L’Homme au doigt

BANG! The auctioneer’s gavel slammed into the block.

“Sold! For one hundred and forty-one million US dollars.” The auctioneer announced.

There was a sudden muffled noise as hushed voices reported the news to potential buyers, through cupped hands holding phones, or others whispering into the screens of laptops. The excitement in Christie’s auction room in London took some time to dissipate. There was only one item for auction that day in 2015, it was Alberto Giacometti’s famous object d’art, a six-foot-tall bronze sculpture named - L'homme au doigt (The man with the finger), which became the most valuable object in the world, in terms of monetary value.

The auction room gradually emptied, people stood up, acknowledged the existence of others, whereas before the sole focus had been bidding for the item on auction, and then departed the room for their varied next destination. The feeble December light from the windows faded, as the streetlights flickered on, to herald a long dark night. Next, the empty room was invaded by cleaners with machines, leaving behind a fragrant smell of a summer meadow, and a pungent smell of beeswax resulting from the clean and polished floor. The cleaners left, switching off the humming fluorescent lights, and the room descending into complete darkness, only the amber streetlights illuminated the emptiness and silence of the auction room, only the hubbub sounds from the London Street below drifted into the room, it was a hollow empty peace, like a small church nave with the silhouette of the lectern standing in front of rows of chairs. Such a contrast to the strident anticipation of the crowded auction room hours earlier.

If one peered at the rows of seats in the auction room, facing the antique wooden lectern stand with the Christie’s emblem carved on the audience facing side, one could make out shapes, it was two men sitting, without distinct form, they shimmered in the darkness, like an old black and white TV screen. We, the readers, should get closer, and hear what these two gentlemen are discussing, and why are they here in the Christie’s auction room, London: in the middle of dark December night. Let’s eavesdrop on their conversation to find out.

“What are we doing here?” Asked one to the other.

“To exorcise a ghost.” The other replied

“What? We are ghosts, what are you talking about?” The first one said, and then.

“What a rip-off!” he said, then guffawed, his body shimmered in and out of focus. “One hundred and forty million, and you; the one that created it, won’t touch a cent, you could do a lot of damage with that, kumpel! This Cohen guy only bought it, so he has the biggest most valuable swinging dick at the party.”

“It’s over now.” Said the other, he remained sombre.

“It was over before it started, kumpel!” His body became still after the laughter, and he joined the other in more a sombre contemplation.

“What did we do Bertie? Did we make a difference in the end?” It was a rhetorical question to himself. He then continued in reflection.

“One hundred and forty-one million, says we did, bruder.” He continued. “Existentialism, abstract expressionism, the labels don’t matter, it was our time, it was our birthright, and we created something out of our surroundings, our time, that’s what true art is all about, an artist needs to take responsibility for his art, for his time, challenge himself, create!”

“Ja, like all art trying to impersonate the mysteries of nature, always evolving.” The other agreed, and then sighed.

“Remember the miniatures?” He sighed heavily. And then said. “It was the like the times we lived in, constrained, restricted, dangerous! Art was being stolen, or censored, never any new art styles, people were more concerned with staying alive.”

“Da stimmt!” (That’s right)

“Mensch, when the bad times were over, did it ever come gushing out. You worked day and night, never stopped, in a frenzy, you made yourself ill. Thank goodness for Annette – dearest Annette. She was a fine model, so slender, so slim. Those times I thought they would last forever, it was intoxicating, overwhelming, it was our time and mensch, I miss those days.” He reminisced.

“Annette, mein schazte, the inspiration for all of it!” Berty sighed, remembering.

Suddenly Diego said, “The stick man with der finger, who commissioned that?”

“Monsieur Dufur.” The other replied and continued.

“Ja, rich guy now, or certainly his descendants will be after today. He still thinks I cheated him. He commissioned two figures and only got one. I just didn’t have the time. I designed, and sketched it out, you and me Diego; remember that crazy night in Paris, getting drunk, I was staggering around, the effects of the cheap Chablis swilling around my head, pointing to the direction of the next hostelry, and you trying to hold me steady, with your arm around my shoulders. If only they knew. Monsieur Dufur, and Mister Cohen the greedy sods, they would want a refund.” Berty said

“Does that make two figures worth two hundred and eight two million at the going rate at Christies?” Diego chuckled.

“Damn you, bruder! You think my masterpieces can be counted in volumetric terms!” Berty was affronted.

“Would you pay that amount of money for a stick man?” Diego goaded.

“It might have inspired Banksy’s Flower Thrower, who knows.” Berty retorted

“There’s your ego getting in the way of your art.” Diego continued to goad.

“Let’s go and join the others now, I’m done with all this. Rodin’s holding a Swaray, nothing like down here. It’s something I miss; I even miss those hangovers!” Berty changed the subject.

“If you miss it so much, get a ticket to return, the world needs a touch of existentialism, all this prescribed NFT’s and AI stuff, realism, in your face art, where’s the romance, the mystery, the abstractness in this new robotic engineered stuff? You should return and burn all the gaudy pop art with a religious zeal.” Diego suggested.

“If I return, I will want my royalty or at least part payment of that one hundred and forty-one million!” Berty demanded

“Fat chance! The only way you will return will be as a tiny snail, creating your art with slime trail on a garden wall – a new art form, called garden wall art.” Both laughed at the vision, as their shimmering forms disappeared into the ether of space, and the auction room returned to a soulless space, an empty room somewhere in London.