By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By Nick Schou
By Gustavo Arellano
By Gustavo Arellano
By Steve Lowery
By R. Scott Moxley
For old-school art pickers, the thrill is fading—as is the payoff
There’s a big plaster duck in the driveway of Rick Orr’s mobile home in Phoenix. If you know Rick Orr, you know this can’t possibly be just any plaster duck; it’s almost certainly one of the world’s rarest plaster ducks, probably worth tens of thousands of dollars and crafted by some dead guy no one has ever heard of but whose work is deeply coveted. And given the duck’s placement, about halfway between the door of Orr’s house and the bumper of his big, beat-up Ford van, you would have to assume the duck is about to be delivered by Rick to some rich guy who’s waiting anxiously for its arrival. Someone who will peel several large bills from a thick roll and hand them to Orr.
And you’d be right about everything but that last part. The duck is inestimably rare, and it is on its way to the home of a local gazillionaire. But the rich guy won’t be paying thousands of dollars to Orr, who has spent his adult life schlepping rare artifacts from other people’s driveways to the homes of wealthy collectors, whose lifelong knack for finding fine art in dusty attics is so renowned it’s the subject of a new documentary film. Rather, he’ll be paying Orr a couple of bucks for fixing the duck’s beak. Because Orr is presently making money as a handyman to the rich people to whom he used to sell million-dollar paintings.
If he’s lately reduced to repairing expensive lawn ornaments, Orr is still known among the art collectors and dealers who’ve heard of him—and they are legion—as the King of the Pickers. At the height of his game, he was, according to Benjamin Storck, an art dealer in Palm Springs, “the single most impressive finder of fine art and important furnishings in the country. Perhaps in the world. He was the picker.”
For nearly 40 years, Orr has made his living hunting for treasure among other people’s trash; he prefers to think of himself as a treasure hunter, but he’ll cop to “picker,” the term used in the antiques and fine-art worlds to describe people who scout out valuables at yard sales and then mark them up and sell them to dealers, who in turn mark them up again and sell them to us.
Call them what you like (and some call them vultures), pickers are a dying breed. Internet auction site eBay has seen to that. As has Craigslist. And other Internet auction houses. Even PBS’s Antiques Roadshow.
“They’re killing us off,” Orr says. “Nowadays, Grandma dies, and her kids put the china on eBay, and they overprice it because they saw some poor slob get a thousand bucks for a teacup on TV. Instead of sticking stuff into a yard sale for $5, they’re putting it on eBay for $150. It’s the death of my industry, man.”
These days, the King of the Pickers would gladly trade his kingdom for a decent oil painting.
He’s had them, too. Highly prized Expressionist paintings and dead-mint Alexander Calder rugs and George Jensen bracelets, too. Some he’s found in galleries or antique stores, then marked up 700 percent and immediately resold. Most he’s discovered at flea markets, thrift shops and estate sales, those halfway houses for fine art that no one recognizes. He buys “ugly” paintings for $50 and resells them for $50,000.
It’s that Picasso that Orr remembers most, though: the untitled painting he calls Three Wise Men. It’s the painting that ignited his career as a picker in 1979. He thinks about it every day while he’s out treasure-hunting, hoping he’ll find something as rare and beautiful as that painting, which has an estimated value of $20 million and which, at that estate sale, was priced at $500. The story of the painting that got away is the backdrop of Orr’s new no-budget movie, Picking for Picasso, about the fate of the American picker. Both the movie and Orr’s story have a happy ending, although neither narrative may be entirely true. At the moment, Orr isn’t saying.
“What is true,” he says, patting the plaster duck’s head as he heads toward his truck, “is there might be treasure out there today. And I’m going to go find out.”
* * *
Time was, finding treasure at tag sales and junk shops was as easy as getting into your car and heading for them. Michael Robertson, who did most of his own picking for the antique shops he once owned in Phoenix and San Diego, recalls having to get up at 4 in the morning to stand in line at better estate sales, which Robertson calls “a kind of an indoor yard sale, where usually the homeowner has died, and everything in the house, even the aspirin in the medicine chest, is for sale.