One afternoon I was sitting in the studio contemplating my navel, which is another way of saying I was obviously hard at work, when the phone rang.
Now this was unusual in itself. These days, when the phone rings unexpectedly, I’m generally expecting one of two things. Either Border Force has discovered something alarming about my passport, or an indecipherable recorded voice is about to warn me of dire events that will befall me unless I immediately press 1.
So when I answered and heard a gentleman introduce himself as Adam from Charleston’s Fine Art Auctions, my first thought was that he must have the wrong artist.
He explained that he had seen my work on Bluethumb and believed it would be an excellent fit for their auctions.
At the time, I had never heard of Charleston’s.
I knew galleries. I knew exhibitions. I knew art prizes. Auctions belonged to a completely different world, one I knew very little about.
As Adam enthusiastically explained how Charleston’s worked, I listened politely while wondering what on earth he was talking about.
The funny thing was that I did have one connection to the auction world.
Many years earlier I had taught a lovely lady named Liz, who later became a dear friend. Her father was a serious collector. The sort of collector who owned works by artists I had only ever seen in books and galleries. Liz would tell me stories about him buying and selling through auctions, watching the results, following the market and discussing paintings with the same enthusiasm most people reserve for sport.
I remember thinking it all sounded rather mysterious.
Now here I was listening to Adam tell me that my paintings might belong in that world.
When I hung up the phone, I did what any sensible artist would do.
I rang Liz.
She was far more excited than I was.
“Charleston’s?” she said. “Oh wow!”
That was not the reaction I had been expecting.
I was still trying to work out what an auction actually involved.
But Adam was persistent and generous with his time. He patiently explained things and eventually convinced me there was nothing to lose by trying.
After all, every artist spends a great deal of time wondering how to place their work in front of new audiences.
This was certainly a new audience.
So I agreed to send a small group of paintings.
I think there were six.
Looking back now, six feels rather modest.
At the time it felt like a great leap into the unknown.
I packed them up, sent them away and waited.
The first results were encouraging enough that I sent more.
Then more again.
Before long the occasional shipment became a regular part of studio life.
What surprised me most was not the sales.
It was the effect the experience had on my painting.
Without quite realising it, I found myself becoming bolder. Certain ideas grew stronger. Clouds became larger. Trees became more confident. Colours occasionally stepped forward instead of quietly waiting their turn.
The paintings were still mine. The landscapes were still mine. Yet the experience encouraged me to explore a slightly different voice within my work.
Some of those paintings remain among my favourites today.
Today, more than a year later, hundreds of paintings have passed through Charleston’s. Many have found homes with collectors around Australia. Some have inspired commissions. Others have influenced new directions in my studio work.
The story is still unfolding.
Which is perhaps the nicest part.
After all, had I ignored the phone that afternoon, none of it would have happened.
Mind you, if Adam rings again while I’m contemplating my navel, I suppose I should answer.
