Aurora borealis: In which I learn more than I wanted to know

April 04, 2006

In which I learn more than I wanted to know

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I can't believe I'm about to climb up into the cold and lonely heights of the moral highground, but there you go... somebody's got to say something. But first there needs to be a disclaimer; what follows may smack rather of sour grapes, but this isn't really the point. Something's happened that comes as a bit of a shock to me.

Ebay. Wonderful place, isn't it? Rumour has it that damn near anything is for sale there, from impoverished students' souls; an off the shelf friendship; glass eyeballs; and less exotic, more conventional stuff - like books.

As yes, books. For me, the internet as a whole and ebay in particular has proved a mixed blessing for secondhand books. Gone are the days of speculatively browsing secondhand bookshops and charity shops for bargain first editions; now every man and his dog can not only find out the market price for that musty old book they'd like to sell, but with the advent of the online auction they might even realise rather more than the market price if enough folk want it badly enough.

On the positive side of things, finding books I want is much easier, and less a matter of chance or pilrimage to Hay-on-Wye. But in a large part the romance has gone out it, and only occasionally can you sneak in under the radar and snap up a genuine bargain off ebay.

Last week, I thought I might have done just that. A copy of an old book of British bird's eggs by Butler, with colour plates by FW Frohawk. The subject matter of the book isn't something I can pretend to have an abiding interest in, but the artist is a particular favourite of mine. His butterfly books were revolutionary at the time he published them at the turn of the last century - a startling and hitherto unheard of combination of luminous and structurally accurate colour illustrations, and factually rigourous and comprehensive text detailing the life history of every single British species.

Frohawk's ability as an artist set him above his contemporaries, and his depictions of butterflies were novel in their accuracy compared to what had gone before. It didn't stop there. Birds, mammals, insects and inanimate objects (like eggs) were all grist to his peerless mill.

An abiding interest in butterflies means I've already got copies of his butterfly books (I was an entomologist way before the birding got hold of me), but given the chance to acquire some of his other work... well, I wasn't going to say no. Bidding started at a modest five pounds... and stuck there. For days. Seemingly nobody was biting.

Of course, we all know the score - rather than drive the price up over time, seriously interested parties wait until the very last minute (or seconds) before pitching in with their bids. I waited. And noted that the item had had very few views indeed - clearly not a popular choice. This looked promising.

More promising still a few minutes before the auction closed; some minor activity had seen the price rise, and stick for some time at the ten pound mark. And then... a few minutes later, the auction closed. Final selling price? Over a hundred quid. Bloody hell, how in god's name had that happened?

Two bidders had come in with seconds to spare, both pitching over a hundred pounds. One got the book. Why on earth spend that much for a book worth a fraction of the price in the usual scheme of things? A closer look at what these folk had for sale themselves revealed all - 'antique prints'. The fate of this book was now clear - the 24 colour plates would be excised, and the remainder of the book presumably discarded. The 'buy-it-now' going rate for a plate from this book? £20. So, 24 x £20 = £480. A nice return for a £100 investment, and you can see how it makes financial sense for somebody to do this.

Ebay's awash with 'antique prints', and not just natural history ones. How many books are sacrificed at this altar? Perhaps I'm naïve, but I had no idea this went on. It's a tragedy on two levels; the loss of a book itself, and the artificial inflation of price for these books in the process. Is this balanced by the pleasure more people will presumably derive from seeing a beautiful print hanging on their wall? That one book, that would be enjoyed by one person, will now make 24 prints to be appreciated by up to 24 people. Is this somehow better?

Ah well, that's me done. I've said my piece. Not a criticism of anyone buying and chopping up books. Just... a chastening revalation for me.

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