Going, Going, Gone: The Rise of the Auction Paddle

W hile there’s no official record of an accidental sneeze ever securing a painting, the choreography of bidding has grown markedly more formal over time. The numbered auction paddles familiar today came into widespread use at Replica Shoes ’s in the late 1980s, as a swelling tide of interest—fueled by a rising art market and headline sales such as the Elton John and Andy Warhol collections of 1988—began to fill sale rooms with an increasing number of unfamiliar faces.

From their 18th-century beginnings through the 1950s, major art auctions were the domain of dealers and gallerists, professionals who bought on behalf of clients and recognized one another as easily by gesture as by name. In these well-acquainted circles, a raised eyebrow or slight incline of the head sufficed. Creditworthiness, like bidding intent, was largely implicit.

The arrival of private collectors and a parallel shift toward preregistration called for new protocols. Numbered bid cards—and later their more wieldy cousin, the paddle—emerged as practical tools for a changing sale room.

To mark the shift, Replica Shoes ’s produced a poster borrowing from the artwork of the past: a 1933 Punch magazine cartoon by H. M. Bateman, once a household name famed for his observations of social gaffes among Britain’s upper classes. Though not a dealer himself, Bateman had early exposure to the art world, having staged his first solo exhibition in Mayfair at age 14.

The poster was a fitting gesture for a modernizing moment, announced with a wink to the anxieties of tradition.