We Stumped the Antiques Roadshow

Finding the origin of a prized artifact

As soon as I was old enough to be left at home alone, my parents had a standing Saturday morning date to garage sale. Their Sunday evening excursion included a box of Popeye’s fried chicken and a ride through a few affluent subdivisions in South Baton Rouge to see if anyone had thrown away a million dollar treasure. My father never passed a flea market without stopping, and my mother has been known to haggle with Catholic priests in order to get a better price at a church garage sale.  So it goes without saying, the thrill of the hunt and a love of antiques are deeply encoded in my genes. I have spent most of my adult life collecting oddities from around the world.

When I saw that Antiques Roadshow was coming to Baton Rouge, I made all of my friends and family sign up for tickets. I was on a mission to have my Victorian wrought iron butler bell pull appraised, which had quickly become my most prized possession since purchasing it at an estate sale last summer for about $100. I even named this iron sculpture Sabrina.

Graced with six feet of hand-forged wrought iron roses that cascade down an iron shaft, she has always been far too grand an antiquity for my Spanish Town bungalow. She should be gracing the main entrance of a castle or abbey.  Instead, she hangs on the wall of a room we call "The Ultra Lounge,” facing a collection of black velvet paintings and Mexican feather art.

Luck was on my side. Country Roads publisher, James Fox-Smith asked if I wanted to represent the magazine at the Roadshow as a member of the press. I jumped at the chance. Sabrina would get the VIP treatment she deserved, and I might finally learn about her origins.

In exchange for a nice lunch, my husband Tim agreed to serve as my pack mule for the day. Our press passes allowed us to have up to four items appraised. I brought Sabrina, my brass hula girl lamp from the 1940s, a creepy monkey-like doll my mother gave me, and a stuffed black Scottie dog with red light bulbs for eyes that I found at an East Village flea market years ago.

After navigating the congested parking garage, we arrived at the entrance to the exhibit hall. The River Center looked like a train station in India minus the livestock. People were precariously moving furniture in old wheelchairs and on rickety dollies. A man carried a laundry basket full of pottery on his head. People schlepped large shopping bags with valuables wrapped in old beach towels. Paintings were bundled up in garbage bags. One couple even sailed by me with a chest of drawers on old roller skates.

We avoided the ticket check-in and went straight to the press table where we were introduced to Margaret Schlaudecker, a publicist for LPB. She handed us our press passes and agreed to serve as our guide inside the Roadshow.

Margaret led us into a hall that served as a makeshift cattle pen where attendees waited for a slot at a "triage station," where their items would be categorized. Over three thousand ticket holders would make their way through the cattle pen throughout the day, and approximately twelve thousand treasures would be categorized. We were allowed to bypass the massive herd, reporting directly to a sorting table. After a woman using a grungy baby stroller to transport a distressed China doll gave me the stink-eye because she perceived we were jumping the queue, a volunteer handed us two pairs of tickets for both the doll and metalwork appraisal lines.

Margaret and I started to walk into the arena while Tim tottered a few steps behind with all my valuables. Appraisal tables formed an outer circle around areas where appraisers were interviewing guests about their valuables for the camera.

The first thing to catch my eye was a cameraman capturing a segment with Nicholas Lowry, president of Swann Galleries and one of the Roadshow's most famous appraisers—partially for his extensive knowledge of prints and posters and partially for his collection of ridiculous, yet charming suits. Wearing a striking white and brown plaid suit, he preened for the camera while filming a segment about a poster.

Margaret and I chatted while waiting in the doll appraisal line. I pointed to a large yellow ceramic chiminea the stagehands were rolling off the set into the controlled chaos of the crowd. “Watching the show function is amazing,” she said, “The Boston crew aren’t as stressed as we are, but Baton Rouge is the sixth city out of their eight-city tour. So they have it down to a science.”

I looked around and saw a line that wound halfway around the set. It led to the collectables appraisal area. All I could think was, “Wow…Just wow…How many Hummel figurines will the poor man behind the table have to look at today? And he is doing this for free! I am pretty sure he is going to heaven.” (It is a little known fact that the Roadshow does not pay its appraisers nor pay for airfare or room and board. Most consider it an honor and a resume builder.)

We walked up to doll expert, Nancy McCray of Cedar Rapids, Iowa. She asked, “And what did you bring me today?”

I pulled out my plastic monkey doll and said, “I want to know what this disturbing thing is and where it came from?” She picked up my primitive beast and started laughing. Unfortunately, she had never seen anything quite like my monkey man. I proceeded with a second offering: my creepy dog with light bulbs for eyes.

McCray continued to laugh and nudged Noel Barrett, the toy appraiser who was sitting beside her. He also laughed and said, “Well…That is something.” They agreed that devil dog probably dated to before the 1940s, but were not able to offer any more information.

McCray looked at me and said, “You know, I want to come to your house and look around. I bet you have many eclectic things.”

To which I replied, “We try.” She wished us well on our adventure, and once again Margaret took the lead, navigating towards the metalwork and sculpture table.

While we waited I asked Margaret how the producers select the items that receive filmed appraisals. “When the production crew finds an item they want to film, the owners are whisked away to the green room for hair and make-up,” she explained, “The appraiser will say very little to them before filming. They want the televised appraisals to look as unscripted and fresh as possible.”

Suddenly, a woman wearing portable oxygen while pushing an old shopping cart full of shotguns asked us to step aside so she could pass. I was completely flabbergasted, and couldn’t help but wonder if this was even safe? I said, “Margaret, she has guns! Is this OK?”

She assured me that the police check all guns upon entry and ensure they are unloaded. Then a zip tie is placed around the trigger. Her explanation eased my concerns, and I became more worried about the overall health of the woman pushing the shopping cart than being a victim of an accidental shooting while at a PBS-sponsored event.

We were almost to the front of the metalwork line. The anticipation was killing me, and Tim’s arm was beginning to hurt from carrying Sabrina around for an hour. I couldn’t help but wonder if Sabrina would be one of the ninety appraisals to be filmed.

A couple from North Louisiana rolled an antique sofa past us, and I asked if people besides the appraisers and crew travel to these events. Margaret said, “People come from all over. The furthest I have heard so far today is Pennsylvania.”

The man in front of us at the metalwork table sped away on his mobility scooter. Sabrina’s moment of reckoning was finally here. Kerry Shrives of Skinner Incorporated, a Massachusetts auction and appraisal house, inspected her closely. Unfortunately, she was not able to shed much light on her history. “It is one of the most unusual things I have seen today, but I can’t tell you much about it,” she said. She mentioned that it might be a piece from Spain or Italy and confirmed that the craftsmanship was excellent; but in the end Shrives concluded, “Unfortunately, I really can’t place a price on it because I don’t know enough about it.” She was able to appraise my hula girl lamp at about $250.

Shrives has been an appraiser since the first season of the Roadshow, so before we parted I asked how the Internet has changed the show. “People are more savvy," she said. "It is harder to capture a 'wow' moment on the camera. What we can do as appraisers is to really tell the story of the object. And that is something you can’t get in an appraisal online.”

Margaret took us to the exit, and we thanked her for her time. Tim carried Sabrina, devil dog, hula girl, and monkey doll to the parking garage. We waited for the elevator with two middle-aged women in Capri pants and strong Mississippi drawls. One was attempting to push a large oriental vase on a dolly. We overheard,  “He took one look and snipped, ‘It’s a fake.’ Then he walked away. He never even told us what it was worth.”

We decided to take the stairs up to the fourth floor. I carefully placed Sabrina in the trunk. When we returned home, I hung her up on the wall of The Ultra Lounge where she could view my black velvet painting of Speedy Gonzales.  The search for her provenience and worth will continue. But to me, she will always be priceless.

Footnote: LPB provided 120 volunteers for Antiques Roadshow in Baton Rouge. Season eighteen will begin airing in January 2014. There is no firm date set for the three episodes that will focus on our beloved Red Stick. Off-site interviews were filmed at Port Hudson, Magnolia Mound, and the LSU Museum of Art. In addition to the Roadshow episodes, LPB will be airing a companion documentary about WGBH’s time in Baton Rouge.