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The One Percent. There’s not many of us out here. The loners, individuals, characters, hustlers. The ones who are willing to tape merchandise to the roof of our minivan and drive to the middle of a field and then set it all up for sale bright and early at 4am. Yeah. The One Percent. But before I get into this week’s email, let me come clean about the past few weeks. I was too busy running on fumes to afford myself the luxury of sitting still for a few hours to compose some semblance of thoughts to share with you. Why not, you ask. Well, I’ll tell you. There was a post Mother’s Day brunch twelve (actually fourteen, thank you Quantico area traffic) drive to Philadelphia. Followed up by a five hour drive to Brimfield a couple days later. Not to be outdone by those miles, the return trip to Philly had to be made through NYC at rush hour - I mean who doesn’t love the Cross Bronx? Only to find myself on the Turnpike for a drive to the Island of Manhattan and back again a few days after that. And after those miles driven for a couple amazing antique shows / flea markets, I headed back to Georgia after a stop in New Jersey on the following Monday morning. 3am on Tuesday. That’s when I finally arrived at my home. I knew my email *should* go out in three hours, but I simply didn’t have it in me. And so when I finally lifted my head off the pillow at 9am, I asked my daughters if they’d like to go to Miami the next day. Tickets purchased. Apartment booked. Toes in the sand. And a glorious week of sun, sand and surf. Unplugged. So yes, I had run myself ragged and needed that week. But now I’m back. Tan, fed and happy. Ready to discuss The One Percent.

That was the view from my hotel room. And if you too drive a Honda Odyssey, then you’ll recognize that window shape. Wait. Why was I waking up in the back of a minivan? Had someone kidnapped me in my own car? Nope. I was simply saving a few bucks and a lot of time by being right on the field. Brimfield, that is. The thrice yearly antique event in Massachusetts. Setting up, shopping and pretty much just being at Brimfield puts a smile on my face. It’s early (EARLY) mornings, long days with wild weather and lots of friendly faces. This past May was no exception. Well, except for the argument I got into over a couple rocks. Scholar’s Rocks to be more specific. But before I tell you about this argument, let me share one from the previous week that was also over a rock, yes another Scholar’s Rock. I was at the monthly Scott Antique Show in Atlanta. Working for and shopping with my old boss from New York City. Three box trucks and way too many cardboard moving boxes to count are brought down from Manhattan to Atlanta every month. I have the pleasure to unload a couple of those trucks and unbox a couple hundred of those boxes. Remember way back on May 6th when I told you that I love what I do and I do what I love? This is no exception. And so, late on opening day I unpacked a heavy stone complete with its own carved stand. I immediately yelled out for a price. Harold, my old boss and the one who brings all the stuff down, unceremoniously ignored me. So I set the piece to my side and continued unpacking, unwrapping and unboxing. When from the corner of my eye I noticed a hand moving towards the item on my side. The one I was waiting for a price. I shot a glance and politely informed the personal space invader that the piece in question was not available to him until I (potentially) passed on purchasing it. Again, back to work. And again, this boundry crosser was moving just a bit too close for comfort. This time it wasn’t a glance, but more of a side eye. The tone was still polite, but with a touch of Philly. I picked up the rock and placed it on my other side. Back to work. Now, this guy takes a photo. No, not of me. Of this rock. I shook my head and continued working. Little did I know that he had scampered off to ask a price on it from Harold. Luckily for me, Harold does not live in the 21st Century and will not give a price on anything from a photograph. But unlucky for the guy, I was the one he was trying to fool. When I saw Harold approaching, I took it as a sign to ask again for a price. But he seemed confused. That guy was also asking a price. Oh no he didn’t. That’s when all my Philly came out and I shared with him my feelings on his attempt to play me. Harold loves drama. A smirk came across his face and he said that each of us could ‘bid’ and who ever makes the best offer, well then they can buy it. Harold called out the first amount. I immediately agreed. Crickets. Silence. The sneaky sneak was apparently out of the game before he played. The Scholar’s Rock was mine. But what I even had, was an absolute mystery to me. Still kinda is. I guess that’s why I bought two more the following week.

Back to the first argument I was telling you about which actually happened after the argument I just relayed. I’ll set the scene. 4am or so. In the middle of a field. Still a little dark. There’s a group of weary antique dealers huddled around the back of a box truck. The driver of said truck opened the roll up door. That’s when all us dealers developed 20/20, X-ray, infrared vision. Peering into the packed truck. Trying to make sense out the silhouettes of blanket wrapped furniture. Wondering which of the myriad boxes would contain our needle-in-the-haystack find. The air is crisp and cool. The dewy grass is making me happy I wore shell toe Adidas. As each of us jostled for position, we sharpened our wits and our elbows. The day, um before dawn morning, started slow for me as far as purchases were concerned. But remember (again) that May 6th weekly email when I told you about my newly found choosiness. My editing. My buying less and gaining more. Back to the predawn shopping and post dawn argument. Pickins had been slim. For more than just me. Tensions amongst the ever growing crowd of dealers were increasing. Except for me. I knew that whatever was meant for me, would be there for me. And so I waited. Continually moving with the next box as it was unpacked, I ensured myself of a front row seat at all times. You know the saying, ‘you don’t have to get ready if you stay ready’ - well that’s one of many mantras for me. That’s when I saw a familiar shape still wrapped in the unprinted newsprint. Using that 20/20, X-ray, infrared vision. I caught a glimpse of a somewhat familiar patina, a craggy shape. “Harold, how much is this?!”. Oh, didn’t I mention that I was shopping with my old boss again? Yup. Same choice finds from the Island of Manhattan. Same drama, too. “Oh, you interested in this Heather?”. Same smirk. I replied in the affirmative and was told that there was a second one of ‘those rocks’ in another box. And then I was told that the same buying / bidding scheme would be followed. The rocks would go to the highest bidder even though at the present time I was the only one expressing any interest. Then the second rock was unpacked. I reiterated my desire for a price. And Harold reiterated just how the pricing would reveal the highest ‘bidder’. I reminded Harold (in vain) that there were no other buyers. And as the words slipped from my lips he showed up. The one who thought that he was the only buyer for anything of Chinese origin. Don’t worry, he is not the guy from Atlanta - pretty sure I scared that guy off for a good long time. No. This buyer, we’ll call him David, honed in on the two rocks within seconds of arrival. “Okay, Harold, I’ll buy these”, he declared. Oh no he didn’t. “David, you’re actually behind me. That is, of course, only if I pass”. It may have been those words spoken by yours truly or perhaps it was the aggressively pulled top knot hairstyle he wore, but the veins in David’s forehead began to pop. The smirk on Harold’s face grew wider. The veins on David’s forehead bulged more. I waited. And while I waited I sharpened my elbows. David told Harold the highest price he would pay. Harold looked over at me. I reminded him that I had asked the price of the two rocks first. More veins. Harold did not waste a moment. Pot stirred. Drama ensued. He now had two interested parties. And as any auction aficionado or Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock fan knows, it takes two. Let the games begin. Harold started the fun by throwing a number out there. David quickly agreed by proclaiming once again that he would buy them at that price. But I had other plans. And so I upped the ante. David now had little beads of sweat along the hairline of his top knot even though the air remained crisp and cool. He was there to go home with whatever valuable Chinese objects he wanted. I mean every other dealer who sold anything Chinese wanted David as their buyer because he bought the best. David met my number and raised it. Harold had a bidding war on his hands. I bid again. Allowing no space in between his offer and mine. David was slow to bid again. Angry that anyone, but clearly and especially me, challenge his authority. His offer was muffled by his terse lips and clenched teeth. I, on the other hand, replied rather quickly with my offer. A lilt in my voice as the number passed through my toothy grin. We went back and forth a few more times. Then came a few choice words in Chinese directed at yours truly. My only experience with the language is buried deep in reruns of Ni-Hao, Kai Lan that I watched with my daughters over fifteen years ago. Even with my limited Chinese, well, everyone knows when they’re being told to go ƒµ©ß themselves in another language. I didn’t take it personally though. The antiques business is not for the faint of heart or the thin of skin. Anyway, I was now the proud owner of three rocks I knew nothing about. Three rocks, Two arguments, One percent. Let the games begin. ❤️ hkv

Because that’s what we all need. The trifecta of luck, risk and skill. When in the perfect alignment, the three become one yielding success. However, a bit too much of any one will tip the scales oh so unfavorably. Let’s take a look at luck. In my business, buying and selling antiques, there’s always a bit of luck involved. I learned this early on at the Chelsea Flea Market in New York City. 3am arrival times at the series of surface parking lots along the intersection of 6th Avenue and 26th Street offered myriad choices. Which would I search first? And once that die had been cast, should I turn left or right. As luck would have it, I made some good choices as well as some bad choices. Cutting my teeth among some of the sharpest dealers, I managed to snag a few scores while also being edged out by the luck of the draw on more than one occasion. But leaving it all to luck? No thanks. To me, assigning my future to chance is nothing more than laziness and irresponsibility. So, yeah. I acknowledge the importance of luck and I’m always thankful for it. But there are other ingredients as well.

And next up we have risk. The dance partner who will either twirl you all night long or drop you flat on the dance floor. Is there any way to tempt fate, but just a little. Absolutely. Because too much risk in our mixture will surely ruin the outcome and lead to spectacular failure. And too little risk? Well, why even bother. Risk must come with a side of margarine. Oops, sorry. That’s margin. Some wiggle room for error. The bigger the risk, the bigger the margin. Allowing this breathing room will lead to restful sleep and a more even temper. I have rolled the dice more times than I care to count. Risking my rent for a painting or object. But having that margin, in my case a job at a nightclub many (many) moons ago afforded me the cushion I needed. Today my margin is in auction sales which provide a somewhat steady stream of revenue. Granted, it’s still a game of chance with luck and risk but this brings us to our next topic, skill.

Knowing which pieces to auction and which to sell at a show takes a certain amount of skill. Heck, just being in this business and ‘knowing’ what to buy takes skill. Yes, the quote marks were intentional. “How do you know what to buy” is a question I’ve heard thousands of times. The answer? I buy what I like. And over the past twenty odd years, I’ve honed and refined my eye. You could say that I’ve developed some skill. And some is the operative word. This business is in constant flux. What’s old is new again and what was an easy sale is now guaranteed to go to the old folks home with you. The answer is that there is no answer. Buying what I like has taught me to go with my gut and to constantly question what it is that I like. With that authenticity comes a realness. With that realness comes a confidence. And that is the beginning of skill. Because I feel good about some painting or sculpture, I am curious to learn more about it. But too much skill? Oh that can cost you. I have learned this lesson more than once. A favorite story is when I bought a cheap repro frame for $750 because I ‘knew’ it was the real deal, Louis XIII. It wasn’t.

So stay humble my friends. Grease those wheels with plenty of margarine, I mean margins, to allow the wiggle room. Keep those scales in balance and understand that every success won’t last and neither will every failure.

Oh. And last week. Yes. It was a blank from me. No excuses. I simply had nothing left in me to share. Nonstop travel, weeks on the road, thousands of miles driven, trucks loaded and unloaded - the life of this antique dealer is a full one. Add in the single mom status, Peter Pan attitude and an I Can Do It mantra for a complete picture of why my tank was empty last week. I’m looking at it as a blank slate if you will. A delving into a Less Is More exploration. So what’s on the horizon for HKFA? A whole lot more of less.
❤️ hkv