Valencia’s bus terminal might not grab the spotlight, but what happens on the ground floor just next door radiates with a different kind of luxury. Number 13 Menéndez Pidal Street sits quietly, overlooked by travelers and the homeless alike. Darley Auctions stands as the city’s grand stage, a vast building spanning 1,500 square meters and boasting Spain’s largest face‑to‑face auction hall.
In the first impression arcade, a vast basement hosts fifty chairs arranged in clusters for sale. In the background, a stage carries seven twenty‑somethings glued to phones and laptops, a kind of solidarity gala. At the center stands David Amorós, head of the Spanish Chinese antique collectors association and leader of the chamber, guiding the proceedings. A Qing dynasty vase drew a sale price of two million euros on a recent Wednesday; on the following Thursday, a private Ribalta work was anticipated to exceed 140,000 euros.
Yet the real drama unfolds before the eye can linger on any single piece. A Valencian bidder, Eduardo, arrives with a determined gaze. A 41‑year‑old electrician named David remarks that he will bid on a painting for about 60 euros, expressing a deep love for Valencian traditions and noting that works by Pinazo or Germán Gómez can be found there. He jokes about the distinctive art style that might not fill a home without riling a spouse. He recalls a line from legend about Saint Martin sharing his cloak with the beggar of Ribalta and admits he’s never seen such an expensive painting sold at auction. He hopes the Generalitat will safeguard these treasures.
Two chairs over, two pierced and tattooed youths observe the passing antiques. Almez and Lara, born in this century, treat the auctions like a trip to the theater, watching as carpets and works glide past. “I wandered in once at a bus stop out of curiosity and discovered a very beautiful carpet. The starting price was 150 euros, and I ended up buying it,” one of them recalls, adding that they come for the experience as much as the potential treasures.
Lorenzo Blanco, a long‑time participant at auctions for more than three decades, shares his memories of carrying works. He used to sell pieces at Pasaje Ripalda and now attends the event retired, finding the market offers substantial value. He notes that some artworks sell, while others do not. An art instructor who teaches in Torrefiel adds that the balance now tilts toward the latter category, with fewer pieces finding buyers.
The 290 lots on the docket illustrate a mix of in‑person bidding and the growing volume conducted by phone and online, especially in Asian markets. A digital catalogue is in play as the room buzzes with activity. In the midst of it all, Eduardo, a 60‑year‑old psychiatrist, searches Google for the author of a painting recently purchased. He explains how he loaded the poster like a scene from a movie and saved it for 550 euros. He describes himself as curious about neuromarketing and beginning to explore graphic design. He sometimes bids on auction sites like Ebay, but notes that this setting is more nerve‑wracking because every last second counts. He adds that in this room luck is part money and part timing, and admits that others are simply here to enjoy the ride as well.
Ribalta, framed by a Victorian bed in one corner, also enters the bidding arena. A reminder of the era’s charm, it sits among the active lots, its presence signaling the auction house’s varied catalog.
Auction houses have long blended in-person attendance with online transactions, a combination born from a long history of evolution. The modern pattern of buying and selling began as a method to allocate enslaved items and goods acquired through conquest, eventually becoming a structured system in the 17th century in Scandinavia. The earliest known auction house is believed to be Stockholms Auktionsverk, founded in 1674 by the then‑governor of Stockholm, Baron Claes Rålamb. Over time, giants like Christie’s and Sotheby’s expanded, while Madrid saw consolidations such as Durán Arte y Subastas and Ansorena.
‘El Gordo’ is coming
David Amorós continues to host gatherings beneath the Valencia bus terminal, with Emilio watching this unfold with a keen eye. He holds a share in the auction and explains that his mother recently passed away, leaving behind paintings that no longer fit his Scandinavian‑style home. He brings half a dozen oil and watercolor works by unfamiliar names that appear on Wikipedia. The chamber stores the pieces for a month to display them publicly, and if the pieces perform well, a 20 percent commission is paid on the sale price. Darley Auctions represents a final opportunity for him, since interest on Wallapop had been tepid.
In Wallapop, the scene grows tense as Ribalta surfaces on the screen. The artist’s work for Cartuja de Valldecrist was the focus of a Valencia Museum of Fine Arts exhibition in 2015. Lot 410 opens at 140,000 euros, Amorós explains. The search for the painting had spanned a year, designed to bring it to Valencia for the auction. He points out the back of the room and notes that there appears to be little interest; the auction would be canceled and the next batch moved forward.
After a surprising afternoon moment, the organizers describe themselves as disappointed with the room auction’s outcome for this large work, which measures 281 by 183 centimeters. The same sources disclose that both the State and the Generalitat were aware of the sale and express regret that the city of Valencia did not receive an offer for a painting of comparable size. A Granada collector mentions he will not place the piece up for auction again, noting its heavy burn.