First Time with a Collector
I had only been working as a full-time artist for a couple of months when I received a call from a collector interested in my work. At the time, I was not well-informed about the intricacies of art collecting, but I tried to hide my excitement during the call and did my best to appear calm—confident, even—as if I had received these kinds of calls many times before.
As soon as we started talking, it was clear that this person had precise information about me, including the exact address of my workshop and my phone number. The conversation must have lasted about five minutes—the time it took me to walk from my house to the workshop. During the call, she asked me at least five times, “Do you know who I am?” To which I always replied, “Of course I do! I know exactly who you are,” though, in reality, I had no idea.
At the end of the conversation, she told me she was just a few blocks away, planning to stop by immediately, and that it would take her about five minutes to arrive. I told her she was welcome to come, and that I’d be waiting for her. That’s how we ended the conversation—but not before she insisted on asking one last time, “But you do know who I am, right?” And, once again, I replied, “Of course I do.”
I barely had time to arrive and tidy up my workshop—a place that had never been particularly organized—before the collector called to say she had arrived. I had to go down to the first floor to open the door. As I stepped outside, I found myself facing an imposing, elegantly dressed woman with a somewhat cold and distant expression, stepping out of a luxurious, armored van after one of her bodyguards had opened the door.
She looked at me and greeted me with an upright posture and a deep, unwavering voice, choosing her words carefully while maintaining a certain distance. I felt intimidated by her presence, but I remained composed, greeting her and inviting her in. Immediately, the other doors of the van opened, and three or four ladies—clearly her friends—got out. In contrast to her, they were lively, warm, and cheerful, almost playful; they never stopped talking and seemed to orbit around the collector, who remained imposing and distant, even with them.
Once inside the workshop, the collector barely spoke to me. She had a presence that seemed to fill the entire room. She began examining my space with a critical eye while speaking to her friends, who remained silent and listened attentively whenever she spoke. The few times she addressed me, it was only to ask for the title of a piece or some technical details. Then, she would resume her slow pace, scrutinizing every corner of the studio while conversing with her entourage—who felt more like her followers than her friends.
“What works do you have available?” she asked.
At that moment, I was so bewildered that I simply answered her questions directly, feeling that offering any additional information would be overstepping. I showed her my available works one by one. With each one, she asked, “How much does this cost?” Then she would fall silent and whisper something to one of her friends.
Suddenly, she asked me to pick up one of my paintings and hold it at a certain height so she could see it better. Then she asked me to do the same with another piece—and then another. After several minutes, I started to feel like just another easel in the workshop.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the collector decided on a piece and asked for the price again. When I repeated it, she turned to her friends, whispered something, and then told me it was “too expensive,” offering me half of what I was asking. At that moment, I realized that the negotiation would not be easy. I countered with a more reasonable discount, to which she once again replied, “But do you know who I am?” I—still having no idea—insisted, “Of course I do.” She repeated her offer of a 50% discount, and I stood firm at 20%.
I explained that I had an exclusive agreement with a Colombian gallery, meaning that if I sold a piece outside of it, I would still need to pay the gallery its commission. Therefore, if we reached a deal, I would have to inform the gallery owner, disclose the sale amount, and transfer the corresponding commission. She responded that she “knew him very well,” that they had been close friends for years, and that they spoke often. Then, she insisted again on the 50% discount and assured me that the gallery owner—her supposed close friend—would never find out about our transaction. “It will stay between us,” she said.
I was both surprised and bewildered, but I held my ground and told her I couldn’t offer that discount.
After several unsuccessful attempts to reach a fair agreement, she stood up and told me she would “think about it.” Before leaving, she asked me one last time if I knew who she was. I gave the same answer, for the umpteenth time. As she prepared to leave—almost as a last-ditch effort—she extended her hand and said, “So, we have a deal, right?”
I hesitated. I knew that if I shook her hand, she would take it as confirmation of the discount. So, I left her with her hand extended.
As soon as she left, I rushed to look her up online. To my surprise, I found an overwhelming amount of information about her. She turned out to be a powerful and influential figure—an art-world celebrity, recognized as one of the most important contemporary art collectors in the country.
At that moment, I knew two things: My work would never be part of her collection, and I would never know how she had obtained my phone number and address.
A few weeks later, still recovering from this unusual experience, I received a call from one of the friends who had accompanied her to my studio. She had loved my work and, though she was not “the most important collector in the country,” she was genuinely interested in acquiring one of my pieces.
In the end, she bought the very artwork that had caught the collector’s attention. Only this time, the transaction was easy—no discounts, no games, just a straightforward sale.