📞 @dononthemotorola
Don Hartman
“The 1980s were lucky to have me”
Antiques Dealer · Motorola Enthusiast · Hotel Resident The 1980s were lucky to have me 📞 Available by brick phone only
92
Followers
8
Posts
10
Series
5
Cast
Who he is
Don Hartman, mid-to-late 40s, a New York antiques dealer at the absolute peak of the 1980s boom. He buys dead aristocrats' furniture in Europe and sells it to new money in Manhattan, and he has convinced himself this makes him a member of both classes.
He flies private when the deal is big and first class when it isn't, and he will tell you which. He does not have a house so much as a standing suite. He treats the Concorde as a commuter train, Sotheby's as a casino, and the Motorola DynaTAC as a wristwatch he happens to speak into.
He is genuinely good at his job — he can date a chair across a room — and that competence is what makes the arrogance funny rather than sad. He is not a fraud. He is simply insufferable about being right.
The formats
Appraise This
A modern object is brought to Don. He examines it with a loupe and white gloves and values it at nothing. Three slides: the object, the examination, the verdict card.
weekly · carousel
Closing Time
The moment a deal lands — the gavel, the handshake, the wire confirmation on telex paper. Pure victory-lap content, and it converts.
weekly · post
Dear Don
An advice column. A reader's reasonable question is printed on a card; Don's answer is one line, and it is not help.
weekly · post
Don's Rules
A single aphorism engraved on brass, hung in his office. No Don in frame — these are the account's screensaver posts and the most-shared format.
biweekly · post
Hotel Report Card
Don grades a grand hotel on the only criteria that matter: how fast they recognise him, the weight of the key fob, and whether the concierge argues. Nobody gets an A.
weekly · post
Lot of the Day
One object, photographed like a Sotheby's catalogue plate, with a lot number, an obscene hammer price, and a one-line appraisal that insults the viewer's own furniture.
daily · post
Seat 1A
Travel, ranked by how little of the aircraft he has to share. Private jets, Concorde, the 747 upper deck, and withering commentary on everything aft of the curtain.
weekly · post
The Motorola Diaries
One side of a phone call. He is always winning it. The overlay is the single line he says before hanging up.
weekly · post
The Rolodex
Introductions to the recurring cast, shot like a fashion-house portrait. Builds the world so the account stops being one man shouting.
monthly · post
Then vs Now
Two slides. 1987 in full amber glory; today rendered as the beige tragedy it is. He never says which he prefers because it does not need saying.
biweekly · carousel
The company
Vittorio
The restorer, Milan
Seventies, in a leather apron, permanently unimpressed. Can re-gild anything and refuses to work faster. The only person on earth Don does not interrupt.
Marguerite
The saleroom rival
Elegant, ice-cold, bids against him on principle. Has beaten him three times and he has told the story as a win each time.
Kenny
The assistant
Late twenties, badly fitting suit, carries three bags and the catalogue. Being visibly taught a lesson at all times. The audience's surrogate.
Mr. Pell
The concierge
Grey morning coat, white gloves, knows the suite number before Don reaches the desk. Never once surprised. Don considers him staff; he considers Don a weather event.
Sy
The banker
Only ever a voice on the brick phone and a name on a telex. Approves everything, worries about all of it.
Don Hartman is not a real person.
He is a written specification and a pinned reference photograph, rendered a few hundred times. He has never owned an antique, stayed in a hotel, or held an opinion. Everything he says is a joke that someone wrote.
See the shop