I very nearly ran away with the circus yesterday. The circus in question being the Canadian Antiques Roadshow.
I had managed to get two e-tickets to the gig, and I lined up early in the morning, along with about 900 other hopefuls carrying, pushing or dragging their priceless treasures retrieved from attic, root cellar or outhouse. You know the sort of thing–that extremely valuable Ming period lawnchair, sort of thing.
I brought two items from my military collection; a 12-inch copper tray, made from metal taken from the sheathing of HMS Victory, Nelson’s flagship at the battle of Trafalgar, and two diaries full of artwork done in the famous POW camp Colditz in WW2. A good friend of mine forsook her family for the day, and came along with her great-grandfather’s medal from the Afghan War of 1878 (and photo of said worthy wearing the gong).
Fortunately, we are both the type who enjoy people-watching. And we had plenty of opportunity, for once inside the giant armouries that were hosting the show, we spent 2 and a half hours in line to see the militaria expert. The time passed quickly, though–it was crowded, and there was a constant parade of people going past with all sorts of intriguing items; including a lot of First Nations woven baskets, carved masks, etc.
I actually did a little “experting” of my own: people in line were chatting back and forth, and showing each other what they had. A very nice little Belgian lady behind us had an enormous oil painting of a conquistador in one hand, and what I recognised as a WW2 air force silk aircrew “escape” map in the other. I told her all I knew about the map (I have eight in my collection), and she was very happy to leave the militaria line, to go join the “art” line to find out about de Soto, or Ponce de Leon, or whoever her painting may have been.
While in line, we were able to eavesdrop at several other tables, including the “art,” and the “books.” One young woman at the art table was disappointed to have the expert open up the black plastic frame of her “painting” to show her that it was, in fact, a postcard from the 1960s. I shamelessly hovered at the book table when a very nice Little Old Lady–Miss Havisham to the life–brought in her late mother’s Victorian scrapbook, with photos, autographs, greeting cards, pressed flowers, etc. Most interesting.
We were shuttled around as human cattle, to act as backdrop for the first big “find” of the day that was filmed for the show. A woman in her 30s had a very, very nice art deco glass hood ornament . My friend and I were directly behind the table as they were filming, and got to hear what was said; the expert rattled on about art deco, glibly explained away the little chip at the back of the piece as not unusual, and then told her that it should be insured for “$20,000 to $25,000.” She made little chipmunk sounds, as everyone around was smiling and laughing, pleased for her.
Finally, our turn came at the little green baize table. My friend went first, and the expert, an Englishman who is a consultant for our National War Museum in Ottawa, told her about her great-grandfather’s Afghanistan medal , and the 1878 Afghan War, etc. He remarked on the very odd wear pattern on the medal; one side, which has Queen Victoria’s image, is worn nearly blank, while the elephant motif on the back is still in high relief. This is explained by the fact he was a Commissionaire in the 1890s in London, and wore the medal daily, polishing it up frequently. At this point, the “host” of the show came past, and stopped for a chat.
Valerie Pringle is perky. No, scratch that. She makes Katie Couric look like Sylvia Plath. Our expert tells Valerie the story of why the medal is so polished on one side, and she pipes up with, “Oh, so I guess great-grandad was obsessive-compulsive, huh?” Fortunately my friend has a good sense of humour.
Now it’s my turn to show the expert the items I’ve brought. First, the big copper tray. It’s got lots of wording on it, giving details that it was struck in 1905 by the Lords of the Admiralty, using copper from HMS Victory, to commemorate the centenery of the battle of Trafalgar. The expert likes this, very much. He doesn’t say much to me, except, “I’d like to film this–please don’t tell me anything about it; I’m going to talk to the producer.” So up he gets and vanishes. I’m quite surprised–the tray is neat, but not on-air material, I would have thought.
Anyway, we sit and wait–and wait. After about ten minutes, a harried-looking young woman festooned in ID cards comes to the table and looks at me and says, “Hello. You weren’t here last year, were you?” I tell her no, this is my first time. She says no matter, she thought she recognised me. Would I mind doing an interview with the local media, who are here to do coverage. (I think this is a little odd–why would they want to talk to me?–) but I say I’ll be glad to help in any way. So just as I’m rising to go off for my “media opportunity,” she turns to my friend and says, “I’m sorry, but we’ll have your appraiser back very shortly.” It then clicks that this woman thinks that I am the antiques expert, and part of the show! I still think I should have bluffed it out.
Anyway, the real expert returns, and is all set to film the copper tray; my friend says mischeviously, “don’t you want to see his “A” material?” Expert gives me a funny look, and I say that I had brought something that I thought was really special. So out come the two little prisoner of war diaries that I’ve had since I was a kid. These are full of art–watercolours, pastels, pen and ink–all done in the infamous Colditz castle in Saxony, Germany. Expert is very, very quiet. He finally says, “OK. I’d like to film these diaries instead. Can you come back after lunch?” We say fine.
Cut to an hour later. I am “made up,” so that I won’t shine on camera or something. It is now 1:30 p.m. We then go into a small roped-off pen, to await the summons to go on-camera. Around us are some interesting things; a lady with a pair of duelling pistols, a man with a really neat actual hummingbird made into a brooch (with a gold beak, marked by a Russian goldsmith in the 1890s), and a beautiful Tiffany lamp in shades of green. And we wait. And wait some more.
At last, after two false starts, I get “shot” at 5 p.m. Those three cameras on their dollies are big, and they’re in very close, but I’ve been instructed by the director not to look at them, just at the expert or the diaries, just as if we’re having a friendly old chat. Which, oddly, it seems to be. The expert talks about growing up as a kid in England in the '50s, where he and his friends would play at being soldiers, and prisoners in Colditz (which is still pretty famous over there, compared to North America). He goes through the pages, turning them over for the cameras, showing some of the art, including my favourite; a rear view of a German guard with a big bum bending over to pick up a prisoner’s discarded cigarette-end. He asks if I have them insured (to which, of course, I sheepishly give the usual dopey answer, “no”), and then suggests that I should do so, to the tune of $25,000. I’m a little stunned at this; not that I would part with them, of course; but still, it’s a bit of a shock. I hold a sickly smile for several seconds, as instructed by the director, and we’re done.
I really want to stow away in their equipment van and just plunk myself down at one of the green tables and look at people’s cool old stuff all day long. I have a suit, I clean up well, I can pull it off. I can even put up with Valerie. Just give me a shot!