Questroyal 2009

they were using their savings to buy a first home. A small but exquisite oil by Frederic Church inspired their interest. An uninhibited dialogue ensued, and each of us expressed our affection for the work without any reservation or hesita- tion. We felt no need to mask our enthusiasm the way wemight if negotiation were likely. A sale was not possible—or so I thought. Eventually, appetite took precedent over interest, and the couple left in search of lunch. Moments later, the young wife returned and asked if I would put the Church on hold for them. She said the look of shock on my face best described their own emotions. She promised to explain later. I had an ethical dilemma: the painting was valuable and the sale would be significant, but this couple was simply not in the position to pur- chase it. I decided that I would persuade them to abandon the idea. They returned with a proposal. Their first home could wait. They offered the down pay- ment and monthly mortgage payments to pur- chase the Church. The painting would remain in my possession until paid in full.What transpired next was a conversation one might expect to have in a bizarro world or mental institution. All my skills of persuasion were used to unsell the painting. I argued a practical logic that proved to be futile. I attempted a veritable alchemy of words to alter the couple’s thinking. Eventually, I delicately suggested that they seek professional help and then with obvious sarcasm, I said, “You cannot live in a painting.” But the battle was lost, and the painting was theirs. Months later, after several consecutive on- time payments, I asked if they would like to have the painting. They replied, “Mr. Salerno, we live in a tiny apartment in a tough part of town. Please keep the painting safe until we can afford a proper home.” They finally acquired that “proper home,” and the little Church was the centerpiece of their small but aspiring collection. Another collector acquired a magnificent coastal view by one of the best American nine- teenth-century painters of the sea. It was a com- manding work, and this man was thrilled to own it. However, about three months after he acquired it, he called to say that he had a prob- lem. He loved the painting and had hung it on virtually every wall in his home, but he could not find a location that worked. He said he knew just how potent the painting could be and there- fore could not bear to put it in a place that less- ened its visual impact. I told him that I would take the work back in trade, and he could select another painting that would be easier to hang. That idea was quickly rejected, yet he remained determined. He called again six months later. He was excited, and I could sense that he had found a resolution to his dilemma. He announced that the problem was solved and that the painting was placed and its potency fully expressed; how- ever, he complained that it was the single most expensive asset he had ever acquired. I asked if he believed I overcharged him. “Well,” he said, “it cost me over two million dollars!” I thought my client had been driven to insanity as a result of his efforts to best display his prized painting, as I had sold it to him for about one hundred thousand dollars. “I don’t understand,” I stam- mered. “I had to buy a new house, and it’s on a bluff that overlooks the ocean! My wife wants me to consider therapy, my daughter misses her friends, my banker now has gray hair—but the painting is spectacular!” These are paintings that stimulate us in a most profound way, adorn our homes, educate our children, and ignite conversations we might never have had. They provide historical perspective as markers from which we may measure how far we have drifted from a more natural existence. — lms, fall 2006 I looked out on the vast expanse of mountain over valley and had no thoughts of what was or what will be. I could think of only what is. There was a vague sense of something perpetual that does not require fuel or engineering. It does not need any device or man-made design. I relaxed: nothing was required of me, no choices or decisions. I was an intruder in these woods, never to be a landowner. My checkbook was useless. — lms, “Hiking in the Catskills,” fall 2006