When we used to travel with the kids back in the early 2000s, I was always keen on exposing them to history and its various artefacts. One time the Son&Heir commented on the age of a church in, I think, Salzburg, noting that the date of its build was something like 1124 AD; whereupon I pointed out that this was one of the benefits of knowing a foreign language, in that the church had been rebuilt (or else renovated) in 1124 AD, but its original completion date was some time earlier, around 980 AD. He was duly impressed by its age, less so by my familiarity with German (that came later).
Another example is when we took them to Dachau, where they saw at first hand evidence of the disgusting atrocities inflicted on the prisoners by the Nazis, and after we’d finished walking around, we told the kids this: “We brought you here so that when sometime in the future people might say this never happened, you will know the truth of it.”
Touching history.
But that’s not what I really wanted to talk about today. There’s another kind of “touching history” which is a lot more common, and that involves rubbing up against fame.
In its most innocent form, this includes modern customs like taking photos of oneself with someone famous (“selfies”), getting the autograph of some “celebrity”, or holding out one’s hand to the celebrity as they pass by for a “high five” or “fist bump”. When I see this nonsense taking place, it reminds me of nothing so much as the New Testament story of people saying to Jesus, “Only let me touch your garment and I shall be healed” — as though simply being in the presence of a person of greater distinction will somehow boost the stature or wellbeing of the supplicant.
What really annoys me is when the request is refused and the exchange turns nasty, like the “celebrity” is somehow “too good” to grant so small a wish. Well, yes; except that said request is often just the latest of many thousands that the hapless celebrity has had thrown at them, and, well, enough is enough.
I encountered such an occasion once, back when I was somewhat more well-known than I am today. In my travels I met up with a Reader for a cup of coffee in his home town, which was all very pleasant. Afterwards, he told me he had a gun to show me — and of course I never turn down that kind of opportunity. As it happened, it was an M1 Garand, and from its serial number I guessed its date of manufacture at about 1942 or ’43. (Lucky guess: 1943, as the owner told me proudly.) But that wasn’t its value. Its value lay in its appearance; not to put to fine a point on it, the rifle looked as though it had just left the factory the day before, and it hadn’t been reconditioned, either. It was in absolute pristine condition, and I confess to having to wipe a small stream of drool from my mouth.
Then the guy pulled out a Sharpie and asked me to autograph its stock.
Look; it’s not like I was Carlos Hathcock or Jeff Cooper, or even (especially) the WWII vet to whom it had first been issued. I was, and am, just an ordinary guy who writes a blog about guns, and in no way did I feel that my signature should desecrate that extraordinary rifle. It’s not like my autograph would enhance its value, after all — in fact, it would more than likely halve its collector appeal.
So I refused to sign the rifle; and I will never forget the look of disappointment — followed by actual anger — on the guy’s face, and our meeting ended on a sour note.
There’s another kind of touching history, of course, and this is the expensive kind. Modern history is replete with examples of things becoming extraordinarily valuable simply because of an item’s provenance. You’ve all seen them: Paul Newman’s wristwatch (Breitling? Rolex? I forget), Steve McQueen’s E-type Jag, and the latest example, this Fender Telecaster once owned by glam rocker Marc Bolan and thereafter by Mike Oldfied, who played it on Tubular Bells. Now let’s be honest; a 1960 Telecaster has a great deal of intrinsic value all by itself — it’s probably worth at least five or six grand, simply because of its rarity, and they were somewhat better made than those manufactured after the CBS sellout of the 1970s (less so today, though). But somehow, its value has been transformed by its provenance and it’s now worth close to $40 grand?
Let’s not even talk about the Ferrari 250 LM which, having won the 24-Hour Le Mans race back in 1960 or whenever, recently sold for over $60 million at auction. I mean, really?
It’s not like you’re going to drive that thing around on the street, anyway; your insurance company will have a collective heart attack just upon hearing about it, and there would be mass suicides if it was totaled on L.A.’s 405 or Dallas’s Central Expressway by some unlicensed Mexican driving a gardener’s truck. (And, as Ex-Drummer Knob puts it, all those old Ferraris are total pigs to drive, regardless of how pretty they look, and he knows what he’s talking about*.)
I know, I know; a lot of “collector appeal” is driven by ego, and if you can afford to indulge yourself, be my guest. I know too that a lot of “collectibles” are regarded simply as investments, and once again, if you’re prepared to put up with the risk, be my guest too.
But I can’t help feeling that a lot of “provenance” value is driven by possessiveness — that childish attitude of “I have it, and you don’t”. And as Russell Crowe’s character in A Good Year asked his boss (the owner of an original Van Gogh, who kept it locked away in a vault because of its incredible value): “How often do you look at it?”
It’s little better than showing off your selfie with Lewis Hamilton to your buddies: “I stood next to him, and you didn’t.”
That’s some pretty pointless validation of yourself there, isn’t it?
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