Thursday, December 23, 2010

Bill Doyle

As we get ready to move our possessions in to the new home, and in some ways to repurpose them, I am thinking about their history, and my history with them. When I returned from Spain at the age of 23 I took a job in the Book Department at William Doyle Galleries. Doyle's was a life-changing experience, first, and very much foremost, at that time, because of the personality of Bill Doyle.

I loved Bill very very much. He was, literally, the most generous man I've ever met. He wasn't the richest, just the most generous. Generous in an almost agressive way, as if he was proving a point, which he did.  As an auctioneer, he primarily dealt in things. He gave value to things. In many ways he dictated the value of things. But that was the least of his gifts. Peter Riegert in "Crossing Delancey", (and Lizzy will know this quote) says, at one point, to Amy Irving, "You think pickles define me?" So too with Bill. His life was in selling things, but they didn't define him.  Bill knew people. He loved to analyze people, loved sitting down with "Old Money". He knew more about Lace Curtain Irish, Our Crowd Jews, and who was in Mrs. Astor's "Four Hundred" than those who made up their number.

Many of his clients who were those whose ancestors had money and were usually in the position of selling their paintings and possessions in order to keep their lifestyle up or to pay private school tuitions. I loved being with Bill on these calls. There was no time limit. He did most of the talking, usually telling them stories about the ancestors or peers they didn't know, wrapping them up in his stories until they were ready to let go. It was always letting go; it was always their betraying their roots in favor of their needs, and there was literally no one better than Bill in reasoning with them that they were doing the right thing. He wasn't insincere. Far from it. He loved making a profit but he was always thinking. He was so incredibly sincere that, after buying a houseful of furniture he might send an extra check if it went very well.

Bill was entirely self made. He grew up in Newton Massachusetts, in a massive home with a massive family. His father died young, his mother was stern, and Bill made his own way. He signed up the local houses in August for snow removal so that when local boys came ringing they had to work for him. As a young banker he left every Friday with a van to buy things to sell during the weekend. H gave up banking and opened a shop on E. 81st. Then he started auctioning out east during the summers. He was a person who was constantly in motion. Even sitting in the front seat of the Country Squire with Rusty driving he was moving his socks up and down, crossing his legs back and forth. That's a Fly in Amber memory - him sitting in the front of the car during the weekend, wearing khakis, loafers, blazer, and, in inclement weather, a blue v-necked sweater. He was a brunette until he went grey quick in the last year of his life.

He was a remarkable friend. Always teaching, always sharing. He couldn't ever shut down - the stories, the advice, the lessons. Rusty and I would sit in the dark car on trips back from somewhere - Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Virginia, and the stories would come out in the quiet of night - childhood, beginnings, family, clients and friends.

He was obsessed with food. Food was constantly being delivered to the wealthy and the poor. He kept one food shop in business. I know this, because the place, Word of Mouth, went bankrupt within six months after his death.

But, I have to say, one of the greatest gifts that Bill gave to me was just uncomplicated love. Our relationship, once we knew each other, was, in my opinion, perfect. He loved me, I loved him. Beyond that, I loved his daughters, who were each incredibly bright and interesting. I loved his wife, who was and is smart and resilient. I was a lucky young man in a perfect world that had no limitations. The gifts keep coming - I'm married to someone I met at Doyle's, I'm surrounded by the glom that reminds me of Bill every day. Each piece - the picnic set, the chair with the rolled arms, the silver service, is filled with his stories.

They say that the best friends are made in childhood or war, but my time with Bill was both childhood and war, yet without any of the negative issues. We all worked so many hours, and so many days in a row, but, at the same time,  we were all working with interesting young attractive people and, most importantly, we all worked for him.

I think of Bill and miss Bill every day. It's near Christmas and I always think of him. He would have been organizing massive bags of food to bring to East Hampton, and Ned in the shop on 5 would be giving him the small little chest of drawers or interesting things that had to be fixed so that it could be put under the tree. Some of his clients would have given cases of wine, although he didn't drink. He'd drink a double espresso, tell me that I was the luckiest kid in the world to be working for him, that I should be paying him and then, as he was as bad as saying goodbye as I was, he'd be off.

No comments:

Post a Comment