Monday, October 19, 2020

Embracing Price Transparency

 

Art Dealers Are Notorious for Obscuring Prices. But as the Market Shifts Online, Many Are Finally Embracing Price Transparency
Market
Art Dealers Are Notorious for Obscuring Prices. But as the Market Shifts Online, Many Are Finally Embracing Price Transparency
By Darla Migan




    Art Dealers Are Notorious for Obscuring Prices. But as the Market Shifts Online, Many Are Finally Embracing Price Transparency

    The surge in online viewing rooms is poised to change the art industry's uneasy relationship to price transparency.

    A Warhol "Dollar Bill" at Sotheby's. Photo: Courtesy Sotheby's.

    As collectors clicked through Frieze London’s first online-only fair last week, they found plenty of similarities to fairs of years past. David Zwirner was there with photographs by Wolfgang Tillmans and William Eggleston; Pace offered sculptures by Lynda Benglis; Perrotin had works by JR and Daniel Arsham.

    But there was one key difference: Almost across the board, prices were clearly listed. 

    The shutdown that rippled across the globe in the first half of 2020 accelerated the development of online viewing rooms and, with them, pricing in the notoriously opaque art market has grown markedly more transparent. Galleries at Art Basel that never would have posted prices on their booth walls suddenly opted to include them in their online “rooms” at the digital edition of the Hong Kong fair in March—the kind of one-glance transparency that buyers today expect when shopping online. 

    David Zwirner's Viewing Room as part of Frieze London 2020. Courtesy Frieze.

    David Zwirner’s viewing room as part of Frieze London 2020. Courtesy Frieze.

    Around the same time, David Zwirner launched an online sales platform to sell works by smaller New York galleries that were struggling to stay afloat amid the lockdown. They too tended to list prices.

    “Having a price visible to all audiences, not just VIP collectors, who were the only ones privy to that information in the past, moves the art world into a positive and more open direction,” Elena Soboleva, director of online sales at Zwirner, tells Artnet News.

    Thaddaeus Ropac, who runs galleries in Paris, Salzburg, and London, is the rare dealer who has long displayed an openness toward disclosing prices. “At the fairs, we are happy to tell anyone interested and this conversational aspect is part of what makes the experience so personal and social,” he says. But the shift online has pushed him even further toward transparency. “With prices visible on our online viewing room we found that incoming inquiries tended to be serious clients with a definite interest in the works available and that new collectors or those unfamiliar with an artist were able to inquire with confidence.”

    “Endemic Price Manipulations”

    Technically, galleries—at least in the art market capital of New York—are supposed to post prices just like any other retail store. Since the mid-1960s, New York City’s consumer protection and regulatory agencies have legally required galleries to conspicuously post prices on their exhibition floors. But art dealers ignored the law and, in 1988, the agencies vowed once again to enforce it in order to combat the “price manipulations” that the city’s department of consumer affairs said were “endemic” to the art market. 

    Perrotin's viewing room at Frieze London 2020. Courtesy of Frieze.

    Perrotin’s viewing room at Frieze London 2020. Courtesy of Frieze.

    For the next three decades, however, galleries carried on flouting the rules—because they had significant business incentives to do so. For one thing, a gallerist may not want to do further harm to an artist whose prices are flagging by displaying the markdowns. They may also not want to disclose prices to competitors, or reveal the preferential prices they give to certain loyal or VIP collectors. 

    “Not displaying prices can create room to maneuver when a client walks into the gallery,” says Olav Velthuis, a sociologist of the arts at the University of Amsterdam. “Depending on the dealer’s assessment of his willingness to pay, the price can be adjusted upward or downward.”

    Bucking convention might also delegitimize a gallery in the eyes of collectors who take a traditionalist not-how-things-are-done-here view of prices in the art market. “It is considered not ‘chic’ and is part of a wider ethos within the art market that monetary concerns are vulgar or impure and should not contaminate ‘pure’ artistic or aesthetic concerns,” Velthuis says.  

    The Art Basel viewing room as seen on a laptop. Photo courtesy Nate Freeman.

    A History of Obscurity

    For the earliest patrons of the arts, price was no object. You could either afford to participate or you couldn’t, and the marketplace largely retains this Renaissance-era convention. But with the rise of the salon in the late 18th century, patrons began to disguise the financial aspects of the exchange. They saw themselves not merely as shoppers but instead “understood themselves to be joining a conversation,” says Nathan Clements-Gillespie, artistic director of Frieze Masters.

    Dealers and collector-patrons colluded to claim that both sides were motivated purely by the priceless attributes of art, and not its role as a status marker, a symbol of wealth, an asset, and a form of capital.

    “Historically, the art market has lacked transparency because the symbolic value of an artwork had to be highlighted as opposed to its existence as a commodity comparable to other non-symbolic goods,” says the art advisor Marta Gnyp. “And yet, despite the supposedly priceless quality of art, art functions not only as a socio-cultural market but also as a carrier of economic capital.”

    The complex set of less-than-transparent mechanisms that determine art’s value also makes it easier to obscure its role as a commodity. For one thing, art isn’t produced on the scale of a global retailer with a uniform price structure. Another reason for the industry’s lack of price clarity is that it functions more like the stock market, says Hong Gyu Shin, who runs New York’s Shin Gallery.

    “The lack of price availability of artworks is related to the various ways the value of art changes, which, like a stock, is reflected by the activities of various actors,” he says, and “the potential for art to either increase or decrease in value.” 

    But even still, the financial value of art is not only dependent on the price willing sellers and buyers agree upon, but also on art-historical references, provenance, and other areas of knowledge that are by nature not public. Instead, this insider knowledge is often exclusive to deep networks of families, business associates, and institutions. 

    Amani, Negroes in the Trees #3(2019). Image, courtesy the artist and Destinee Ross-Sutton 2020

    Amani Lewis, Negroes in the Trees #3 (2019), which appeared in Christie’s “Say It Loud” sale. Image courtesy the artist and Destinee Ross-Sutton 2020.

    Transparent to Whom?

    When we claim that the art market lacks transparency, it would be more accurate to say that it lacks transparency for some people. “Value in the art market—as in most markets—is more transparent than it might first seem,” says Frieze’s Nathan Clements-Gillespie. “Value is clear to those who have done their homework and have researched the prices achieved in recent transactions, before committing to one themselves.” 

    While prices have not always been readily available, established collectors who understand how provenances work, know the patterns of pricing for a particular medium, or have relationships with galleries or advisors will have a better sense of what a work of art costs than a novice collector. Price availability, on the other hand, may be only helpful to a buyer without the knowledge and networks of a more experienced patron. 

    “For new collectors, visible pricing is a key educational facet of learning what is within their budget and builds confidence in their choices,” Soboleva says. “Collectors are excited when they discover David Zwirner has many works under $10,000, and that is wonderful to see.”

    These new non-connoisseurs may include speculators who buy art purely as a financial asset, but also more welcome categories of collectors who had previously been shut out from the market simply due to their race or class.

    Eniwaye, The Breakfast (2020). Image, courtesy the artist and Destinee Ross-Sutton 2020

    Eniwaye, The Breakfast (2020). Image, courtesy the artist and Destinee Ross-Sutton 2020

    The contract arranged by curator and art advisor Destinee Ross Sutton for the Christie’s selling exhibition “Say It Loud (I’m Black and I’m Proud)” in August 2020 functions as a potential model for how to balance the upside of price transparency—to entice new collectors—while also guarding against speculation. The terms were that 100 percent of the sales would go to the artist, with a five-year hold on resale, at which point buyers who do choose to resell must give 15 percent of the profit back to the artist. 

    “I don’t want this to be a ‘thank you, come again’ situation—I want it to go beyond that,” Ross Sutton says. “There is a value in being a true steward of the work and potential patron of the artist and the arts, as someone who is trying to help move the culture forward in any way, as opposed to just buying and profiting from it.”

    The worry among some that price transparency is eroding connoisseurship is not likely to go away anytime soon. And it remains to be seen whether new collectors and, in turn, the artists they support, really do benefit from greater price availability in the long term. Prices alone do not offer enough information to determine a good value when it comes to art. But since the online art marketplace appears here to stay, those once elusive price tags may be, too. 


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    Thursday, October 15, 2020

    Monday, October 12, 2020

    Mike Mandel’s Selfies from the Seventies

     

    Photo Booth

    Mike Mandel’s Selfies from the Seventies

    Mandel next to person at a deli counter of a grocery store.
    Curiosity is the animating force of Mike Mandel’s photographs.Photographs by Mike Mandel / Robert Mann Gallery

    A carregar: 317378 de 317378 byte(s) carregado(s).

    In 1971, Mike Mandel released a book of photographs called “Myself: Timed Exposures.” Part of their loose, easy charm has to do with Mandel’s appearance: with his long dark hair and thick-framed glasses, he looks like a cartoon version of a peaceable hippie, rambling through black-and-white Southern California. Though the title prepares you for an onslaught of Mandel, only two of the images show him alone in the frame. The other thirty-seven photographs feature strangers of all types, as Mandel thrusts himself into the bustle and rush of street life, popping up among people like an imp, a groovy visitor from another planet. There he is, shirtless in corduroy cutoffs, smiling with a housewife at a supermarket meat counter, or lying flat on the floor of a library with his arms tight at his sides, students craning to observe this sudden interruption. In another photo, Mandel squeezes onto a crowded bench at an airport, his face blurry, the people on either side of him blurry too, caught mid-laugh. Some of the photos require you to search Mandel out, scan for his identifying uniform of big black glasses and lank hair, as if he were an R. Crumb version of Waldo. Then you spot him: a sliver of Mandel, peering over the heads of a gaggle of young girls at Disneyland or just barely visible in the reflection of a beauty-parlor mirror.

    Mandel in front of a line of policemen.
    Mandel sits with people at bus stop laughing.
    Mandel's head peeks over group of children.

    Mandel was a philosophy student at Cal State, Northridge, when he made these photos, and there’s a youthful warmth to the images in “Myself” that presages the playful, community-minded quality of his future projects. In a few years, Mandel would be at San Francisco Art Institute, collaborating with Larry Sultan, then crisscrossing the country in a tiny Renault to seek out nearly a hundred and fifty artists for his photographer-baseball-card series. The cards, which he packaged with a stick of gum, featured people such as Ansel Adams, wearing a catcher’s mask and a paisley shirt, and Imogen Cunningham, then in her nineties, in a Mao cap. On the back of the cards were stats: height, weight, favorite film format, favorite camera. Everyone—famous photographer or relative unknown—was immortalized on the cards, as if all artists were players on the same team.

    Mandel lays on school floor.
    Mandel in street in front of many people.
    Mandel in window with children and balloons.

    Curiosity is the animating force of “Myself.” As in the zippy photos of Jacques Henri Lartigue—whom Mandel cites as an influence on the project—craft or technique is less important than energy and immediacy. And you get the sense that most of these strangers are happy to be photographed with Mandel, happy to be suddenly invited into the picture: in one, a wedding party angles themselves toward the camera as Mandel grins, cross-legged, at their feet. Maybe their pleasure had to do with the relative novelty, in 1971, of being asked to take a photo with a stranger, in public. There was still a sense of occasion: film was a set of limited exposures, each one valuable, requiring an outlay of time and money. We are so inured, now, to both the throwaway nature of a photograph—we can take an endless number—and the ubiquity of cameras. We know how easily public life is documented and have come almost to expect the constant possibility of being recorded. Unlike the sly subway shot of today, a phone tipped ever so slightly in the direction of the unsuspecting subject, Mandel’s were photos that announced themselves as photos. He used a camera on a tripod with a self-timer that buzzed audibly for ten seconds, alerting the subject that an event was taking place.

    Mandel sits on the ground in a gathering of people.
    Mandel's reflection seen in beauty parlor mirror.
    Mandel poses with baseball player.

    Though these are ostensibly self-portraits, I’ve come to see them as collaborations. In these photos, as in life, our encounters with others are spaces of possibility, spaces that open us to the unknown and offer a path toward expanding the definition of self. I’m reminded of “Sherman’s March,” the 1986 documentary by Ross McElwee that morphs into a self-portrait of the filmmaker, heartbroken post-breakup, winging his way through the South and filming his poetic, sometimes surreal meetings with family and strangers alike. There is a spiritual affinity, for me, between these two projects. Maybe it has to do with how unusual it is to come across this version of humane, gentle masculinity, masculinity used as witness, both men employing their camera and their goofy, long-haired presence as tools to draw out strangers, invite them into the story.

    Mandel with others at Yosemite.
    Mandel laying on beach.
    Mandel walking down street.

    I have returned to these images as public life shuts down. Looking at them is an exercise in nostalgia not only for the languid California of the early seventies, or the looseness offered by working in a medium that had little respect from the art world and therefore no money, but for a moment when, even if only in the world of these images, the encounter between self and stranger could be guileless. Mandel’s photographs have so much of the lost pleasure of living in a city in them, of participating in the random crisscrossing of humanity, of disparate selves united even briefly in time and place. The images have the attributes of what the architect Christopher Alexander calls a “natural city,” a city that allows for randomness and the spontaneous overlapping of selves, in contrast to an inert “artificial” city that keeps us from one another.

    Mandel behind person with camera.
    Mandel in large group of young people.
    Mandel next to person in coat and sunglasses.

    To remain apart is to lessen ourselves: our internal landscape, our psychic proprioception, relies on the richness and ambiguity offered in the interplay between self and other. I think of this interplay when I look at Mandel’s photos, in which the strangers and the self overlap. A uniformed Dodgers player with his arm around Mandel. An older woman in a fur coat and cat’s-eye sunglasses, her beehive in a scarf, posing alongside Mandel. A family at the beach gamely welcoming him into their group. As in his photographer baseball cards, you start to sense that Mandel sees everyone—the stranger and the self—as members of the same team.

    Mandel at beauty parlor or barbershop washing his hair.
    Mandel behind plants.
    Mandel in waiting room next to large indoor plant.

    There are few strangers in my life these days. San Francisco Art Institute, where both Mandel and I studied, announced its closure in March, though it may have found a reprieve for at least another year. To raise funds, the college is considering the sale of a Diego Rivera mural, which is seventy-five feet wide and spans a whole wall of a gallery—a sort of secular chapel, open to the public, that always found a constant audience of students and strangers. Needless to say, there are other losses: more acute, more awful. But it’s nice, even for a moment, to occupy another reality. When Mandel pressed the timer, placing himself among the lives of strangers, it was the photographic equivalent of a toss of the coins in I Ching: you ask the universe to reveal itself; you await the universe’s answer.