Among the more exciting finds of my collector's life occurred in the early 1970s at an evening auction at the former House of Weltz shop in Portchester, New York. Arriving with two friends familiar with the scene and with just enough time to score a numbered card to flash at the auctioneer, I squeezed into a seat at the back of the shop crowded with fellow bidders, craning my neck to see what was up for bid.
The quirky auctioneer packed the space to the ceiling with furniture for bidding. He sat on a chair (throne) perched on a dining table surround by more chairs and assorted tables. As the night's events unfolded, the Weltz' crew carted off pieces of the mountain of bidden and unbidden furniture to the back of the shop where other workers would stow the stuff and later collect our money and distribute the booty.
This was the setting when the auctioneer lifted a nearly three-foot plaster bust of William Shakespeare and held it up to the crowd. The response was silence.
"Can we start the bidding at $5?" sighed the auctioneer.
I looked around, stunned by the total lack of interest. More silence. Hmm, me thinks, "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark," to quote Marcellus to Horatio in Hamlet (1.4). Recovering, I shot my card in the air.
"Sold!" came the cry, and I watched the crew hand off Shakespeare to be carted away.
A bust of Shakespeare for $5? How could that be? Even in the 1970s, he seemed worth far more. The poet who spoke so eloquently for the ages about human emotions; the playwright of the late 16th and early 17th centuries known around England's Globe Theatre and today the globe, deserved more.
Certainly, to quote Hamlet's Soliloquy, in this case he had suffered, "The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." But, I was thrilled to think this Bard was mine. When my turn came to pay for the bust, and I discovered why he had been so scorned by the more knowing crowd who had seen items before the auction, I did not skip a beat - just paid for him and took him in my arms.
My plaster Shakespeare had a slightly broken nose. The handsome bust was otherwise unharmed - a bit dingy, I'll grant you. But, mostly good to go. When I arrived home, I examined the damage like a prizefighter's trainer back in the locker room. Totally fixable. The next day, I purchased gesso and a modeling paste I applied to restore my Shakespeare to his marble-like luster.
He remains that way 40 years later, despite having changed residences five times (with utmost care). He is adorned at Christmas with a suitable red velvet bow tie and dusted year-round. Whatever the occasion, he seems to preside over happenings. Over the years, a half dozen cats never so much as brushed against him. The same is true of two children. And I've felt a writer's kinship - humble certainly, given his illustrious story.
Hearing my tale, Bill would probably not mind if I quoted him, "We are such stuff /As dreams are made on; and our little life/Is rounded with a sleep." (4.1.156-8), Prospero in The Tempest.
My dream includes a $5 bust of Shakespeare. Imagine that!
To mark this week of his birth (April 23. 1564), hear Happy Birthday, Bill Shakespeare from the Listening Booth.
