Job lot

If you’ve never bought at auction, now’s the time to try. Nancy Alsop visits Christie's in South Kensington

Above: Catalogue shopping at Christie's

I am sitting in one of Christie’s South Kensington public salerooms, concentrating hard on performing as convincing an impression of rigor mortis as feasibly possible for a living human. Evidently, I am quite the transparent neophyte. My neighbour whispers jovially that I needn’t worry. That old cliché - the one of being landed with a bill running into the thousands after an innocent nose scratch results in a legally binding contractual obligation to purchase, say, a Picasso - is nonsense. One does, in fact, need to be wielding a numbered paddle unambiguously aloft to put in motion a serious bid. Auction novice that I am, I had expected cries of ‘Going, going, gone!’ from the auctioneer and reverent silence from the bidders. I could not be more wrong on every count.

Rather, the young and smiley auctioneer (another revelation), understatedly theatrical, deftly glances between the assembled audience, a panel of intent looking phone bidders and – most space-age – a clear screen through which he communicates with faceless online bidders. For sale today is an inclusive collection of post-war and contemporary art from baby-boomers such as Jonathan Lasker right through to pieces from YBAs Tracey Emin and Damien Hirst. Work is being snapped up left, right and centre and to my astonishment, much of it goes for a song. And most surprisingly of all, it’s a far cry from the fusty, intimidating throng of exclusively serious collectors and art world cognoscenti I’d anticipated. Of course, the pros are here too, but the crowd includes a discernable proportion of bidders who are visibly excited to be there. In short, first timers like me.

But before you even reach the auction room, Christie’s South Kensington holds plenty of fascination. The 1900 mansion block on Sussex Place, built as flats with shops beneath, existed in many incarnations before Christie’s took over its lease in 1977. The present format has happily retained its most curious feature: the Hangar Room. The glass roofed structure in which I am watching images of contemporary art flash past on a monitor as people place their bids was first inhabited by the Locomobil Company of America and later used by the Glendower Aircraft Company (the first of a series of aviation companies to move in, hence the intriguing nickname), while the shop frontage was put to use by retail giants from John Barker and Co to Harvey Nichols, who used the space as a repository. But though this eminently adaptable space has been Christie’s second home for some 30 years, people remain cowed by its perceived gravitas. The contrast of the reality is stark; informal as it is enthralling, a trip to this pre-eminent auction house should be a must for every Londoner and tourist alike.

But for those who find that the theatre of the auction is more alarming than fun, there are other ways to browse the lots. Anyone can walk in from the street and peruse the interior and decorative art sales, have a chat with the experts and buy at affordable prices. Even if you don’t feel moved to make a purchase, the collections are fascinating and ever-changing (there will be 30 throughout 2008, open over the weekend and on Tuesday evenings); the day I went browsing, the newly refurbished sale rooms were being rigged up for a furniture sale, while in a small annexe off the main event was a vestibule of truly exquisite treasures.

Incisively witty Gerald Scarfe and Ronald Searle drawings adorned the wall, while awaiting arrangement were beautiful antique illustrated children’s books that I couldn’t help exclaiming over for so long that I missed the beginning of the auction. The sale administrator’s enthusiasm is palpable and infectious; together we leafed through the pages of Alice in Wonderland, pausing over charming illustrations of the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, as she effused about her covetable job. She is no expert, she tells me, but each week she receives an education in something new. The abiding refrain here? Like the place itself, she is absolutely unstuffy and entirely welcoming.

Back in the auction room, I sit nervously, summoning the courage for my big moment. I have my paddle, I am poised to raise it (for a Hirst –I am not in earnest, my bid is going to be laughably low - but at least I can tell my friends I have bid for what could be one of Saatchi’s cast-offs). The auctioneer calls it and that strange affectation of rigor mortis I felt earlier on is no longer an effort, or indeed conscious. My right arm is paralysed and though the room is far from the silent, hallowed hall I’d imagined, at that moment everything seems oddly quiet. The professionals begin to place serious bids. My moment has passed. I leave – Hirst-less – vowing that one day I will raise my paddle at Christie’s. This novice is a convert.