Eye of the Appraiser
The lessons from the book were paying off.
Combining his ability with real knowledge gave him confidence in what he'd bought and its true value.
Now it finally feels like I've taken my first real step.
He carefully tucked the statue into his bag and moved to the next booth.
This one featured paintings of all sizes and styles. Landscapes, still lifes, abstracts...
Most were just prints on paper or amateur hobbyist works. Fine for decoration, but nothing of real value.
"Hmm..."
Then, in the corner, a small oil painting caught his eye. No bigger than 20 by 30 centimeters.
It depicted a seascape.
Waves crashing against rocks. A gray sky. Rough brushstrokes. Muted colors.
Honestly, it wasn't a masterpiece. But something about it drew him in.
"Mind if I take a look at this one?"
"Go right ahead."
With the owner's permission, he picked up the painting.
But this time, he didn't activate his ability right away.
First, let's check it over like the book said—with my eyes.
He started with the back. He lifted the canvas slightly from the frame to inspect it.
A cracked wooden frame, hand-forged nails that looked crude, and aged canvas fabric.
The canvas and frame are definitely old. Those nails were handmade at least 50 years ago—the heads are all different shapes.
After examining the irregular nail heads closely, he turned to the front.
Up close, the paint surface showed fine craquelure—tiny cracks deep and irregular in pattern.
Real craquelure penetrates deep into the paint layers, and the pattern looks natural.
Leonard’s words echoed in his mind.
At least 50 years old. Not masterful, but definitely an original by an amateur painter.
An old painting. Good—now let's confirm where it's from.
Unlike before, he was using his ability to verify his own judgment.
It felt fun, somehow. As he ran his fingers over the frame...
Everything he'd guessed was spot on!
An original oil painting by an amateur from the 1950s. He'd pinpointed the era just from looking.
$40
Not hugely valuable, but as an old piece, he figured he could get more than this.
"I'll take this painting."
The booth owner approached—a young guy in his twenties, arms covered in tattoos.
"Just the $40."
"Looks pretty old, doesn't it?"
He handed over the cash casually.
The owner wrapped it in newspaper and shrugged indifferently.
"Came from cleaning out my grandpa's place. Was gonna toss it, but hey—at least I made some money."
Second purchase complete.
Reluctant to leave right away, he wandered the market more, checking other booths. Old books, vintage posters, ceramics...
About an hour later, he stopped at a booth with a small watercolor. It showed Pike Place Market in Seattle.
30 by 40 centimeters.
Cheap frame, but the painting itself had real vibrancy. Not amateur work.
"...Mind if I take a closer look?"
The owner waved him on, so he picked up the frame and examined it up close.
The transparent colors typical of watercolor. Paper slightly yellowed. Definitely old.
K. Morrison, 1972.
A small signature below the image.
Original 1970s watercolor. Unfamiliar name—likely a local artist.
The quality's pretty good.
Pretending to check the paper by loosening the back, he focused his mind.
Exactly a 1972 piece.
He hesitated briefly, then checked the price.
$55
Not bad.
At least better than that—he could flip it for more.
"I'll take this one."
Purchase complete.
Today's haul: one bronze statue, two paintings. Total spent: $180.
...This is fun.
Normally, he'd stick to old-looking coins or knickknacks.
But with a trained eye and the knowledge to back it up, his scope had widened dramatically.
And this time, I have real certainty. Proper appraisal, backed by my ability.
He felt a swell of pride.
He wanted Leonard to verify them—see if his estimates matched.
He climbed into the truck and turned the key.
Time to head back to Portland.
He left Seattle, heading south.
Interstate 5 back to Portland.
He'd rescheduled his hauls to learn proper art appraisal from Leonard.
Three days in Portland, then pick up groceries that evening for the run to LA.
Would've been nice to have a direct load to Texas... but can't be helped.
Passenger seat held Leonard's booklet and his Seattle buys: newspaper-wrapped statue, two paintings.
The book's lessons had proven themselves in the field.
Knowledge for initial appraisal, ability to confirm authenticity.
Now I can actually sell stuff.
Not just to Bill—Leonard could introduce him to other dealers for haggling and sales.
Bill's shop had limits on items and prices; that worry was gone now.
About three hours in, Portland's outskirts appeared.
He pulled out his phone and called Leonard. Connected after two rings.
"Hello?"
"Leonard, it's Jake. Delivery's done."
"Back quick. Finished the book?"
"Of course—read it twice."
Silence.
He sounded skeptical.
"All of it? Over 200 pages?"
"Yes. Even made a question list."
"...Hmm."
More silence.
"Fine. Workshop tomorrow, 9 a.m. sharp. One minute late, don't bother."
"Got it—exactly 9."
"And."
Leonard continued.
"Picked up something in Seattle, right?"
"How'd you—"
"Obvious. Bill called. Said hi, recommended that market."
Bill had looped Leonard in.
"Yeah, grabbed a few."
"Curious what. Bring 'em tomorrow."
"Will do."
"9 a.m. 8:59 won't cut it."
"Exactly 9."
Call ended.
He sighed. Leonard was strict about time.
With time to kill, he searched nearby motels.
Better to book a room for the stay.
Budget Inn Portland
$65 a night. Cheapest option.
15 minutes later, checked in. Standard motel room: double bed, small table, TV, bath. Clean.
Bag on the bed, he unpacked the Seattle haul.
Bronze statue first. Unwrapped: the mounted knight emerged.
Oil and watercolor next. All fine during transport.
Wonder what Leonard'll say.
Half excited, half worried. Picky guy—probably critiques over praise.
Mulling it over, he lay down. Tossed for an hour before sleep came.
8:50 a.m.
Early arrival at the workshop—just in case.
Waited in the truck, checking the time.
8:55... 8:58... 8:59...
At exactly 9, he knocked.
Door opened. Leonard's sharp eyes checked his watch.
"Good—right on time. Come in."
Satisfied nod. Inside the familiar space: paintings, statues, workbench, tools...
"Said you read the book?"
"Yes."
"Questions?"
Pulled out his notebook—pages full of notes and questions.
Leonard skimmed it, flipping pages. His expression shifted.
"Hmm... not bad."
Handed it back.
"You actually read it properly. These hit the key points."
"Thank you."
"Save it. Sit."
He sat at the workbench. Leonard across.
"Three-day schedule, starting today."
Leonard opened the notebook, pen moving.
Day 1.
Morning - Observe hands-on appraisal.
Afternoon - Auction house.
Day 2.
Morning - Gallery tour.
Afternoon - Antique shops.
Day 3.
Morning - Ceramics appraisal practice.
Afternoon - Flea market fieldwork.
Tighter than expected.
Leonard slid the notebook over.
"Packed schedule. No breaks to fit it all in three days. Think you can keep up?"
"Absolutely. I can handle it."
"Good."
Leonard stood, grabbed a small painting from the shelf.
"Look at this. 19th-century watercolor. Bought it at auction last month for $300."
Small landscape. French countryside vibe: tree-lined path, cottage, sky.
Delicate strokes, natural colors.
"What's it worth now?"
He pondered. Small size, 20 by 25 cm. Small watercolors usually...
"Uh... not sure."
"$1,200."
Eyes widened.
"Four times?"
"Yeah. Nobody noticed at auction. Signature too faint."
Leonard pulled a magnifying glass, pointed to the corner.
"See here."
Peered in. Faint script in the corner.
Eugène Boudin
"Eugène Boudin. Know him?"
"No."
"Impressionist pioneer. Monet's teacher. Famous for Normandy coast scenes."
Leonard indicated the painting.
"Early work, estimated 1860s. Signature faint, so most missed it. But I know his style."
"How?"
"Study. Seen dozens of his pieces—in books, museums, auction catalogs. His brushwork, colors, composition stuck."
Leonard eyed him directly.
"That's our job. Spot what others miss. Takes knowledge—not just 'it's old,' but 'it's whose.' That's where the real money is."
It hit home.
"Got it. I'll remember."
Leonard set the painting aside.
"Now, show me what you bought."
"Pardon?"
"From Seattle."
Caught off-guard by the directness, he rummaged in his bag anyway.
Newspaper-wrapped bronze statue, two paintings.
"Hmm."
Leonard squinted, starting with the statue. Hefted it for weight, inspected surface—checking patina, maybe. Bottom too. Muttered.
"Barbedienne..."
Looked up.
"How much?"
"$85."
"$85?"
Leonard laughed—not mocking, impressed.
"Nice job. Real deal, of course—you knew."
Heart raced.
"Knew it! So I was right?"
"Yes. Late 19th-century. Barbedienne foundry consistent quality. That mark means authentic."
Leonard held it to the light.
"Patina natural—century-plus oxidation. Fakes everywhere; seller probably unsure."
"Value?"
"Market: at least $400. This condition? $450 easy."
His judgment confirmed.
$85 for a $450 piece.
"Ha, not bad. Read a book and apply it right away?"
Grinning ear-to-ear, Leonard chuckled, then muttered reluctantly.
"Don't like saying this much, but... good. You've... hmm, got real talent. Sincerely."