The art of letting go: when a work leaves your collection
The golden light of the studio filtered through the large picture windows, caressing the canvases hung on the white walls. Among them, that small Soulages painting you bought ten years ago in a Parisian gallery, just after signing your first major contract. Back then, its deep black had fascinated y
By Artedusa
••10 min read
The art of letting go: when a work leaves your collection
The golden light of the studio filtered through the large picture windows, caressing the canvases hung on the white walls. Among them, that small Soulages painting you bought ten years ago in a Parisian gallery, just after signing your first major contract. Back then, its deep black had fascinated you, like an abyss in which to lose yourself. Today, it still hangs in the same spot, but your gaze has changed. A new artistic project obsesses you—a monumental Kapoor sculpture, a rare Louise Bourgeois drawing—and your budget won’t stretch. So a question arises, almost sacrilegious: should you sell to buy?
This isn’t just a financial calculation. It’s an intimate heartbreak, almost a betrayal. Collectors know it well: a work of art is never just an object. It’s a fragment of time, a crystallized emotion. Yet the art market has its rules, its rituals, its secrets. And sometimes, to grow, you have to know how to let go.
The first farewell: when history becomes currency
Imagine the Duke of Richelieu in 1665, contemplating his collection dispersed at auction. Poussin paintings, antique sculptures, illuminated manuscripts—everything that had once been the pride of his cabinet of curiosities, sold to settle debts. At the time, no one spoke of an "art market," yet works already changed hands like assets. The Renaissance had its Medicis, trading Raphaels for political favors; the nineteenth century had its Durand-Ruels, buying thousands of Monets to resell at a profit. Today, the mechanisms are the same, but the stakes have shifted.
Take the example of Salvator Mundi, that Christ attributed to Leonardo da Vinci, sold for $450 million in 2017. No one really knows where it is now—some whisper it’s rotting in a Saudi vault. Yet this sale marked a turning point: art is no longer just an object of contemplation, but a speculative asset, a symbol of power. And if you own a work, even a modest one, you hold a piece of that history. The question is no longer if you’ll resell it, but how to do so without losing your soul.
The market, that theater of shadows and light
In the hushed back room of a gallery in the Marais, a dealer examines your Soulages with a magnifying glass. His fingers brush the stretcher, check the signature, scrutinize the paint’s craquelure. "It’s a fine piece," he murmurs. "But the market’s saturated right now. I can offer you 80,000 euros, maybe 90,000 if I find the right buyer." Your heart sinks. You’d hoped for double.
This is where it all plays out. The art market isn’t an exact science—it’s a ballet of desires, strategies, and chance. A Zao Wou-Ki canvas might fetch 500,000 euros in Paris and triple that in Hong Kong, where Chinese collectors vie for abstract landscapes. A Basquiat drawing, bought for $50,000 in 2010, could reach $110 million in 2022—if it lands with the right bidder, the one who sees in it far more than an investment.
The players in this theater are many:
Galleries, which act as discreet matchmakers, taking 20 to 50 percent commission to find the ideal buyer.
Auction houses, where auctioneers orchestrate carefully staged performances, turning each bid into a spectacle.
Online platforms, where algorithms decide in seconds whether your work is worth 1,000 or 100,000 euros.
The "flippers," speculators who buy to resell within six months, riding trends like traders on the stock market.
And then there’s you. The collector, torn between sentimental attachment and financial reason. How do you navigate this labyrinth without losing yourself?
The ritual of separation: authenticate, evaluate, negotiate
The first step is the cruelest: you must desecrate the work. Remove it from its emotional frame and treat it as an object. One morning, you take down your Soulages and bring it to an expert. The man, a veteran of the market, examines the canvas under UV light, hunts for pentimenti, compares the signature to those in his catalogue raisonné. "Authentic," he concludes. "But be careful—the condition is average. A botched restoration could slash its value by 30 percent."
Authentication is non-negotiable. Without it, your work is just a scrap of canvas or paper. Fakes abound—Modiglianis churned out in Italian workshops, counterfeit Basquiats sold on Instagram. In 2011, New York’s Knoedler Gallery peddled $80 million worth of fake Rothkos, Pollocks, and Motherwells, complete with forged certificates of authenticity. The victims? Naive collectors, gullible museums.
Once authenticated, the evaluation begins. The tools are many:
Artprice, which tracks auction results.
Artnet, which monitors real-time transactions.
Independent experts, like those from the French Syndicate of Professional Art Experts (SFEPA), who provide free estimates.
But the real work starts after. You must choose the right sales channel. Auctions? Risky, but potentially lucrative. A gallery? More discreet, but less profitable. An online platform? Fast, but impersonal. Each option has its advantages, pitfalls, and hidden costs.
Storytelling, or the art of giving a soul to an object
One winter evening, in a townhouse on rue de Varenne, a collector proudly displays a small Picasso drawing. "It’s from Gertrude Stein’s collection," he explains. "She bought it directly from the artist in 1906, while he was painting Les Demoiselles d’Avignon." Around him, the guests hold their breath. It’s no longer just a sketch—it’s a fragment of history, a direct link to one of the twentieth century’s geniuses.
That’s the power of storytelling. A work without a story is like a book without a title: it loses part of its value. Auction houses understand this well. At Christie’s or Sotheby’s, catalogs don’t just describe paintings—they tell lives, dramas, secrets. Van Gogh’s Sunflowers? "Painted in 1888, when the artist, broke and desperate, dreamed of an artists’ commune in Arles." Munch’s The Scream? "An allegory of modern anxiety, inspired by a panic attack on a bridge in Oslo."
Your Soulages has a story, too. Maybe you bought it on a rainy evening in Paris, in a gallery in the Latin Quarter. Maybe it reminds you of a period in your life, an emotion, a turning point. These details, however intimate, can make all the difference. A buyer won’t pay 100,000 euros for a black canvas—but they might pay that for your black canvas, the one that witnessed a decade of your existence.
The backstage of auctions: when art becomes a combat sport
The auction room at Christie’s in Paris is a theater. The lights are dimmed, the seats upholstered in red velvet, the atmosphere electric. At the center, the auctioneer, microphone in hand, launches the bids with a stentorian voice. "100,000 euros for this Soulages—who’ll go higher?" In the room, hands rise discreetly. Online, clicks pile up. In minutes, the price doubles, triples.
Auctions are a spectacle, but also a science. Auction houses use tried-and-true techniques to drive up prices:
The anchoring effect: starting high to influence bidders.
The scarcity effect: "Last work available in this series!"
Guarantees: an anonymous investor ensures a floor price, even if the work doesn’t sell.
But beware: auctions are a dangerous game. In 2018, Sotheby’s was convicted of price manipulation. "Fake bidders" drove up prices to create the illusion of demand. The result? Collectors paid fortunes for overvalued works.
If you choose this route, prepare yourself. Pick the right moment—May and November in New York are the most lucrative months. Write a compelling catalog entry. And above all, set a reserve price, the threshold below which you refuse to sell. Once the hammer falls, there’s no going back.
The pitfalls of the market: fakes, frauds, and other disillusions
One morning, you receive an email from a certain "Dr. Müller," an "expert in contemporary art." He offers to buy your Soulages for 120,000 euros, in cash. "No fees, no taxes," he specifies. You smile. You know it’s a scam.
The art market is riddled with traps. Fakes, first—Modiglianis churned out in clandestine workshops, counterfeit NFTs sold on shady platforms. In 2017, 21 fake Modiglianis were exhibited in Genoa before being exposed. The victims? Gullible collectors, naive museums.
Then there are the "sleepers," undervalued works that lie dormant in flea markets or local auctions. In 2014, a collector bought a painting attributed to a "follower of Caravaggio" for 1,500 euros. Five years later, experts confirmed it was a real Caravaggio. The canvas sold for $110 million.
And then there are the scandals. Works looted during World War II, resold without scruples. NFTs that collapse overnight. Galleries that vanish overnight, taking millions of euros’ worth of consigned works with them.
To avoid these pitfalls, one rule: caution. Always verify provenance. Distrust offers that seem too good to be true. And above all, surround yourself with trusted experts.
The final act: when the work finds a new home
The day of the sale arrives. Your Soulages hangs in the auction room, under the spotlights. The bids climb, climb… until they reach 110,000 euros. The hammer falls. You’ve sold.
But it’s not over. You still have to handle the logistics: insurance, transport, customs fees. A work of art is a fragile object, traveling in custom-made wooden crates, protected by experts. One mistake, and disaster strikes—like that Warhol that fell from a truck in 2019, halving its value.
And then there’s the aftermath. The empty space on the wall, the absence of that canvas that had accompanied you for years. Some collectors keep a photo of the work, like a keepsake. Others immediately buy a new piece to fill the void.
Because that’s the paradox of reselling: you sell to buy, you buy to sell. The art market is an endless cycle, where works pass from hand to hand, collection to collection, like shooting stars. And you? You’re just one link in that chain.
Epilogue: the art of collecting, or the art of growing
A year later, you step into a gallery in the Marais. In the back, a Kapoor sculpture catches your eye. Its black mirror absorbs the light, just like your Soulages once did. You smile. You know this piece, too, may one day leave your collection. But for now, it’s yours.
Collecting is accepting this cycle. It’s knowing that works never truly belong to us—they pass through us, like transient visitors. And sometimes, to welcome the new, you have to say goodbye to the old.
So when the time comes to sell, remember: it’s not a betrayal. It’s a step. A way to grow, to reinvent yourself, to make room for new emotions.
And who knows? Maybe in fifty years, your Soulages will resurface at an auction, with a new story to tell. Maybe somewhere, a collector will pay a fortune for that canvas that once crossed your life.
Because in the end, that’s the magic of art: it outlives us. Always.
The art of letting go: when a work leaves your collection | Buying Guide
