While definitely not the same as going cross country on my motorcycle, I actually enjoy the expeditions in my four-wheeled vehicle. The trip out allows me some time to mentally prepare by shedding thoughts about work and home. It allows me an opportunity to mentally prepare for what I'm traveling for. The trip home gives me time to reflect - to replay events in my mind and begin to see what will stick in my memory, and what I'll be glad I've written down as I'll be sure to forget it otherwise.
These trips also allow me to read/listen to audiobooks. I often ponder if reading a physical book is the same as listening to it. I've decided it isn't; it is only a close facsimile. I won't claim to be able to explain this, but I see reading a book on a Kindle or Nook to be more similar to audiobooks than the physical book. Paper books have a tactile, almost sensualness to them that any form of digital media just doesn't have - the difference between the plastic house plant and the real one. Both can look good, but they are not equivalent.
One of the books I listened to on my westward direction was The Billionaire's Vinegar by Benjamin Wallace. I don't remember where I originally heard about this book, but I found it utterly fascinating. It recounts the tale of a 1787 Lafite bordeaux supposedly owned by Thomas Jefferson, and delves into the cosmos of ultra-rare wine collecting. Like any niche-world, this is not an arena to enter into without knowing what one is getting into; it would appear to be a world where trivial differences can be the split between something outrageously valuable and something of no value except as decoration or a conversation piece. Fraud can be rampant, with profits to be made if one is discreet (google Rudy Kurniawan...). Arguably, many of these rare, old wines taste good only because they are rare and old.
The Billionaire's Vinegar was so good, I started to listen to it on the return trip, but got home before the second read was done.
Ultra rare wine collecting sounds like a sister to fine art collecting. I've never really understood art - where the value of something is so dependent, not on the thing itself, but on the person who created it. A dusty painting from hundreds of years ago may be worth nothing, even if it appears to be a really good painting, if the artist is an unknown. A painting of similar aesthetic value from Matisse or Steen could be priceless.
I enjoy watching Antiques Roadshow, and it isn't unusual for a participant to bring in a work of art they see as "ugly" only to say something to the effect of, "I'm starting to really like this now!" when the appraiser tells them it is worth thousands of dollars. (Just how often are Antiques Roadshow appraisals grossly wrong?) It seems if a painting has aesthetic value, it should be worth something. And if it is ugly, it shouldn't? Perhaps I am just a philistine when it comes to these things. I am...
A relative gave me a "painting" of a leopard a few years ago. Except it isn't a painting at all, but a "giclee" - which is an expensive way of saying an ink-jet printing on canvas, possibly touched in a few places by a brush and maybe even a penned signature. It came with a Certificate of Authenticity and an "appraisal" which put its value at hundreds of dollars. I can find other giclees - or seriolithographs - of this image online for even more, approaching several thousands of dollars from "fine art" websites. Or I can find it on Ebay for a few few tens of dollars. How much is the used car worth? My former boss used to tell customers that it is worth what someone will pay for it.
A web search of the art seller, who also happens to be the appraiser, quickly shows the value of their certificate and what their valued opinion is worth.
- "... as well as a giclée of leopards by Andrew Bone to a man wearing a Yankees T-shirt for $1,025. (When I spoke to the Yankees fan later, he referred to the purchase as a “painting on canvas,” and I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.)"
I originally felt somewhat obligated to hang the leopard giclee up in the house, but even if it has some aesthetic value, it just doesn't look right anywhere in the house. An African leopard in a house filled with North American taxidermy looks more than a little out of place. Many would question my choice for decoration and I understand that. But I'm also very aware that any offense aside, my art choice has value to me and me alone - an aesthetic reminder of my experiences rather than intrinsic worth.
The leopard print is relegated to the basement, and if the market for seriolithographs ever takes off and I end up on Antiques Roadshow, I'm not sure I'll be able to say I like it more.
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