At 33, Diandra Donecker is a fresh face in the art market but as director of Grisebach, a historic Berlin auction house, she uses her youthful dynamism to her advantage. We join her for a stroll through the silent woods – and poignant past – of Wannsee.
It’s a bright spring morning on Wannsee lake, an hour’s drive from central Berlin, and Diandra Donecker stands next to half a dozen white-scrubbed pleasure boats, which bob on the silver-grey water.
The director of storied auction house Grisebach sets off at a brisk pace in the direction of the Düppel forest, spotting the turrets of ornate villas peeping through the treetops. We head down a narrow, cobblestoned path that runs parallel to the gently curving shoreline. “If you live in Berlin, you have to get away from the concrete every now and then,” she says. “Here, there’s greenery, beautiful parks, swimming spots, small bays and the chance to bathe in the sun. You can also sail wonderfully. The Verein Seglerhaus am Wannsee is the second-oldest club in Germany; the sport has a long tradition in this area.”
For Donecker, this beauty spot is also a place of sombre reflection. “This place grounds me,” she says as we walk past a sign that points in the direction of the House of the Wannsee Conference, where the framework for what became the Holocaust was decided upon in 1942. “As beautiful as it is here, it always reminds me of how quickly things can change and how big and important each and every one of us is. We have a responsibility. We are deciding on the kind of society we want to live in – and the kind we should fight against.”
You’re an art historian, like your mother. Did you encounter art at an early age?
My memories of browsing through my mother’s books are very vivid. One was on Fabergé and the interplay between craftsmanship and the Russian revolution. I adored books like that. I also attended a children’s painting group at the Städel Museum in Frankfurt, run by a professor who encouraged children to get involved with art in a calm, uninhibited way. I want people who come to Grisebach to experience that feeling of accessibility in a similar way. A sense of reverence for expensive paintings shouldn’t trigger fear or inhibition. I want people to be able to just have a look. That’s very important to me.
Your first job at Grisebach was in the19th-century department in 2017. Two years later you were director. Then came the pandemic. What’s changed?
To me it feels as though the crisis has divided history into pre- and post-pandemic. We now have customers willing to pay €500,000 without having physically seen 4 a work. Some buyers just register on our online system, which means that it’s no longer easy for me to talk to them. Modern auctioneering has taken on different rhythms: it is faster and more anonymous. But all of that has broadened our reach and we’re far more international. It’s fascinating when an online bid comes in like a deus ex machina from the void. It brings another dimension to auctioneering.
You were at Christie’s in Munich until 2017. What prompted you to leave?
I’d heard about Grisebach and found it remarkable that at that time it was run by Florian Illies, a journalist and author. The founder, Bernd Schultz, is also a book lover and collector of autographs. It sounded like an amazing place to work so I sent in an unsolicited application. There weren’t any vacancies at the time but they invited me in anyway. Illies and Schultz could see that I was the right person and put me in charge of the photography department.
How was working with photography?
It’s not an easy area. Sure, it’s easy to sell a large-format Massimo Vitali but if it’s a classic by Man Ray, Otto Steinert, Lee Friedlander or Edward Steichen, people are going to say: “Why is it so expensive? How do you know that it’s a rare print? I can see that anywhere.” Without American collectors, the photography departments at auction houses wouldn’t survive.
What do you do differently from your predecessor at Grisebach?
I’d like [our headquarters] Villa Grisebach to be a genuine venue, with artist lectures, cocktail evenings and literary salons. Before the pandemic we were putting on an event every week. I see Grisebach as a brand in the luxury sector and I want people to associate us with a particular lifestyle. “A sense of reverence for expensive paintings shouldn’t trigger fear or inhibition. I want peopleto be able to just have a look”
Do you conduct auctions yourself?
No, but during physical auctions I handle bids coming in by phone. I like being on a team with a customer. “We’ve got it!” is an exciting moment that builds a sense of togetherness. It’s exhilarating.
What makes a good auctioneer?
Though there are sometimes large sums involved and contracts can arise within a few seconds, the whole thing has to remain playful in tone. The language of the hands is important. If you watch Georgina Hilton, an auctioneer at Christie’s in Hong Kong, you can see that she’s brilliant at her job – almost like a choreographer.
At 33 you’re one of the youngest of the art market’s high-flying women. What are the pros and cons?
Some people in the art market age like a fine wine as they acquire know-how and make contacts, hence the view that auction houses are sedate and conservative. I don’t fit into that picture; I deal with a new type of clientele who can grow along with us. Cue raised eyebrows.
You were born in Frankfurt and studied in Munich. Do you feel that you’ve ended up in the right place in Berlin?
In Berlin, history is omnipresent and can be hard to bear, even overwhelming. You alight from a train or bus somewhere knowing that it was where the Wall ran or where a major event took place during the Third Reich. History here is like a punch in the face. That fascinates me. Berlin invites you to reflect on who you are and who you want to be. I used to feel compelled to fit into a mould but Berlin was a new dawn. You can dress yourself in any way you wish. There’s a sensation of size, space and freedom. I’d be reluctant to give all that up.
Konfekt,
June 2022