When is a Signature Not a Signature

Mellow couldn't remember Thurn's first name, but recalled he was "short, pudgy, balding with a fringe of gray hair, forever chewing on a mangled cigar..." Mellow pronounced his teacher "disappointing," but noted that Thurn did wear a beret "... and that was surely the badge of authenticity." - excerpt from Essex County Chronicles: Years before WWII a tumultuous time for trio of Gloucester artists.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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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

Famous Places, Unknown Artists

I’ll be the first one to say that I’m a work in progress. Not long ago I did not see progress - only stagnation. There was no fluidity or movement, only a sense of being locked in place. And the place where I was, was not the place I wanted to be. But how do we move when we feel locked in? We pick the lock. We cut the lock. We break the lock. It takes strength, determination and focus to move. Most of all it takes direction. Where are you now and where do you want to be?

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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.

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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.

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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

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What If Questions

When I was a kid I was told not to ask ‘what if’ questions because they would only fill me with doubt and fear. I carried this explanation with me for many years until one day, rather than asking someone else, I asked myself, WHAT IF? And instead of being filled with doubt or fear, I was filled with confidence and strength.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

Going Deep, But When Can I Exhale

Is there still a place for the pearl diver? One who risks it all against incredible odds to find that illustrious and elusive treasure. Yes. No.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

Let the Sun Shine In

I’m thinking of the sun. The one with beautiful rays that glisten like gold. The one that reflects all that looks upon it. The one that I bought at Praça Quinze on a very sunny day. I had been at the flea market for some time already and was taking another walk through before heading back to my apartment with a car full of finds. The bright sun hit the mirror just right and the piece caught my eye. Scientists tell us to not look directly into the sun, but I was captivated. And a moment too late.

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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?”



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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.

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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

Ride 'Em, Cowgirl

Being an antique dealer is an exercise in security (or insecurity) everyday. Heck, being a person is an exercise in this vulnerability. As a dealer my taste is constantly questioned or praised depending on the situation. I often ask myself if the customer is always right as I was told everyday as a waitress. That’s where I learned the ‘kill them with kindness’ mindset. But sometimes that kindness can be mistaken for weakness by folks.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 .

Whatever You Do, Don't Turn Around

“Não virá. Têm um carro atrás agentes com dóis carás usando balaclavas e segurando R-15’s.” I spoke in Portuguese to not alert the camera crew from Vice Guide To Everything who had accompanied me to City of God so I could pick up a sofa from the upholsterer.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

Buy Low, But Don't Be Cheap

This is a new old story that we’ve all heard before. Buy when the market is low and sell when the market is high. But if this is your sole impetus to be in the antique business then you’re missing the point. Well half the point because we still have to eat.

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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

A Tale of Two Carlo's

Second Floor: vintage Italian lighting and nasty looks from Q train riders. Well excuse me for wanting to class up the place. Or maybe I was being cheap. Probably the latter.

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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.

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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.

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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

Hidden Messages

One morning about 7 years ago I came across this painting in the Garage (the indoor parking garage at the 26th Street flea market) in a booth of a favorite vendor. But he wasn’t just one of my favorites, he was also a favorite of my daughters.

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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.

Is That A Marker In Your Pocket

It was a warm summer morning at the Chelsea flea market back in 2003. By the time this story begins, I had already purchased an armful of fantastic antique picture frames that were soon to be sold to the top galleries along Madison Avenue. But let me tell you instead about this hat.

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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’.

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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.

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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’.

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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.

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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

From the Flea Market to Central Park South

This story begins well before dawn. 4 am signaled the close of the night club where I worked and the start of my next job sourcing antiques at the NYC flea market. But this particular early morning happened on a Wednesday and I wasn’t in New York, but rather Lambertville, NJ.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

You Spin Me Round

Everything comes full circle. Sure, we've all heard that before and it's because it's true. We do kind of wind up where we started. Sixteen years ago I had arrived in New York City with $600, a six month sublet that I had paid in full and no job. A perfect trifecta for a winning result.

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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

Martha, Martha, Martha

It was the winter of 2004 when I bought this #painting I had been in New York City just shy of two years and had established myself as a dealer in picture frames. As a frame dealer, I really didn't think I had any business buying a painting. But to be fair I didn't buy this painting. I bought the incredible modernist frame that surrounded it.

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I can still picture it. A super wide, stepped molding with a gesso finish. This style remains to this day my all time favorite. Matter of fact I bought three of those profiles yesterday but that's another story. So when the dealer told me how much for the painting, I knew I could pop off the frame and sell it at a profit. So the painting would just be a little extra. Turned out to be a lot extra. This portrait of dancer Martha Graham was painted by American artist Paul Meltsner. Back then I didn't know Meltsner's work nor did I have a means to research anything before I bought it. It was strictly buy with your eye as my mantra. And so I sold the frame to one of my off Madison Avenue gallery clients and the painting was in my West Village apartment. Till one day when I thought I'd better look up the signature. Well you could say I was surprised. I immediately sent an email to Sothebys American paintings department and they put me in touch with the Arcade. How many of you remember Sotheby's Arcade? It was a great auction division for good paintings. And this was a good painting. Gotta say that the Arcade was my go to sales venue for this and more than a few other unintentional painting purchases. Nowadays that middle market has all but disappeared. But let us not lament the past. Simply enjoy the lessons it taught us. I learned a good one that day. ;-) hkv

The Brute

This is an excerpt of something I wrote in 2011. "For those of you who set foot in New York City within the last 30 years or so you have probably seen The Brute ... He's the creation of famous NYC artist Robert Loughlin ... He's been in all the right places at all the right times.

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He was buying important mid century furniture before it was important ... He was a staple at the Chelsea flea market ... There are stories about Robert ... For now, let's talk about the one that I know best ... It was an unusually cold day in early spring 2002. I was making the rounds at the flea market. Robert was one the person who I noticed first. You couldn't miss him. Booming voice. Calling everyone 'girlfriend'. Standing at the back of his pick up with some amazing finds that all the other dealers would fight over. It was as if he were holding court and teaching school at the same time. This morning I had brought with me a chair I found on the street ... When I asked him if he'd paint my chair he quickly agreed. He did what any dealer would do and examined the chair. Joking, he made a few references to famous designers but I said that I didn't care who made the chair I wanted him to paint it. The chair disappeared into the back of his pick up truck and we went about our shopping in the early hours. Me with my coffee and Robert with his felt tip marker and eye for detail. I felt like a superstar when I would hang out with him ... So, the day finally came. Robert walked up to me and said that he had brought my chair ... The other dealers seemed envious and made the immediate assumption that I would try and flip it right then and there ... I placed it under a vendor's table and kept it out of sight until I was ready to head home ... It became my desk chair ... I felt as though I had elevated my business just with this chair alone ... He was a truly nice person ... I will always cherish the chair he made for me and remember fondly the fun times. ;-) hkv

A Love Letter to the NYC Flea Market

Ever since I moved to New York City in 2002, I have been an early morning (well before dawn) shopper at the flea markets along 6th Avenue.  By the time I had arrived on the scene, and I do mean scene, there were a few different parking lots and an indoor parking garage packed with hundreds of dealers set up selling every imaginable treasure, and some trash, you could ever hope to find.  Celebrities and rarities.  Sure, I was told of the good old days in the 80's and 90's, when there were many more lots and even better choices, but this was my time and I made the most of it.  
 
I was the new kid on the block and I had to learn the ropes quickly.  Arriving at 3:30 in the morning with flashlight in hand, I was among the group who would pounce on the cars and vans that pulled into the parking lots.  Shoving and pushing among people who five minutes earlier were seen politely having conversation and drinking coffee together, but there are no friendships here.  This is an all out battle for the next big thing to come out of that vehicle.  This flea market lived up to its reputation.  It was the place to find a real ( fill in the blank ) for $50.  It was the place to see ( fill in celebrity name ) shopping for their favorite obsession.  It was the place to learn.  And that is exactly what I did.  But now, let's back up a bit to that snowy day in February of 2002...
 
I drove my U-Haul packed with whatever belongings I thought were important enough to bring to New York.  Arriving in Alphabet City, Avenue B near 12th Street, I called my dear friend from high school and he came over from his job at a nearby bar (Beauty Bar) and helped me to unpack into the sublet apartment he found for me.  I had the strength of ten thanks to my excitement over being here.  With the truck unpacked and the U-Haul returned, I went back to my new apartment (at least for the next six months) and set my alarm for 3:00am and tried to catch a quick nap. It was pointless.  So I hailed a taxi and headed to the flea market.  The famous corner address of 26th and 6th (the flea market) and my apartment address were the only two I knew.  That was enough for me.
 
Walking up to those lots was like walking into a movie.  The city was alive with people going to and coming from night clubs, dinners, premieres, there were delivery trucks and taxi cabs rumbling up the Avenues, and at the flea market there were people with flashlights running from vendor to vendor in hopes of scoring.  So, I jumped right in.  I was amazed to see the deals being struck.  The boxes unpacked.  The tables set up.  It was a well orchestrated chaos.  It was perfect.  There was arguing over who had the item, then over the price, then offers poured in, then it was over and everyone moved on to the next item.  This was repeated countless times in the early hours of the morning.  This was the start of my education.  Luckily, a few dealers clued me in to how the flea market operates.  There were rules...  
 
There is an unwritten rule book, some of those rules I will share with you now.  Rule #1 - Don't let go!  If you are holding something and you are considering it as a purchase, by no means release your grasp or the next person who is waiting rather impatiently by your elbow will swoop in and scoop it up.  Rule #1a - Don't dilly dally.  Make up your mind quickly.  Rule #2 - Demand 1st Refusal.  If someone is looking at something and you are interested, then you must yell out "I want first refusal".  This will ensure that the other buyer either pulls out his wallet or hands you the item.  This is no time to be shy.  Rule #3 - Be there first.  This one is practically impossible to follow.  What time is early enough?  As I spent more time at the flea market, I realized that some buyers were arriving earlier, much earlier.  So, in order to be there when that great item is brought out, you have to be there early.  
 
And the rules continue, but let's get back to the action.  So the years passed by and during this time I had become known as a serious buyer of antique and period picture frames.  I thought it was best to specialize in one area, then grow from there.  This specialization allowed to me to develop myself as a knowledgeable buyer and create a solid reputation.  Vendors began to hold things for me.  They began to call me the night before to tell me what they were bringing.  I was beginning to support myself from buying and selling at the flea market.  I created a list of clients from the Who's Who of Madison Avenue art galleries.  I would come home from the market some time in the late morning and photograph my purchases.  Then compose emails and send them out to the gallery owners.  I became a reliable source for amazing frames and was honored to be selling them along Madison Avenue.  I would take the subway to my client's galleries loaded with armfuls of frames.  It was definitely a sight to see.  This was the start of a dream come true.  
 
And this brings us to today.  I've grown my business and expanded into furniture, furnishings, lighting and art.  Now with a booth at Center 44 in Manhattan and a presence on 1stdibs, I have a couple great outlets for selling.  Sure, I'll still throw something over my shoulder and bring it to a client, for this is my true essence.  You can take the girl out of the flea market, but you can't take the flea market out of the girl!  The antiques business is my passion.  Gentrification and high rises have eaten up the outdoor parking lots once home to hundreds of vendors each and every weekend.  The flea market is now relegated to two levels of an indoor parking garage and the clock is ticking.  Sure, it is still one of my most favorite things to do on a weekend, but the writing is on the wall and it's a bittersweet ending.  The parking garage was purchased a few years back for over 40 million dollars.  Surely those developers aren't interested in maintaining the flea market just for us.  The deadline has come and gone several times already and now the flea market is on a month to month lease.  Where everyone will wind up is still unclear.    
 
New York City is one of the greatest cities in the world and must have a great flea market.  For me, this was the place where I was able to begin my business.  Where I was encouraged to dream of finding a real score and making it big.  Where I've met some of my best clients.  Where I will always have fond memories.  To this day, I can look around my apartment and see things I purchased there years ago.  Each has its own story and memories.  These I will cherish forever.