It turns out, though, that as far as prices are concerned, he takes himself more seriously than I thought. A canvas inscribed chef d’oeuvre inconnu (unknown masterpiece) was listed at over 8,000 euros. It was the same price for another, in red writing on white canvas this time, saying ironically beau et pas cher (beautiful and not expensive). And it would have cost only slightly less to acquire c’est quoi l’idée? (what’s the idea?). Like I said, it’s very Parisian—cheekily denying the importance of art while trying to sell it at whacking great prices. All good fun, though, and a signed print at 100 euros might actually have been good value. If not, a black Ben pencil case at 5 or so definitely was.
Next, I went into one of the small galleries specializing in prints, and said I was looking for something Parisian. The woman showed me a view of the Eiffel Tower.
‘Not quite that Parisian,’ I told her, adding that I was interested in anything by artists who lived in Paris.
She laughed. ‘Well, they all lived here at one time or another.’
She showed me a postcard-sized photo of the Pont Neuf when it was wrapped in fabric in 1985 by Christo (a pseudonym for two people, Christo Javacheff and Jeanne-Claude Denat). The card was framed, signed by Christo (presumably the man) and came with an authenticity stamp on the back. It was as Parisian as you get but, at 350 euros, it seemed to me to be a bit expensive for a postcard.
The dealer left me to browse through her folders of prints and I quickly found some pictures that were much more to my taste. A series of black-and-white engravings of ballet dancers—slightly more realistic than Degas’ drawings of the same subject—by Auguste Brouet, a late-nineteenth century Montmartre artist. They were all signed, and cost about 200 euros each, rather less than a Degas. There were also Arp-like abstracts by lesser-known artists, and various Parisian views drawn or painted between the early 1900s and the 1960s, all for a hundred or two. And in places like this, you can always haggle—subtly, of course, this is art, not a second-hand car.
I moved on to one of my favourite Parisian art galleries, Paul Prouté, in the section of the rue de Seine on the other side of the boulevard. It’s an unfortunate name—in slang it means ‘Paul farted’, and the poor owner must go through hell whenever he reserves a hotel room by phone—but it’s one of the best places to buy old art in the whole of Paris. The gallery was founded more than a century ago and feels as if the sales assistants have been stuck in a time warp ever since. Young or old, they’re all quiet and pale, as though they never get out into the real world.
The walls are lined not with pictures but with wooden racks of folders, all stuffed with art. You can go in (you have to ring the bell and wait for a green light, so it’s probably best not to go dressed as a punk or a samurai) and ask for whatever you want—they have everything. You’re looking for sixteenth-century religious engravings? There’s a file. Or nineteenth-century Italian water-colours, modern abstracts, English caricatures—it’s all there.
As in the previous gallery, I asked for views of Paris—rather a touristy question, I thought, but it was welcomed with just as much courtesy as if I’d asked to see their signed Manets. And the three fat files I was given were a veritable goldmine, or inkmine. There were some fascinating seventeenth-century engravings showing Paris with sandy riverbanks and the Seine awash with boats of all sizes, at a time when the Tuileries ended in open countryside. There were also views of the Bastille when the prison was still standing proud at the gates of the city—a smallish medieval castle that would become world-famous only when it was knocked down. I also found nineteenth-century pictures of the shabby, shady Marais full of brothels and absinthe dens rather than gay furniture shops, and scenes of Montmartre as a real village, its windmills grinding out flour rather than can-can music. My favourites, though, were some large, hand-coloured eighteenth-century prints of palaces and gardens, including a rustic-looking view of the Élysée, now the presidential palace, with some soldiers gazing rather threateningly at the artist. Revolution in the air, perhaps.
And all these slices of Parisian art history cost around a hundred euros, little more than a meal at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Personally I’d opt to have a sandwich at the corner café and buy the art.
Oh, and I did find an Arp on my travels—a beautiful little signed engraving, showing (I now know) a couple of bulbous navels. And from what I saw, Arp’s prices are going up. Art collectors have been warned …
A bid for glory
Another typically Parisian place to buy a picture or sculpture, and a relatively cheap one, is Drouot, the complex of auction rooms near the grands boulevards. It’s a sort of Galeries Lafayette for everything secondhand—the difference being that you invent your own price. This is where most of the city’s art and antique dealers buy, and where ordinary Parisians can acquire art at wholesale rates.
It’s a bizarre place—a mixture of attempted modernity (the ’70s glass building, the small escalators between floors) and old-school tradition (the red carpets, the armies of porters and the constant feeling that you’re looking at the contents of Balzac’s house), and gives off an air of impenetrability. Until recently, its workings were something of a mystery, but the walls of secrecy were torn down in late 2009, for a wonderfully Parisian reason …
At the time, Drouot’s porters, responsible for moving all the objects for sale or pre-sale valuation into and around the building, were instantly recognizable by their black uniform with a sliver of red at the collar. They were nicknamed
