The breath of the auction: when art becomes a game of chess
Picture the scene: a Christie’s auction room in New York, on an autumn evening in 2017. The dimmed lights cast long shadows across the panelled walls, while a hundred pairs of eyes fix on a painting mounted on an easel, guarded like a relic. Salvator Mundi, attributed to Leonardo da Vinci, awaits it
By Artedusa
••9 min read
The breath of the auction: when art becomes a game of chess
Picture the scene: a Christie’s auction room in New York, on an autumn evening in 2017. The dimmed lights cast long shadows across the panelled walls, while a hundred pairs of eyes fix on a painting mounted on an easel, guarded like a relic. Salvator Mundi, attributed to Leonardo da Vinci, awaits its fate. Bids leap in ten-million-dollar increments, each offer a dramatic twist. When the gavel finally falls at $450.3 million, a stunned silence fills the room. No one yet knows that this painting, once hung in a modest New Orleans apartment, will become the centre of a global controversy—or that its buyer, a Saudi prince, will vanish it into the limbo of a yacht or a Swiss bunker.
Buying art at auction is to enter a world where passion, strategy, and sometimes madness intertwine. It is not merely a transaction, but a dance with history, where every painting, every sculpture carries the scars of time and the dreams of those who once owned it. For a beginner, this world can feel intimidating, even hostile. Yet behind the spectacle of multimillion-dollar sales lie unchanging rules, pitfalls to avoid, and unsuspected joys—like holding in your hands a work that has crossed centuries.
The ghosts of vanished collections
There was a time when auction houses were not the temples of luxury we know today, but places of mourning and liquidation. In the eighteenth century, when James Christie founded his firm in London, he mostly sold the libraries of deceased aristocrats. Then came the French Revolution, and with it, an unprecedented flood of artworks. The royal collections, seized by the Republic, were scattered at auction, like that of the Duke of Orléans in 1792. Imagine: Rubens, Rembrandts, Poussins, torn from palace walls to be sold to eager dealers or foreign collectors. These sales were not social events, but scenes of legalised plunder, where art became currency in a world in turmoil.
Today, the ghosts of those collections still haunt the catalogues. Take Vermeer’s Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window, rediscovered in 2021 after being misattributed to a minor painter for decades. Its story reads like a novel: stolen by the Nazis, hidden in an Austrian castle, then returned to its rightful owners before resurfacing on the market. When it sold at Sotheby’s for $30 million, it wasn’t just a canvas changing hands, but a piece of European history, with its tragedies and rebirths.
These tales remind us of an essential truth: behind every work lies a life, sometimes many. And it is this life, as much as the beauty of the painting, that determines its value.
The game of estimates: when numbers lie
In the hushed world of auction houses, estimates are a science as precise as divination. A Christie’s or Sotheby’s specialist spends hours studying a canvas, comparing its dimensions, condition, provenance, and above all, its pedigree. Yet despite all this expertise, surprises are common. In 2013, a small painting attributed to a follower of Rembrandt was estimated at £5,000 to £8,000. When the gavel fell, it was for £1.5 million—the work was in fact an authentic Rembrandt, Portrait of a Man with a Grey Beard, painted around 1632.
Why such a gap? Because the art market is less rational than it appears. Estimates don’t always reflect a work’s true value, but what experts think collectors will be willing to pay. And sometimes, bidders get swept up in the fever. In 2018, a David Hockney painting, Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures), sold for $90.3 million, shattering its high estimate of $50 million. The reason? A battle between two billionaires, one of them the American collector Kenneth Griffin, determined to win.
For a beginner, these discrepancies can feel discouraging. How do you know if a work is worth its price? The answer lies in two words: due diligence. Before raising your hand, you must study the catalogues raisonnés, consult museum archives, and above all, be wary of estimates that seem too low. In this world, a good deal is often too good to be true.
The invisible hands: who really pulls the strings?
Behind every record sale lurk players the public never sees. The guarantors, for instance: mysterious investors who promise upfront to buy a work if it fails to reach a certain price. In 2015, when Picasso’s Les Femmes d’Alger sold for $179.4 million, it was an anonymous guarantor who had insured the auction house against failure. These guarantees, once rare, have become commonplace—and they turn auctions into a game of poker where risks are shared.
Then there are the chandelier bids, those fictitious offers auctioneers make to drive up prices. Legal in some countries, banned in others, they create the illusion of demand where none may exist. And what of third-party guarantees, those secret agreements where a collector commits to buying a work at an agreed price, in exchange for a commission if it exceeds that amount? In 2017, when Salvator Mundi sold, it was a guarantor who had set the floor at $100 million—a sum that, ironically, became the starting point for speculative frenzy.
For a novice, these mechanisms can seem opaque, even unfair. Yet they are part of the game. The key? Understanding that auction houses are not places of transparency, but arenas where complex strategies play out. And that behind every falling gavel, invisible hands guide the fate of artworks.
The art of war: strategies for surviving auctions
Raising your hand in an auction room is a little like stepping onto a battlefield. Eyes turn toward you, rival bidders size you up, and the auctioneer watches with a knowing smile. For a beginner, the temptation is to get swept up in the adrenaline. Yet the best collectors are those who keep their cool.
The first rule? Never show emotion. In 2014, during the sale of a Basquiat at Phillips, a young collector, visibly nervous, raised his hand too eagerly. His rival, an experienced dealer, saw at once he was dealing with a novice. He waited for the bids to climb, then played his hand: an offer so high the beginner panicked and dropped out. The painting sold for $34.9 million—far beyond its real value.
The second rule? Know when to stop. In 2018, a retired French couple, lovers of naïve art, found themselves competing for a painting by Séraphine de Senlis. They were prepared to go up to €50,000, but the auction fever took hold. They left with the painting—and a bill for €120,000, more than double their budget. Today, the canvas hangs in their living room, and they live in fear of the monthly payments.
The third rule? Never bid without seeing the work in person. Catalogue photos often lie. Colours are retouched, flaws erased, dimensions misleading. In 2019, a Chinese collector bought a Zao Wou-Ki painting online for $2.3 million. When it arrived, he discovered the canvas was covered in micro-cracks, invisible in the images. He tried to back out, but it was too late: the contract was signed.
To survive this ruthless world, you must prepare like a strategist. Study the catalogues, attend the exhibitions, and above all, set a limit—and stick to it, no matter what.
The scars of time: when history leaves its mark
A painting is not an inert object. It is living skin, marked by centuries, by the hands that have touched it, the walls that have sheltered it. And these scars, visible or hidden, tell a story.
Take Munch’s The Scream. In 2012, a pastel version of this icon sold for $119.9 million. Yet if you examine it closely, you’ll see the paper has yellowed, the colours have faded, and fingerprints—Munch’s own—are still visible. These flaws, far from diminishing its value, make it a unique witness. They prove the work was handled, loved, perhaps even hated by its creator.
Conversely, a canvas that looks too perfect may hide a less glorious secret. In 2014, a collector bought what he believed to be a Modigliani for $25 million. An X-ray analysis later revealed the painting had been relined—a second canvas glued to the back to hide damage. Worse, the signature was a later addition. The Modigliani turned out to be a crude fake, and the collector became a laughingstock.
For a beginner, these details are crucial. Before buying, you must request the condition report, the document that describes the work’s state with surgical precision. Cracks, restorations, overpainting—nothing should be left to chance. In this world, a flawless canvas may hide a troubled past, and a damaged work, a fascinating history.
The last word: when art becomes an act of faith
At heart, buying art at auction is a little like falling in love. You don’t always choose with reason. Sometimes, it’s a colour that haunts you, a texture that calls to you, or simply the intuition that a work is meant for you.
In 2015, a young Parisian gallery owner, unknown to the public, attended a sale at Drouot. Among the lots was a small Picasso drawing, Head of a Woman, estimated at €50,000. No one seemed interested. Yet something in that quick, almost childlike line moved him. He raised his hand, carried by an irrational certainty. The drawing sold for €45,000—a modest sum for a Picasso, but a fortune for him. Today, that yellowed sheet of paper hangs in his living room, and every time he looks at it, he still wonders what made him buy it.
For beyond strategies, estimates, and guarantees, there is this: art as an act of faith. A canvas can be an investment, a trophy, or simply an object of beauty. But in every case, it carries the echo of those who loved it before us.
And perhaps that is where the true secret of auction houses lies—in the silence between two bids.
The breath of the auction: when art becomes a game of chess | Buying Guide
