Auction Triumph and Mentor's Farewell
“Item one, a Victorian-style chair. Estimated production in the 1890s. Starting bid: 50 dollars.”
The auctioneer's voice boomed through the microphone, filling the space.
A middle-aged man in the front row was the first to raise his hand.
“We have 50 dollars. 60 dollars?”
Another hand rose slowly from the opposite row.
“60 dollars! Do I hear 70?”
The first man hesitated for a moment before raising his hand again. The clerk scribbling bid numbers on paper moved her pen busily.
“70 dollars. 80 dollars?”
No one raised a hand this time. Those who'd inspected the chair seemed to lose interest once they heard the price.
“70 dollars once, 70 dollars twice… sold!”
The auctioneer slammed down the gavel. Memo pads flipped everywhere simultaneously.
The auction continued from there. Items 5, 10, 15… With each number change, small knickknacks and old decorations took the stage, found owners, and vanished quickly.
People nodded, weighed prices thoughtfully, pondered. After about 30 minutes, the auction hall filled with a bit of heat and weary breaths.
Items 30, 35, 40…
As the auction progressed, my heart started beating faster and faster.
A few more items passed…
“Item 47. An oil painting of a harbor scene, presumed to be by Robert Anderson. Painted in 1947. Oil on canvas. Starting bid: 150 dollars.”
Finally.
I took a deep breath and slowly raised my hand.
“Bidder 34, 150 dollars. 200 dollars?”
Someone else raised their hand right away. A man in his 50s, wearing glasses, with a stern look.
“Excellent. Bidder 51, 200 dollars. 250 dollars?”
I glanced around briefly. Aside from the middle-aged man and me, no one seemed too interested in the painting. They just checked it out again after seeing the price climb faster than expected.
“That's right, smart approach. In an auction, always scan the room like that. Figure out who's competing with you, how many people are interested… Gauge all that.”
Leonard, watching me leisurely from the side, nodded. I took another deep breath and raised my hand.
“250 dollars! 300 dollars?”
Bidder 51 raised his hand again. The real competition had begun.
“Bidder 51, 300 dollars. 350 dollars?”
“350 dollars! Do I hear 400?”
Leonard waved dismissively, signaling to stay relaxed. I nodded and subtly eyed my opponent.
“Hmm…”
Bidder 51 looked hesitant. His limit seemed about the same as mine, or maybe lower. After some deliberation, he raised his hand.
“400 dollars! 450 dollars…”
My max was 500 dollars. Anything more wasn't worth it. I stayed calm, hid my nerves, nodded confidently, and deliberately raised my hand a beat faster.
“450 dollars! 500 dollars?”
The auctioneer looked at bidder 51. The man glanced at me—his face had stiffened.
Give up… just give up.
A brief silence fell.
Then he shook his head. He'd folded.
“450 dollars once…”
The auctioneer called out loudly.
“450 dollars twice…”
My heart pounded.
“Sold! Congratulations.”
The gavel fell. I'd done it. I'd snagged the painting I wanted!
Leonard chuckled softly beside me.
“Congrats. Impressive.”
“Thank you.”
My hands trembled. A sigh of excitement and relief escaped me.
The auction went on, but nothing else caught my eye.
After it ended, I headed to the office to pay. 450 dollars—charged it to my credit card.
I got the receipt, grabbed the painting, and stepped outside. The sun was starting to set.
“How's it feel?”
Leonard tapped my shoulder.
“Thrilling. But good.”
“Of course. You're making money.”
“This painting… think we can really sell it for a good price?”
“Haha, plenty. There's demand in Portland. Hit up galleries or collectors, it'll sell fast. Needs a bit of restoration… If you're okay with it, I'll buy it off you right now for 800 dollars.”
“Sounds perfect to me.”
We rode back to the workshop in Leonard's car. He took the Robert Anderson painting from me and nodded.
“That's it for today. You did well.”
“Thank you.”
“Be here at 9 a.m. tomorrow. Gallery tour then. I'll show you the real high-end stuff.”
“Yes, sir. I'll be there.”
As I left the workshop, Leonard handed me 800 dollars in cash. He wasn't even a dealer— no real reason for him to buy my painting outright. Knowing it was a favor and his way of looking out for me, I thanked him sincerely.
“Thanks, Mr. Leonard.”
“Enough. Go rest up. Busy tomorrow.”
I waved him off and headed back to the motel. Sitting on the bed, I checked the cash from Leonard. Turned 450 dollars into 800 in one day.
Plus what I got in Seattle…
Roughly 1,680 dollars' worth of goods just from Seattle and here. And the key was, this wasn't luck—it was my real skill uncovering them.
It's actually working.
Combining Leonard's teachings with my ability created real synergy. I looked forward to what I'd learn in the next two days.
I pulled out my phone and texted Dorothy and Sam to check in. Dorothy's reply—Nancy counting the days till I got back on her fingers every day—made me burst out laughing. I sent Bill a thank-you text too.
I set the phone down, showered, and lay in bed. Tomorrow's gallery tour with Leonard had me excited too. What would I pick up from the high-end pieces?
One thing was clear: Every day learning from Leonard right now was priceless. In three days, I'd be a changed man. I drifted off with anticipation and excitement.
The remaining two days flew by.
On the second morning, Leonard and I toured galleries in downtown Portland.
At the Portland Art Museum, we focused on the Impressionist collection. Monet, Renoir, Pissarro… Masters whose names anyone familiar with art would know. Leonard stood before key pieces, explaining them to me.
“Winch, check this Monet. Focus on the brushstrokes. Short, quick touches—that's Monet's signature. Capturing the play of light.”
Sure enough, seeing it through Leonard's lens made the details pop. Not the whole picture, but the fine, delicate parts.
“That's why I brought you here—to see and memorize these traits firsthand. Who knows? You might stumble on an undiscovered Monet someday.”
Leonard chuckled slyly and moved to the next painting. If I actually found a lost Monet… The thought was dizzying.
“Renoir's portraits—look at the skin tones. Soft, glowing. That's his style. Let's check a few more.”
Each artist's signatures, styles, eras, techniques… Even rough price ranges and the stories behind the works—he shared it all.
Leonard's lessons were different from generic art info. It felt like appraiser-specific knowledge stacking up in my brain.
Afternoon, we hit a few private galleries—mostly run by Leonard's friends.
Morrison Gallery
The owner, Jennifer, welcomed us. A woman in her 50s, longtime friend of Leonard's.
“Oh, Leonard! Long time. Who's this?”
“My student. Just for three days.”
“Student? Leonard teaching someone? Wow…”
Jennifer eyed me curiously.
“You're lucky. He doesn't teach just anyone.”
“Haha, thank you.”
Jennifer gave us the tour. Modern abstracts on the walls, sculptures…
“This one's by an up-and-comer. Not famous yet, but full of potential.”
She explained gallery business too—buying, selling, commissions, client management. Insider stuff you couldn't just hear anywhere.
“We connect artists and collectors. It's not just selling—it's building relationships.”
We visited three more galleries that afternoon. Each had its niche: classical art, modern, photography, sculpture…
“Meet Jake Winch. I'm mentoring him.”
Leonard always introduced me to the owners. They looked at me with interest when he called me his student. I got faces memorized, swapped contacts with some.
“Good job. In this business, people are everything. Like how Bill sent you my way—who knows who else might help? Don't miss these chances.”
Leonard said that on the way back. That's when I realized he'd carved out time just for me to make these connections.
“Thanks again today, Mr. Leonard.”
“…Hmph. Good you get it.”
He grumbled but smiled faintly. By now, I knew his style and just chuckled.
Third morning, porcelain appraisal practice. Leonard set various pieces on the workbench.
“Today, porcelain focus.”
Chinese blue-and-white, Japanese pottery, European… He explained each one's traits.
“Chinese blue-and-white uses cobalt pigment. Qing dynasty is vivid blue; Ming has a grayer tone.”
He handed them to me to inspect myself, making me spot the features he described.
“Feel the weight too. Real porcelain's hefty. Pottery's light. Big difference.”
Sure enough, the weights varied noticeably. I compared them by picking up several.
“Sound matters. Tap gently. Real porcelain rings clear—ting.”
I tapped lightly as instructed. Clear ring.
“Cheap fakes are dull. See?”
After porcelain practice, afternoon flea market. No minute wasted—tight, precise schedule. This one was the Portland Saturday Market.
“Try it solo this time. I'll follow and watch.”
“Got it.”
We browsed with Leonard. At one booth, I spotted a small silver teapot. 18th-century style.
“Hmm…”
A quick touch, and memories hit. 18th-century workshop, silversmith… Genuine.
“This looks good.”
Checked the base—English silver hallmarks. 280 dollars. Not bad. Leonard inspected and nodded.
“Solid. British-made, hallmarks legit. Could fetch 450.”
“Buy it?”
“Your call.”
I pondered. 170 profit… A bit low, but.
“I'll take it.”
After the teapot, more browsing. Bought a 19th-century woodblock print for 35 dollars—Japanese replica. Showed Leonard; he nodded, “At least 120.”
Third day wrapped. Back at the workshop that evening, farewell with Leonard.
“Learned a ton. Truly grateful.”
Leonard crossed his arms.
“Not bad for three days. Minimum to jump into this game. Decent.”
“Thank you.”
“But you know there's tons more to learn? This is just the start.”
His sharp gaze. I grinned and nodded quickly.
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“Good! Keep studying. Books, galleries, museums… Slacking means missing out. Hustle constantly, build real experience.”
“Will do.”
Leonard grabbed a thick book from the shelf.
“Take this. Art pricing guidebook. Updates yearly. Reference for market prices.”
“…Thank you.”
It was as heavy as his kindness.
“And this.”
He handed over a business card.
Margaret Chen - Art Dealer, New York
“Friend, gallery dealer in New York. Good finds, give her a call. Mention me—she'll deal fair. Trustworthy.”
I took the card.
“Really, thank you. How can I repay—”
Leonard cut me off with a hand.
“No repayment needed. Just one promise.”
He pointed at me.
“Don't waste what I taught you. Use this knowledge right.”
“…Yes. I will.”
For the first time, Leonard softened.
“Good. Winch, you've got talent. Intuition and knowledge—rare combo. Don't squander it.”
My chest warmed.
“I'll remember.”
We shook hands. His grip was warm.
“Heading to LA? Drive safe.”
“I'll stop by next time I'm near. Stay healthy.”
Out of the workshop into Portland's night air. Cool breeze on my face.
Bag packed with three days' haul: two paintings, bronze statue, silver teapot, woodblock print.
Bought smart—now sell smart for full value.
Back to the truck, fired it up. Headed to the center for cargo.
Next stop: Los Angeles, California. Haul groceries there, prep for Austin return.
Nonstop hustle… but not bad.
The engine roared pleasantly down Portland streets. South on I-5. Toward California.
The door to a new world stood wide open.