of sand. As I continue to reinvent myself and my business I am questioning just what exactly it is that I want. Am I holding on to an antiquated way of doing things that has already been replaced by mass production? Am I searching against the odds for the one great thing that will change my life while passing by the small things? Yes. No. I am waiting to exhale.

To breathe out what I’ve been holding onto for far too long and to breathe in that next breath. It’s easy to hold on to the past and hold fast to dreams. It is not easy to let go and make those dreams reality. But if it was easy then everybody would do it. Everybody would be the hustler, the entrepreneur, the doer. I recently pulled this painting from my storage unit. A storage unit that I’m emptying out today. Letting go of the past. Breathing out and ready to work for my dream. ;-) hkv

That’s the best kind out there. It’s hungry and ready to make its mark on the world. It’s put in the work and is expecting greatness. This is the hype that moves you irrespective of labels or signatures. I am talking about my own collection of unsigned and unknown paintings.

Paintings that I’ve bought throughout the years. Paintings that have been in each of my apartments from NYC to CT to Philly to MA and back again. Taking the gamble and shooting from the hip has always felt the most natural to me. Buying solely with my eye, my gut has yielded the strongest connections. These works are perennially NFS (until I figure out the artist) because selling them would feel like giving up. Giving up on a dream. A purpose. Giving up because they were too hard to figure out, to understand.

I’m not ready to stop listening, feeling, researching. So they hang silently on the walls, on the back burner if you will, simmering. Flavors melding, aromas wafting, creating a heady atmosphere of lust, greed, envy, pride. Hitting on four out of seven is just being honest.

You see, I’m not holding onto these paintings simply for their intrinsic beauty. I want to figure them out. Ascribe an artist. Prove that they belong on the walls of major museums. Make a mark in the world as a dealer who saw that special something in them. Who saw their true value and made sure others saw it too.

For generations to come. To show that they are among the A-listers. That they are no longer unknown hype. That they are the ones who will make it, that you’ll be reading about. That they’ll be the hype you can believe. ;-) hkv

Those little pieces of silence. Daring us to wait till the beat drops. It’s whether or not we can hold on during those moments that often determine our future. Many of you know my story here in NYC - arrived in 2002 with $600, no job and a six month sublet that I had paid for upfront. Blah, blah, blah. But did you know that after my sublet was up I was living in the Jane Street Hotel. Mind you this was before the renovation in 2009 when the hotel (and I use that term loosely) was a $40 a night flop house with one bathroom per floor. You could say this was one of those moments between the beat. Some folks might call it a failure. And those folks might have been right at that time. But instead of defining myself at that moment, I slept with one eye open and saved my money. Saved enough after a couple of months to rent an apartment on the next block over. An apartment that I would later purchase, but that’s another story for another time. Because after the high, comes the low. The moment when you feel paper thin, that the slightest drop of moisture could weaken your very fiber. Those are the moments of your success, not failure. Because those are the times when you’re building the foundation for your next level. Lately I’ve been doing A LOT of foundation work as my business has slowed to a pace that would make a slug look speedy. But instead of wanting to speed things up, I’m taking the time to listen. To build. To regroup. To redefine. I had been an adopter of FITYMI (fake it till you make it) and of ‘Nobody gets on a sinking ship’. Both have much to do with our perceptions of success. Successful folks are the ones who weather the storm. Who ride it out and breakthrough stronger. They are the ones with battle scars shown proudly. Show your failures for what they are - the foundation of your success! And let me share a few words from Flava Flav, ‘Don’t believe the hype’. ;-) hkv

The sun was eclipsed. Clouds rolled in. The sky turned grey. Pedro was holding one of the fantastically carved and gilt rays. Pedro was a friend as well as a dealer. The antiques business is the same wherever you go. Things are bought. Things are sold. As Pedro bargained mercilessly with the vendor, I strolled up beside him and feigned interest in some mediocre stuff on the table. “Oi Pedro. Tudo bem?” I asked in a nonchalant, but obviously desperate kind of way. “Oi gatinha. Olha isso. Que lindo, neh?”





Being this close to the sun was making my palms and brow sweat. I HAD TO HAVE IT. But Pedro wasn’t letting go. He knew I wanted it. But I knew something too. Pedro was cheap. Mão de vaca. So I waited. It was all part of the game. And I’m a player. Pedro saw that in me. It was what connected us. And what would come between us. He knew that his bargaining chip had been reduced to crumbs by my presence and his cheapness prevented him from paying the vendors price.



As he walked away with his head hung low, I grabbed the nearly three foot wide, hand carved, gold gilt, antique Italian sunburst frame with convex mirror. “Oi senhor. Qual é o preço por favor?”. He heard my accent. His eyes glimmered as I saw him mentally adding zeros to his asking price. He knew he had me. “Seiscentos reias.” I couldn’t get the money out of my pocket fast enough. With a favorable exchange rate, that price was a fraction of what I was prepared to pay. Back in NYC, the sun shone for just a day or two as it was purchased almost immediately. Maybe they had a favorable exchange rate too? ;-) hkv

Allow me to set the stage for those of you who have yet to make the mecca to Brimfield. Picture thousands of antique dealers set up in grassy / muddy / dusty fields, under tents (some not) with various wares on tables and on the ground. Fresh finds being pulled from inside trucks and from under tables, shoppers are chomping at the bit to find that needle in the haystack.



I was more grounded that day and just wanted to buy something good. When I saw this hard edge, shaped canvas, abstract painting I knew that I had found it. Fresh from a NY apartment (yes, I live in NYC and bought this in Massachusetts from a NY dealer and then had to bring it back to NYC) I grabbed it as soon as it came off the truck. After I paid, I saw that it was signed. Illegibly, of course, because artists have horrible penmanship. I brought it back to my space and propped it up against my SUV.



Then a dealer came by and asked a price. I told him that I would be bringing back to NYC and then to High Point, NC where I used to set up at a big show. Insert sour puss face. The dealer then proceeded to tell me how he knew the artist but wouldn’t tell me. Then he had the audacity to say that I would never be able to figure out the name so I might as well just take his offer of $500 and be happy. Excuse me? Oh yeah, it was on. I was prepared to go all the way with this painting now and if he thought he’d ever wind up with it he was sorely mistaken.



In a short 30 minutes I had deciphered the signature and placed the work in the back of my SUV. $500 my foot. One month later I was in High Point set up and ready to sell. An interior designer came through and immediately bought the painting after I told her the whole story. Provenance with an attitude. And the dealer? I made sure to tell him what I sold it for the next time I saw him. ;-) hkv

I’ve never subscribed to that as I feel that my kindness is my strength and I have to say that more often than not it is rewarded as such. You know, the ‘you get what you give’ philosophy. In that same vein, when I get a good deal, I try to give a good deal. Case in point, this vintage silkscreen poster. I bought it from a favorite vendor down in Philly. His place is deep in a rough neighborhood, but it’s where I’ve scored some pretty nice finds.




Anyway, if you read my last post about being chased out of City of God favela in Rio by a couple guys with R-15’s, then you know I’ll go deep for good stuff. So, back to the poster that’s now safely in my car and I’m headed home to NYC. As May Brimfield was around the corner, I brought it there.



And guess what? I couldn’t sell it. I thought this would be one of the first things to go, but as that thinking goes, it’s always what you least expect that sells first - in this instance it was a set of ten religious paintings on masonite from the 1950’s that had been in a fire. Go figure. Feeling somewhat confused by the lack of interest and total lowball offers (less than what I paid) I emailed a local NYC auction with images of the poster. Early in June I dropped it off with them to actual interest. Go figure. They set an estimate and told me the auction would be in October.



So why in December am I telling you this story? Because I just got paid for it. Here’s another of my favorite sayings, ‘money talks and bullsh!t walks’. Stay strong and go with your gut. It will always lead you where you need to be. ;-) hkv .

Let me back track. In 2010 I was living in Rio de Janeiro. On weekends I would go to the flea market at Praça Quinze. This is where I met Alex. He had great inventory and I bought from him often.







Soon after he invited me to his store in City of God. I went and bought even more - tables, chairs, lighting and yes, sofas. My plan was to upholster the furniture in Rio and ship it back to NYC ready to go. Alex recommended an upholsterer just down the way from him so I walked to Roberto’s shop to introduce myself. He was happy to do the job and asked me to pick up the sofa in two weeks.



During that time, Shane Smith (Vice) got in touch to arrange filming of Vale Tudo fighters in Brazil. The crew was at our apartment and commented on needing some background shots. I told them that I’d be picking up a sofa and they were welcome to ride along to see City of God. The driver picked us up and we headed for Roberto’s shop. With the sofa now semi secure in the back of the car, hatch up and me perched on the wheel well, we headed home.





At some point in the ride, I looked back to see a car following us. That saying, white knuckle fear - it’s real. I tightened my grip and cleared my throat. “Don’t turn around. There’s a car behind us with two guys wearing balaclavas and holding R-15’s”. Turns out the guys from Vice thought it’d be okay to start filming even though they knew better - permission had to be granted from the local drug dealer.





Their bravado had just turned a trip to the upholsterer into something very different. The driver of my car waved the guys up along side us. Luckily he knew them and explained the situation. But before they drove off they drifted back to where I was sitting in the car. I flashed a smile and gave a thumbs up. They nodded and drove off.



The sofa? I sold it as soon as I got back to NYC. ;-) hkv

Click any of the pics to see the full video

Why did I lie? Because nobody gets on a sinking ship. And really, would you want to hear how I had dropped $3000 to set up at a show and didn’t sell anything? No. Of course you wouldn’t. And neither do the other dealers. Folks love to hear of your successes. Your triumphs. Your scores. So that’s what I’ll tell you about. (Even though the Keno Brothers had declared it trash on local NYC television.)


Click any of the pics to see the full video


Click any of the pics to see the full video

Back to the Pier Show. I had a fully stocked booth, no customers and plenty of time. So I walked around the show. As I chatted with a fellow dealer about how great I was doing, he shared a lead with me. A dealer in Tarrytown had recently purchased a huge lot of antique frames and was looking to sell. The Monday after the Pier Show, I boarded a Metro-North train and headed straight to that dealers shop. I negotiated a deal for the entire lot of frames and then looked around to see what else I could buy - a series of nine paintings of the planets, a few sculptures and an incredible double sided brass and oak easel. Smitten with the easel, I brought it back to my West Village apartment on the train and the subway. Don’t judge. I had just spent mad loot after losing $3000. Remember? Fast forward a few months and a producer from a local TV show reached out to me about a segment they were doing with the Keno Brothers and would I want to be on it? Um, YES PLEASE! And so I brought the easel on the show sure that it would receive rave reviews only to be told that it was utterly worthless. Um, WHAT?


Click any of the pics to see the full video


Click any of the pics to see the full video


Click any of the pics to see the full video

My phone began to ring with colleagues telling me that the Bros didn’t know what they were talking about. And so I did what any dealer worth her salt would do. I sold it at an antique show a couple months later for three times what I had paid. Because, sometimes ya gotta fake it till ya make it. ;-) hkv

Click any of the pics to see the full video

This pair of Sully frames is the perfect example. They weren’t empty when I bought them. They each housed a portrait. I mean they are portrait frames. So where are the portraits? I’m not sure because I left them at the flea market. You see sales of ‘instant ancestors’ are down. Really down. Maybe you read the Wall Street Journal article recently extolling the benefits of exploiting this low market. The author of the article, Kathryn O’Shea-Evans (who has now blocked me), even bragged that her husband beat the seller down an additional thirty percent on a pair of portraits that she loved, but that is a rant for another day. Back to the frames. Armed with a pair of pliers, I ripped out the cut nails that held the paintings in the frames and told the seller that I only wanted to buy the frames. Even though they are portrait frames and the market is down, remember I mentioned that. The vendor and I struck a deal and I went home with the pair. Of frames. When it came time to sell them, my clients told me that the market for portraits is down and they didn’t want to buy portrait frames. Oops. Had I outsmarted myself? No. Because I just hadn’t shown them to the right client. A couple pics sent by text with a price and he jumped at the pair. Back to the portraits. The seller was more than happy to have the pair because he had a client for them. Win - Win. So, yes. Take advantage of a low market but don’t take advantage of the seller. Be ready to hold something in a low market, but don’t give up hope because your client might only be a text away. ;-) hkv

Years ago when I moved to NYC and became a dealer in antique frames, I brought them to and fro on the train. Just like Jenny, I was on the 6 but with armfuls of frames. The subway has had its share of bad press, delays, breakdowns, etc. but I’ll always be a fan. Case in point: these two floor lamps from Bottega Gadda.



I bought them at the flea market last year. At the time I had never heard of Carlo Gadda or Carlo Giorgi, but I found out. One of my favorite vendors had the lamps in his booth. Generally he is a major draw for all the dealers rushing in to shop when the market opens at 6:30 am. But this particular Saturday, the crowd of dealers rushing in all went to another part of the market. Not wanting to follow, I made my way over to his section and immediately grabbed the lamps. I didn’t know where they were from or who designed them, I just knew I wanted to buy them. After a quick negotiation and cash payment, I turned to see what else was at the market. A few of my colleagues had rushed up to where I was standing to ask about the lamps. Sold, I said. Do you know what these are? No, I said. Well do you want to flip them here? This was the question that gave me pause. There’s an old saying in the antique business that your first offer is your best offer. And sometimes an offer to sell is that best offer. But I declined. I figured that if there was enough interest at 6:45 am, I could surely sell them later.



Getting home with the two lamps on the train did not win me any friends, but it did make for a couple nice Instagram pics. The ginkgo leaf lamp has made it to my new apartment, while the rhubarb leaf lamp did not. That in and of itself is kind of weird because I have a strong dislike for ginkgo. When I was a kid in Philly these trees were everywhere and every fall they drop their berries that when smushed give off the foulest of odors. Lucky for me this lamp doesn't stink. ;-) hkv

Why, you ask. Because I always bought something great from him and for my daughters it was because he always had Oreos. I call that a win-win. This painting was still unsold after the morning rush of dealers. You see at this time my family and I were living in Connecticut and I would often bring my girls with me to the market. Just not at 3am. More like 9am. Each snug in their half of the double stroller, we wound our way through the Garage looking for treasure. And Oreos. As soon as I saw this painting I knew I needed it. By now you know I love a mystery and this one posed a great sleuthing opportunity. Getting home I quickly went to my computer to begin the task of translating the work. It referred to a famous Russian Soviet poet, Vladimir Mayakovsky. Mr. Mayakovsky was a stand out figure in the Russian Futurist movement as well as supporter and critic of the Soviet State in the early 20th C. Quite a dangerous tightrope to walk if you ask me. The word on the top left is Chai followed by the word for This. Then at the top you’ll see Vladimir Mayakovsky and under it the word for All Right or Nice! Scrolling down you’ll see the word Pravda, which as you know is both the word for truth and the name of the official newspaper of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. What you may not know is that by adding those letters before and after, the artist changed the meaning of Pravda from truth to untruth. While Mayakovsky died by his own hand some 61 years before this painting was created, this artist aptly told his story through a painting of a deconstructed samovar. With each piece that I buy I am presented with an opportunity to learn, but sometimes it’s the memories of the experience that stay with me. Because every time I think of this painting, I think of my two little girls eating Oreos. ;-) hkv

Extra Information:
I always seem to be getting myself into situations that need an incredible amount of translation.  Whether it's hopping on a plane to shop for antiques in Brazil (no, I didn't speak much Portuguese) or buying unsigned paintings (something I've gotten quite good at, if one can be 'good' at such things) or buying paintings from other parts of the world where English really isn't the norm.  And that's where I was a few years ago. Translating a Russian painting.  Wait a minute, did I say translating a painting?  Yes.  This particular work by contemporary Russian artist Anatoly Belkin is full of symbolism and words.  In Cyrillic.

Looking at the painting one late morning at the New York City flea market (I couldn't go at my usual early hour), I knew that it was something special.  I spoke with my friend about the painting and as antique dealers are apt to do, he tried to talk me out of buying it.  "Heather, everyone has seen this already", he said.  I bought it anyway.  The business is a funny one and if a dealer thinks that all the 'right' people have already seen something and passed on it they sometimes lose a little faith in it.  It only makes sense because we as dealers are buying on our own taste.  If those choices are not validated by a sale, we begin to think that we made a mistake.  It's just how the business works.  But, back to the painting...

I asked my friend what it was all about and who the artist was.  His only information was that it was a painting of a samovar and was full of Russian words.  There are plenty of dealers at the flea market who speak Russian, but I chose to try my hand at translation.  First though, I had to figure out who actually painted the painting.  Signed with a monogram and dated 91, I couldn't wait to get home and begin my search.  Trying a few different online sites, I finally found the one that gave me my answer (for just $25 per year).  The monogram Ab is for Anatoly Belkin.  Turns out he's alive and well and painting in Russia.  He was born in 1953, went to art school in Russia and works in St. Petersburg.  Great.  Now, what does the painting say?  Looks like another search is in order...

Found another great site, this one to translate the Cyrillic alphabet.  Working the letters out and then searching again gave me my answers.  Sort of.  The painting says a lot about tea.  And Soviet poets.  And truth.  Or actually un-truth.  So, here goes.  At the very top is the name of a famous Soviet poet Vladimir Mayakovsky.  Mr. Mayakovsky was born in 1893 and lived a life that he cut short, committing suicide in 1930.  Those years in between were filled with protests, jail terms, love affairs, poems, stage plays, friendships and so much more.  He was close friends with David Burliuk and the two would explore Futurism in it's many veins.  They were known to stand on street corners reciting poetry and throwing tea at their audiences.  This was to annoy the bourgeois art establishment.  From what I read, they were quite successful.  In another refernce to tea, Mr. Mayakovsky is know to have said about Anton Chekhov, "Language is as precise as 'hello' and as simple as 'give me a glass of tea".  There is also a famous poem by Mayakovsky where he commands the sun to stay with him and have a tea.

And what is all this talk about tea?  Well, the samovar is the main focus of the painting.  At the top left, there is the simple statement, "This is tea". And below that one reads the word for 'very good".  It was all starting to come together.  Sort of.  And now for the truth, or rather un-truth.  The newspaper Pravda features quite prominently along with the slogan, Workers of the World Unite!  But what are the letters before and after Pravda?  Well, the addition of those letters turn Pravda (truth) into un-truth or falsity.

So what does this all mean?  Not sure yet.  Literal translations of art are pretty superficial.  The truer deeper meaning is in the understanding. And for that understanding, I spent some more time with the painting and my computer.  Searching for the answers and the understanding.

But little did we know that the grind is what sharpens us. Toughens us. Tests our resolve. It is what we become. When I first moved to New York City I had $600 to my name and no job. In two short days I made my way to the flea market at 3 am on a blustery February Saturday morning and spent what was left of the little money I had. Realizing that eating at some point in the future would be interesting, I took those antique frames that I had bought and turned them into cash. The grind had begun. I was hungry. Quite literally. I got a few jobs at nightclubs, restaurants and antique shops - all concurrently. Sleep was an idea. Not a reality. I felt that time was clicking past and if I wanted to make the most of it, I had to be in every moment. The moments of self doubt, of failure, of mistakes were plenty. And I am thankful for them as they were the whetstones I used to sharpen my skills. But there came a point in my life when my blade became dull. I had settled into the proverbial La-Z-Boy and gotten comfortable. I did not merely stop to rest on my journey. I stopped. Complacency is the enemy of the hustler. For the house was on fire, but I lulled myself into a false reality of contentment in the confines of that recliner. It was easier to make excuses for my stalled career than to actually get up and do something. Those memories of the hustle had grown faint and I no longer questioned my stillness. Time had sidled up next to me and whispered, “sit, relax, you have nothing but time”... It was at that moment that I chose to awaken. To sharpen my skills once again. To fail. To succeed. To be in every moment. To be uncomfortable. ;-) hkv

I had been regaling my friends and colleagues at the flea market with stories of the previous night’s antics at the club where I worked. Tales of drunk girls puking on their friends were always a big hit. Me with my coffee and Robert with his tall boy had broken away from the group and were strolling among the tables in the pay lot laughing and giggling and calling each other ‘girlfriend’.



Before I knew it, Robert had grabbed this hat off one of the tables and was drawing his famous Brute right on it. His Sharpie was always in the back pocket of his jeans - ready. After a quick signature and date, he plunked the hat down on my head and said, ‘Gimme 20 bucks girlfriend’. Obviously I obliged and began to walk away. You see, Robert had already made a bee line for another table and was purchasing what I can only assume was an incredible score with that twenty dollar bill.



To say that Robert had a great eye, would be a massive understatement. He was a wealth of knowledge and a true ‘picker extraordinaire’. My happiness at having had this moment with someone who I truly admired was broken when the dealer who had the hat for sale yelled after me, ‘Hey, GIRLFRIEND, you can give me twenty bucks too’.



Again I obliged and took great pleasure in my new found work of art. It was the best forty dollars I spent that morning. The frames I had purchased were all sold and forgotten within a matter of days. But not this hat.



Fifteen years later I still have it. And it still brings a smile to my face to remember that morning. I hope it brings a smile to your face as well, now that you know the story. ;-) hkv

In our rush to earn we can easily justify time spent far from family and friends because our lifestyle demands constant work. But what are we working for? Living in NYC is a struggle to put it mildly. I’ve often worked a full month simply to pay my bills. It’s times like these when it would be incredibly easy to allow self pity to take over. When it would be easy to pack up and call it quits. When it would be easy to give up on my dreams because I’ve outgrown them. I’ve never been one to take the easy route. Call it idealistic or even unrealistic, but every day before I head out to shop / source / treasure hunt I say to myself, “today’s the day I’m gonna find that Picasso.”



And why not? I’m a gambler at heart and I’ll always place a bet on me. This entrepreneurial spirit has allowed me the freedom to work days on end without sleep just as it has allowed me a beautiful family and family of friends to work and live for. I often dream of finding that masterpiece and really hitting it big just so that I can share all of the profits. Because I’m not working strictly for money. Before you throw down your phone, let me explain. I’m working to leave a legacy. To be part of something greater than me. To find a great piece of art or sculpture and be part of its journey to the next generation. But most importantly I’m working to teach my daughters that beauty and opportunity is all around us each and every day. We simply have to see it. ;-) hkv

Dew coated the tables set up neatly in rows at the Golden Nugget flea market. Making my way along them with the light from my cell phone I came across a dealer just beginning to unpack. This is that special moment when the merchandise is just about to hit the table and if it was good, then it would surely be snapped up before the dew could touch it. I saw one of the dioramas in the hand of the dealer. “Could I see that please?”, I yelled out before anyone else. She informed me that it was actually one of a pair. Even better I thought, though I had no idea what I was looking at.



With both now firmly in my grasp I examined the frames first, but you could’ve guessed that. A couple of Victorian era paint decorated frames which helped to date them to the late 1800’s or early 1900’s. It’s always good to have a starting point. Now came the fun part. What where they? And maybe more importantly, why were they? The what was a pair of hand colored paper cut out dioramas depicting various animals from the continent of Africa. The why was still elusive.



Maybe they were created to remember a holiday spent abroad? Maybe they were the fantastical creations of a zoologist? Maybe they were simply incredible and had to be bought? I went with option 3. It wasn’t till well after sunrise, and a few more coffees, that I actually had a good look at them. They were wonderful. Back home, I packed them securely for the High Point Market show. I placed them on the back wall of my booth among several other pieces.





They were spotted immediately by a well known New York City interior designer and they are now in her residence on Central Park South. Dr. Seuss said it best, “Oh, the places you’ll go” ;-) hkv

I’m feeling nostalgic on this Throwback Thursday / Flashback Friday and I wanted to share this pic from about 2003 or so. I had just finished delivering an armful of antique picture frames to a few different gallery clients along Madison Avenue. The burl maple frame in my hand was destined for the last client of the day. As I was walking through the Upper East Side, a journalist stopped me to snap a pic. She was doing a story on layering for Fall and thought that my look was the right one for her article. Those of you who know me know that fashion is certainly not my forte. So my initial reaction was a bit of, ‘who me?’ She said, ‘yes you, now tell me your story’. Beyond excited to share my entrepreneurial venture in the Big Apple (and convinced that the article will lead to more clients) I gave her my best song and dance. I can’t remember my phone ringing off the hook after the story ran, but I gotta say that it sure was nice to see it in print. Oh, and that enormous vintage leather mail bag? Well I sold that to a clothing dealer from Japan. I may not be able to remember what I had for breakfast, but when it comes to antiques, that’s a whole other story! ;-) hkv

Wait a minute, you say! The King of Pop? Yes. That Michael Jackson. So here’s what happened. I came across this chair in a favorite shop and was immediately smitten. The wrought and woven cage covered in strips of woven, well worn leather. The big, boxy shape. It was cool. Barely fitting into my car, I hauled it up to my booth in Stamford. And there it sat. And then I schlepped it on Metro North (don’t ask) and carried it over to my booth on 44th Street. And there it sat. I steadfastly remained smitten even though there was no interest save my own. Then came the Pier Show. As I was dollying it to my booth I heard the pitter-patter of knee high, high heeled boots behind me. “Darling, darling” she called out in a voice oh-so-familiar “What is THAT chair?” It was at that moment I knew my infatuation had been validated. You see, this particular dealer was a friend of Michael Jackson’s and remains one of the most interesting people you can ever meet. Having an eye for the unusual, the exquisite, the out-of-the-ordinary is her speciality. And now she wanted a price. The show wasn’t even close to being open. This was set up and a great time to make deals. I rattled off a strong asking price and she jumped right on the chair as it was on the dolly. We went sailing down the aisle and I happily delivered both chair and dealer to her booth. Accepting payment and running back to set up, I put the chair out of my mind. That was ten years ago. But I still wonder. Was it some imported outdoor furniture or an amazing prototype? I’m still not sure. But that’s part of the fun of this business. ;-) hkv

So a few years ago I was in Philly and heard about an auction of antique picture frames at a local art gallery. Curious, I went to see if I could buy a couple lots. Turns out, that I bought more than a couple. I bought about 250. Freestyle. Back stroke. Doggy paddle. It was time to swim! Or in my case, tread water. And then I had to figure out just what to do with all those frames. Logistics were the easy part - rent a truck and load it. Then what? More treading water, that’s what. I got all the frames unloaded and into storage so all that was left was to sell them.



At this point I’m thinking back to an episode of Magnum P.I., you know the one where Magnum falls off his kayak and swims the opposite direction from it and has to tread water for eleven hours or so before Rick and T.C. rescue him? Yeah. I was feeling like Magnum at this point. Strong. Invincible. Water logged. Just without the mustache. I scrolled through my contacts to one dealer. A great friend who I knew could buy the whole lot. And just like that, I was once again loading the frames. But this time into his truck. So what’s the moral of the story? Jump in, baby, the water’s fine! :-) hkv

So when the time came to pick up and move to Brasil, I approached the opportunity as one would approach the ocean. Walking along the sandy shore, feeling the stability of the earth beneath my feet. Then slowly as the waves rush over my feet, enveloping my legs, I walk farther out until the ground slips away and I am supported by pure movement. And so I gave myself over to the rhythm of Rio. To her risks, beauty, power, dangers and rewards. Back in New York City I was an antique dealer buying and selling pieces I knew, in a place that I could navigate to my own clients. But in Rio I was a true risk taker, buying things I didn't know in a place that was unfamiliar and not knowing if I'd have a clientele. Weekend mornings found me at the famous flea market at Praça Quinze. I dove into the rapids without charts or guides, but always kept my eye on the shore not wanting my ego to usurp my hustle. So with limited Portuguese and limitless hustle, I met dealers who introduced me to Brazilian Modernist furniture. Who took me to their shops, brought me on house calls and sold me pieces from their private collections. Quietly and confidently I purchased a large collection of important Brazilian mid century designer furniture. Piece by piece. I shopped throughout the city, in Cidade de Deus, Tijuquinha, Santa Teresa - I wanted to explore Rio and see all that she had to show me. Each piece I bought gave me an appreciation for the designers and architects of Brasil. Those who forged a path with their passion and intellect and hustle. Ten years later I still think of the lessons this taught me. For there are those who say, stick with what you know. But I say, how can you know if you don't go. x hkv

I hit the ground running after unloading my rental truck with a dear friend (the same one who found me the sublet) and I headed over to the Chelsea Flea Market. No. I had no idea what I'd be doing there, but I did know that I wanted to be there. I wanted to learn there. I wanted to be an antique dealer. What kind? Who knew... not me. But after a light bulb moment I discovered the picture frame. That object that is at once architectural and artistic, utilitarian and beautiful, furniture and art. It had a purpose and a beauty. I was hooked. So I jumped in and bought an armful. Literally. I had them hanging from my shoulders and from my hands. Splurging on a taxi, I unloaded my new finds into the back seat and we headed off to Alphabet City. Going through the pile in my sublet railroad apartment (where the shower was next to the kitchen sink and the toilet was, well, old - but that's another story) I realized that I had inadvertently bought something good. This little Della Robbia style hand carved and gilt frame. It was wonderful. Dating it to the 1600's gave me that funny feeling in my stomach, you know butterflies. Did I really find a four hundred year old object in a NYC parking lot at 3 am? Turns out I did. And now all those years later I'm back in New York City. Back to dealing in picture frames (and art, furniture, lighting, sculpture, you get it). Back to hustling and having that butterfly feeling over and over again. It's not just about the finds but it's more about the fact that I'm back to doing what I truly love to do. Being in the City that rewards my hustle. X hkv

The family portrait is an historical document, a moment in time captured for future generations. Painted from life in his studio, my daughters and I were allowed entry into the world of an artist. The method, the mannerism, the mechanics, the movement - we were the observers and the observed. After many sittings, many hours and many movies on his computer, I'm completely honored and totally psyched to share our portrait with you. Some of my friends will recognize the green jungle print jacket that I wear to most 'fancy' engagements. Seemed only fitting that I wore it for our portrait. This portrait is currently on view at the Sweet Lorraine Gallery in Red Hook, Brooklyn in a show called INTO VIEW until the 31st. I hope you'll visit the show to see Clintel's work as well as the work of several other incredibly talented artists. After the 31st, you'll have to come over to our apartment to see the painting. ;-) hkv

You see, I had sold something to another dealer and he paid me with this painting. When I got it, it was barely hanging on to it's replaced stretcher. It had a super dry surface. It was in serious need of restoration. It was unsigned. It had no original frame to aid in its attribution. It was a mess and a mystery. And I loved it! I jumped at the chance to go back to the barter system. I thought of famous artists who paid their tabs with paintings, drawings, scribbles on napkins. As I saw it I was way ahead of the game. Then came the restoration. With a light touch, my restorer edge lined the painting and built a new stretcher. Now with a fresh coat of varnish, the painting was ready to hang. No longer a mess, but still a mystery. Have you Googled "Dutch+still+life+painting" lately? I have. And let me tell you, they all look alike. I know I'm not supposed to say this, but my eye is not honed to see those subtle differences. Yet. Is this 19th Century? 18th Century? Did I totally luck out and buy, um trade, a 17th Century Dutch still life painting? The short answer is I don't know. But the clues are there. The outdoor setting. The combination of grapes and flowers. The little lizards walking around. The urn itself. Even the types of flowers. It's all there. And for now it's all gonna stay there. Or more to the point, in my hallway. As another work in my favorite unsigned mystery collection category, I'll continue to Google the keywords until I get them just right. It will be then when the artist, their style, their technique becomes so blindingly obvious that I'll wonder how I didn't see it years earlier. ;-) hkv

This is what the antiques and art business was like not too long ago. I'm not talking about some old forgotten time. I'm talking about ten or fifteen years ago. But let us not lament the past, let us enjoy it. Case in point, a picture frame that I enjoyed for many years. I purchased the Newcomb-Macklin produced frame with two other frames that day when I ran into the downtown armory and made a bee line for the booth of a fellow art and frame dealer. The two other frames were wide molding, hand carved and gold gilt examples perfect for important paintings. But this one. This was the emotional purchase. This skinny molding, polychrome finish over a rippled gesso profile was all emotion. I promptly sold the other two and hung this one on the wall of my old West Village apartment. And there it stayed for many years until one day in May. I thought it was time to let it go, so I brought it to the antiques show in Brimfield. And as I was hanging it in my tent, Steven Gambrel walked in and bought it. Just like that. I'm still wondering where this frame has wound up and I'm always expecting to see it in the pages of a shelter magazine or more likely here on Instagram. ;-) hkv