By Theresa Rézeau 

Max Slevogt's Auktion im Germanischen Nationalmuseum (1928) captures something far greater than an auction. At first glance, it appears to be a room filled with collectors, dealers and curious spectators gathered around an auctioneer. Yet the longer one looks, the more the painting reveals. Faces lean forward in expectation. Eyes follow every gesture. Every figure seems suspended between hope and restraint. Slevogt understood that an auction is never merely about the exchange of an object. It is a public ritual in which a society decides, at least for a moment, what it believes deserves to be valued, preserved and remembered.

Sitting in Sotheby's this week, I was struck by how little the essence of an auction has changed.

The setting was unmistakably modern. Digital screens displayed estimates and bidding increments. Telephone specialists spoke quietly to clients thousands of miles away. Online bidders competed alongside those seated in the room. Yet beneath the technology lay something timeless. As a major work came up for sale, conversations dissolved into silence. Every glance settled on the rostrum. A cautious opening bid was followed by another, then another, until the rhythm of competition gathered its own momentum. When the hammer finally fell, the room exhaled almost collectively. In that brief moment, separated by almost a century, Slevogt's painting no longer felt historical. It felt contemporary.

As I looked around the saleroom, another thought occurred to me. Many people will never set foot in a place like this, not because they are unwelcome, but because they assume it belongs to someone else. Auctions are often portrayed as the playground of billionaires, where masterpieces disappear into private collections behind the discreet nod of a paddle. The headlines rarely help. They celebrate record prices but seldom explain what is actually happening in the room. The result is that one of the art world's most accessible educational experiences has become one of its most misunderstood.

Before an artwork ever reaches the auctioneer's rostrum, it belongs to a tradition that stretches back thousands of years.

Public auctions did not begin with paintings. They began as practical solutions for societies deciding how to distribute goods, property and estates. Ancient civilisations, including Babylon and Rome, used auctions to settle everything from land to the possessions of wealthy citizens. Art entered this system much later, as collections grew in size and value and ownership became increasingly mobile.

The auction houses we recognise today emerged in eighteenth-century Europe, a period when fortunes were changing hands and private collections were being dispersed with increasing frequency. Sotheby's opened its doors in 1744, initially selling books before expanding into works of art. Christie's followed in 1766, quickly establishing itself as a destination for collectors, aristocrats and museums alike. Over time, auctions evolved from practical marketplaces into cultural events where scholarship, reputation and commerce converged.

History also played its part. Revolutions, wars and the changing fortunes of great families released extraordinary collections onto the market. Paintings that had once hung in palaces, country houses and private libraries suddenly became available to new buyers. Auctions became more than places of exchange; they became places where the ownership of culture itself was continually rewritten.

That role has never disappeared.

Today, technology allows a collector in Hong Kong to compete instantly with another in London or New York, yet the principle remains remarkably familiar. Every auction asks the same enduring question: Who will become the next steward of this work, and what is it worth to them? The answer is never determined by the auctioneer alone. It is shaped by history, scholarship, reputation, desire and, ultimately, the confidence of those willing to raise a paddle.

One of the first things to understand about the art market is that it operates through two very different worlds: the primary market and the secondary market.

The primary market is where an artwork begins its public life. It is the first time a work is offered for sale, usually through the artist's studio or a representing gallery. Here, the artist works closely with the gallery to establish prices, build relationships with collectors, and develop a career over time. When someone buys directly from a gallery, they are not simply purchasing an artwork; they are often supporting the next stage of an artist's journey.

The secondary market begins when that artwork changes hands again.

This is the world of Sotheby's, Christie's and other auction houses, where collectors resell works they already own. At this stage, the price is no longer determined by the artist or the gallery. Instead, it reflects what another collector is prepared to pay at that particular moment in time. Reputation, provenance, rarity, condition, exhibition history and collector confidence all play their part.

This distinction explains one of the most common misconceptions about auctions. When a painting sells for millions at Sotheby's, many people assume the artist receives that money. In most cases, they do not. The proceeds generally go to the current owner of the artwork, less the auction house's fees. In some countries, living artists receive a resale royalty through legislation, but the auction itself is usually part of the artwork's second, third or even tenth life - not its first.

The two markets are deeply connected. A strong auction result can strengthen confidence in an artist's wider market, encouraging galleries and collectors alike. Equally, a series of disappointing auction results can affect perception and influence future prices. This is why artists, galleries, collectors and auction houses all pay close attention to what happens when the hammer falls. An auction rarely tells the whole story, but it often becomes one of its most public chapters.

For many artists, seeing their work at Sotheby's or Christie's represents a significant milestone. It is often viewed as confirmation that their work has entered the wider history of collecting. Yet one of the greatest misconceptions is that artists simply apply to an auction house and wait for acceptance.

In reality, the journey usually begins many years earlier.

An artist first builds a body of work. Galleries begin to represent them, introducing their work to collectors who believe in their vision rather than its financial potential alone. Exhibitions follow. Museums may acquire works. Curators include them in important shows. Critics write about them. Books and catalogues document their practice. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a reputation begins to form.

The most important ingredient, however, is collectors. An auction cannot exist unless someone already owns the artwork.

When collectors decide to part with a work - whether to refine a collection, support another purchase, settle an estate or simply because circumstances change - the artwork may enter the secondary market. It is at this point that an auction house may become involved.

That decision is never automatic.

Specialists consider whether there is sufficient demand, whether the work represents the artist well, whether the provenance is strong and whether the timing is right. Even highly respected artists are not guaranteed inclusion. Auction houses are careful custodians of their own reputation as well as that of the artists they present.

Once an artwork is offered to an auction house, another process quietly begins - one that most visitors to the saleroom never see.

Long before a painting appears in a catalogue or hangs on the gallery walls during the preview, it is carefully examined by specialists whose role is to determine not only its value but whether it belongs in the sale at all.

The first question is often one of authenticity.
Is the work genuine? Has it been documented in the artist's catalogue raisonné? Can its history be traced with confidence? Every owner, exhibition and publication forms part of its provenance, creating a biography that accompanies the artwork throughout its life. A single unexplained gap can raise important questions, while a well-documented history can significantly strengthen confidence.

Condition is equally important.

Conservators examine every surface with remarkable precision. They look for restorations, damage, overpainting, structural weaknesses and anything else that may affect both value and longevity. An artwork may be visually beautiful yet require extensive conservation, while another may have survived centuries in extraordinary condition.

Only then does the discussion turn to the market itself.

Auction specialists ask whether collectors are actively seeking the artist's work, whether similar examples have performed well recently, and whether this particular piece represents the artist at their best. They also consider timing. A work associated with an anniversary, a major museum retrospective or renewed scholarly interest may attract greater attention than it would at another moment.

Together with the consignor, they establish an estimate—a carefully considered range that reflects both market knowledge and the desire to encourage competitive bidding. Alongside it sits the confidential reserve price, the minimum amount the seller is prepared to accept. Unlike the estimate, the reserve is not made public, ensuring that both buyer and seller enter the auction with different forms of expectation.

Many people imagine that every artwork submitted to Sotheby's or Christie's is accepted. The reality is very different.

Auction houses decline works every day. Sometimes the timing is wrong. Sometimes the market is not ready. Sometimes the work simply does not meet the standard required for a particular sale.

That selectivity is one of the reasons these institutions continue to command confidence. Every catalogue represents not only the works they choose to include, but also the many they decide not to.

An auction can validate an existing market, but it cannot create one on its own.

The strongest markets are built long before the auctioneer says, "Fair warning." They are built through years of making, exhibiting, collecting and believing in the work itself.

That is the greatest lesson an auction teaches us.

The hammer may announce a price, but it does not create significance. Long before a work reaches the saleroom, its value has already been shaped by the artist's vision, the confidence of collectors, the commitment of galleries, the scholarship of curators and historians, and the countless conversations that surround every important work of art.

The auction simply makes that belief visible.

As I left Sotheby's, I found myself thinking once again of Max Slevogt's crowded saleroom. Nearly a century separates his world from ours, yet the essential question remains unchanged. Every auction is, in its own way, a public conversation about culture.

What do we choose to preserve?
What do we choose to value?
And what stories do we believe are worth carrying into the future?

Author's Note: This essay was inspired by a day spent at Sotheby's in London during The Masterpieces from the Lewis Collection auction, and by Max Slevogt's Auktion im Germanischen Nationalmuseum (1928). Nearly a century apart, they reveal the same enduring truth: while technology has transformed the mechanics of auctions, they remain places where societies publicly negotiate the value of art, memory and culture.