Here’s how it worked: Philbrick made his
money betting big on a rise in price for a few
artists, notably Stingel, who is known for
his seemingly endless series of indistin-
guishable paintings of wallpaper (I’m not
kidding, though I admit to liking them),
and Wool, whose most famous text paint-
ing fittingly spells out the word fool. It
worked so well for a while—Stingel’s prices
went as high as $10.5 million in May 2017—
that he called himself “Stingeldamus.”
Philbrick had a close-knit group of friends
and supporters he regularly traded with
who were steadily driving up prices from
one deal to the next. Often it was “secondary
market” works (what car dealerships might
call “pre-owned”), since galleries in various
ways make it difficult to buy works of cov-
eted “primary market” art (art that has not
been previously sold, sometimes hot off the
easel) by giving early access to their estab-
lished collectors. These are people trusted
not to flip the art and instead play along to
the subtle and incremental holding game
lest its value shoot up unsustainably quickly
and then deflate. In practice, this often
means that only insiders can reliably make
money in an art market.
Sometimes you’d have to do clever things
to get access. Philbrick would use a network
of art advisers and proxies—even actual
actors playing an art-interested version
of their recognizable selves to starstruck
gallerists—to buy works that might not be
for sale directly to him, only to flip them.
The flip is what mattered, the prices
going ever higher. If this sounds like the
condo market in Miami Beach in 2007,
there’s a reason for that.
The art market was estimated at $64 bil-
lion last year. But the value of art in exis-
tence is much more. Art is an asset class,
but one that offers no dividends or income
by hanging on the wall or, as is so often the
case, being jammed into Fort Knox–like
storage facilities in places like Geneva, des-
ignated “free ports” that function as
government-sanctioned holding pens
where, if the art is never hung on the walls,
the owner doesn’t have to pay taxes on it.
There it sits, hopefully maturing in value
like a vintage wine. (There’s also wine and
even cars parked in these facilities.)
How do you take advantage of that? The
past decade has seen an avalanche of banks
and finance companies offering easy credit
collateralized by fine art and spurred by low
interest rates and the highly publicized
spike in art prices. Basically, you’d borrow
against your holdings and do what you
could to ensure that the values rose, includ-
ing selling off shares of the artworks and
teaming up with others to spread the risk
of artificially bidding up the prices.
With the greater expansion in the global34 new^ york^ |^ march^ 16–29,^2020
And for a long time, I thought that was
one of the most fortunate days of my life,
since, soon after I bought a Nate Lowman
painting from Modern Collections, we
became friends and art-world wingmen for
each other in life and business. Though I’d
been making art, teaching, and curating
as well as buying and selling art at auction
and brokering sales between art dealers
fo r more than 20 years by then, the last
eight while living in London—all the while
writing about the trade from an insider’s
perspective—I’d never made all that much
money off it all. The art world seems like it’s
flooded with dough, and it is, but its best-
publicized assets (pricey name-brand art-
works) are for the most part bid up and
ex changed among a rather limited number
of people, most of whom are already deeply
entrenched in the market. It’s a game easy to
gawk at but not as easy to be dealt into. And
Philbrick was determined to be a player.
For a few years, we drank a great deal of
very expensive wine and ate obscenely
priced sushi rolls. We took trips together:
New Year’s in St. Moritz, summers in Spain
(not Ibiza; he was too busy, he told me, when
he was with the “clients” he never wanted
me to interact with), and art trips to Dijon,
Milan, Paris, and even Crystal Bridges in
Arkansas, frequently on jets he’d chartered
for the occasion. Between competing for
steps on the iPhone Health app and drink-
ing institutional amounts of red wine and
Monkey 47 gin, we talked shop. We were
friends. We loved art. He was a key source of
information for my column on Artnet; a
character I invented called Deep Pockets
was an amalgam of insiders but primarily
Philbrick. My kids would always say, “Inigo
is either the next Larry G. [Gagosian] or a
future jailbird,” years before any major red
flags arose—little geniuses that they are.
Friends would accuse me of loving him,
and I can’t deny that. Not in a physical way
so much, though there was admittedly a lot
of horsing around, especially under the
influence, which we often were. He’d fre-
quently slip my glasses on when I’d remove
them to text. He even grabbed me once fol-
lowing an afternoon consumed by consum-
ing a few bottles and put me into a violentbear hug on a London street corner that I
had to struggle my way out of.
Through all of this, he helped me make a
good deal of money, I’ll admit. He’d sell me,
say, a Christopher Wool work on paper for
around $800,000 or a Rudolf Stingel on
canvas for around a million dollars, then
he’d resell it to another client and we’d both
pocket a few hundred thousand. Philbrick
sauntered into the salesrooms like a sea-
soned veteran beyond his years with balls of
steel. I used him to get access to evening
auction tickets, as I was blacklisted from
time to time for my writing, and he liked the
breadth of my experience and the profile
that my writing enjoys. As recently as
December 2018, I wrote on Artnet News
that “the young dealer ... has kept a low pro-
file as a secondary trader well known
among the cognoscenti for being shrewd
and having a mind of his own ... a rarity
in the market.”
I didn’t realize how he might be in over
his head—or the extent of it—until six
months or so after I wrote that. It was
around then that he was accused of selling
art that wasn’t his to sell in elaborate trans-
actions and trying to hide that even more
elaborately. Philbrick, it seemed, was a
mini-Madoff of the art world.
It appears he could have cheated people
out of $70 million or more. I wasn’t
immune either; he took me—his friend!—
for $1.75 million when we (or so he told me,
anyway) bought a Stingel copper cast
together with another partner.
As all of this came to light, last Novem-
ber, he vanished.as an art dealer, he had few rivals,
from his generation or beyond. He had an
uncanny knack for finding the very best
examples of a select group of artists who
were in demand (or would soon be) and
knowing the minutiae of those markets
better than anyone I’ve met. It was his
facility for finding great examples of highly
sought-after art, and the well-endowed
homes and art storages to park it in, no
matter how temporarily, that attracted the
deep-pocketed, from Jopling to a coterie of
the young, privileged, and entitled.NoMarch 2016He was a key source of informationfor my column on Artnet;a character I invented called DeepPockets was an amalgam ofinsiders but primarily Philbrick.
PHOTOGRAPHS: COURTESY OF SCHACHTERTRANSMITTED________ COPY ___ DD ___ AD ___ PD ___ EICTRANSMITTED0620FEA_Inigo_lay [Print]_36890243.indd 34 3/13/20 10:24 PMHere’s how it worked: Philbrick made his
money betting big on a rise in price for a few
artists, notably Stingel, who is known for
his seemingly endless series of indistin-
guishable paintings of wallpaper (I’m not
kidding, though I admit to liking them),
and Wool, whose most famous text paint-
ing fittingly spells out the word fool. It
worked so well for a while—Stingel’s prices
went as high as $10.5 million in May 2017—
that he called himself “Stingeldamus.”
Philbrick had a close-knit group of friends
and supporters he regularly tradedwith
who were steadily driving up pricesfrom
one deal to the next. Often it was “secondary
market” works (what car dealerships might
call “pre-owned”), since galleries in various
ways make it difficult to buy works ofcov-
eted “primary market” art (art that hasnot
been previously sold, sometimes hot offthe
easel) by giving early access to their estab-
lished collectors. These are people trusted
not to flip the art and instead play alongto
the subtle and incremental holding game
lest its value shoot up unsustainably quickly
and then deflate. In practice, this often
means that only insiders can reliably make
money in an art market.
Sometimes you’d have to do clever things
to get access. Philbrick would use a network
of art advisers and proxies—even actual
actors playing an art-interested version
of their recognizable selves to starstruck
gallerists—to buy works that might not be
for sale directly to him, only to flip them.
The flip is what mattered, the prices
going ever higher. If this sounds like the
condo market in Miami Beach in 2007,
there’s a reason for that.
The art market was estimated at $64 bil-
lion last year. But the value of art in exis-
tence is much more. Art is an asset class,
but one that offers no dividends or income
by hanging on the wall or, as is so often the
case, being jammed into Fort Knox–like
storage facilities in places like Geneva, des-
ignated “free ports” that function as
government-sanctioned holding pens
where, if the art is never hung on the walls,
the owner doesn’t have to pay taxes on it.
There it sits, hopefully maturing in value
likea vintage wine.(There’salsowineand
evencarsparkedinthesefacilities.)
Howdoyoutake advantageofthat?The
pastdecadehasseenanavalancheofbanks
andfinancecompaniesofferingeasycredit
collateralizedbyfineart andspurredbylow
interestratesandthehighlypublicized
spikeinart prices.Basically, you’d borrow
againstyourholdingsanddowhat you
couldtoensurethatthevaluesrose,includ-
ingsellingoffsharesoftheartworksand
teamingupwithotherstospreadtherisk
ofartificiallybiddinguptheprices.
Withthegreaterexpansionintheglobal34 newyork| march16–29,^2020
And for a long time, I thoughtthatwas
one of the most fortunate days ofmy life,
since, soon after I bought a NateLowman
painting from Modern Collections,we
became friends and art-world wingmenfor
each other in life and business. ThoughI’d
been making art, teaching, andcurating
as well as buying and selling art atauction
and brokering sales between artdealers
fo r more than 20 years by then,thelast
eight while living in London—allthewhile
writing about the trade from aninsider’s
perspective—I’d never made all thatmuch
money off it all. The art world seemslike it’s
flooded with dough, and it is, butitsbest-
publicized assets (pricey name-brandart-
works) are for the most part bidupand
ex changed among a rather limitednumber
of people, most of whom are alreadydeeply
entrenched in the market. It’s a gameeasyto
gawk at but not as easy to be dealtinto.And
Philbrick was determined to be aplayer.
For a few years, we drank a greatdealof
very expensive wine and ate obscenely
priced sushi rolls. We took tripstogether:
New Year’s in St. Moritz, summersinSpain
(not Ibiza; he was too busy, he toldme,when
he was with the “clients” he neverwanted
me to interact with), and art tripstoDijon,
Milan, Paris, and even Crystal Bridgesin
Arkansas, frequently on jets he’d chartered
for the occasion. Between competingfor
steps on the iPhone Health app anddrink-
ing institutional amounts of redwineand
Monkey 47 gin, we talked shop.We were
friends. We loved art. He was a keysourceof
information for my column onArtnet;a
character I invented called DeepPockets
was an amalgam of insiders butprimarily
Philbrick. My kids would always say,“Inigo
is either the next Larry G. [Gagosian]ora
future jailbird,” years before any majorred
flags arose—little geniuses that theyare.
Friends would accuse me of lovinghim,
and I can’t deny that. Not in a physicalway
so much, though there was admittedlya lot
of horsing around, especially underthe
influence, which we often were.He’dfre-
quently slip my glasses on when I’dremove
them to text. He even grabbed meoncefol-
lowing an afternoon consumed byconsum-
inga fewbottlesandputmeintoa violent
bear hug on a London street corner that I
had to struggle my way out of.
Through all of this, he helped me make a
good deal of money, I’ll admit. He’d sell me,
say, a Christopher Wool work on paper for
around $800,000 or a Rudolf Stingel on
canvas for around a million dollars, then
he’d resell it to another client and we’d both
pocket a few hundred thousand. Philbrick
sauntered into the salesrooms like a sea-
soned veteran beyond his years with balls of
steel. I used him to get access to evening
auction tickets, as I was blacklisted from
time to time for my writing, and he liked the
breadth of my experience and the profile
that my writing enjoys. As recently as
December 2018, I wrote on Artnet News
that “the young dealer ... has kept a low pro-
file as a secondary trader wellknown
among the cognoscenti for beingshrewd
and having a mind of his own ...a rarity
in the market.”
I didn’t realize how he might be in over
his head—or the extent of it—until six
months or so after I wrote that. It was
around then that he was accused of selling
art that wasn’t his to sell in elaborate trans-
actions and trying to hide that even more
elaborately. Philbrick, it seemed, was a
mini-Madoff of the art world.
It appears he could have cheated people
out of $70 million or more. I wasn’t
immune either; he took me—his friend!—
for $1.75 million when we (or so hetold me,
anyway) bought a Stingel copper cast
together with another partner.
As all of this came to light, last Novem-
ber, he vanished.as an art dealer, he had few rivals,
from his generation or beyond. He had an
uncanny knack for finding the very best
examples of a select group of artists who
were in demand (or would soonbe) and
knowing the minutiae of those markets
better than anyone I’ve met. Itwas his
facility for finding great examples of highly
sought-after art, and the well-endowed
homes and art storages to park it in, no
matter how temporarily, that attracted the
deep-pocketed, from Jopling to a coterie of
theyoung,privileged,andentitled.He was a key source of informationfor my column on Artnet;a character I invented called DeepPockets was an amalgam ofinsiders but primarily Philbrick.