Writer David Velasco attended the Contemporary art sales with a press pass. Few of the star lots were worth distracting him from the gaggle of journalists:

The press pack is a kind of collective hermeneutics—a para-society forming around a common impossible task and a similarly restricted view of events. Members try to divine meaning from the smallest gestures: a glance at the phone banks, a stutter in the bids—any wrinkle in the proceedings is weighed and interpreted. Thus, seeing is everything: “Those ladies better get out of our way,” a writer said loudly before the proceedings. “Press don’t get many perks, but one is a fucking sightline.” Penned up like unruly sports fanatics, or unmanageable oracles, reporters are the Greek chorus of the auction drama. […]

Out on Park Avenue that night, after an exhausting week at the theater of privilege, members of the press pack bid their adieus in the gloaming:

“So, you fly out tomorrow?” he asked. “How about a drink next time? You never have time for a drink when you’re in town.”

“That’d be lovely,” she said, buttoning her coat. “Tea though. I don’t drink before the sales… I’ll see you in November?”

“Yeah, see you in November.”

Press Play (Scene&Herd/ArtForum)