Bling Makes a Bid For the Big Time
In the Hallowed Halls of the Auction House, Hip-Hop's Pricey Baubles Resonate With New Meaning

By Robin Givhan
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, September 7, 2008

NEW YORK

From the beginning, it was impossible to separate hip-hop from its gear. Rappers' affection for Adidas sneakers, Kangol hats, Timberland boots and oversize Tommy Hilfiger anything was as important to the music as the beats. The paraphernalia reflected a determination to grab hold of a piece of the American dream, the same dream claimed by the preppy kids, the L.L. Bean outdoorsmen and the horse country set.

When rappers became more successful and the money became abundant, their tastes became more expensive. Like George and Weezy, they moved on up to Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Prada. They embraced platinum, gold and diamonds -- as many diamonds as they could fit onto the face of a watch and the biggest carats that their earlobes could carry. Those ostentatious jewels spawned new lingo: "bling" and "ghetto fabulous." Jewelers such as New York's Jacob Arabo, known as Jacob the Jeweler, gained notoriety for their ability to encrust expensive watches with a moneybag's worth of sparkle.

The jewelry -- flamboyant and self-aggrandizing -- was emblematic of hip-hop's often ruthless crusade for success. Those flashy baubles were the spoils of alluring beats and poetic rhymes, as well as misogyny, homophobia and violence. Hip-hop conquered popular culture and crowned its own royalty. It had all the accouterments of a monarchy: familial alliances, hierarchies, territorial feuding, bloodshed -- and treasure.

And now, in a move that places hip-hop alongside cultural markers from Andy Warhol to the Beatles, many of those jewels will be up for auction.

Phillips de Pury & Co., which prides itself on being the young collectors' auction house, is presenting "Hip Hop's Crown Jewels," a sale of 70 pieces that are estimated to raise $3 million. The sale, scheduled for Oct. 1, has been billed by Phillips de Pury as the first for hip-hop jewelry. The New York preview, Sept. 22-30, is open to the public.

The idea for the auction came from the house's Swiss chairman, Simon de Pury, who is old enough for membership in AARP and an enormous fan of the music. Part of the proceeds will benefit charities that include those founded by hip-hop entrepreneur Russell Simmons. The auction house will make a donation to the National Museum of American History's initiative to establish a permanent hip-hop exhibition.

Some of the jewelry has been put up for auction by the performers themselves. A gold mushroom-shaped ring embossed with the profile of Nefertiti, for instance, was donated by MC Lyte. Other pieces have come from the estates of rappers, such as the diamond and ruby crown-shaped ring that Tupac Shakur was wearing when he was killed in Las Vegas in 1996. An inscription reads "Pac & Dada 1996," referring to his relationship with Kidada Jones, daughter of Quincy Jones.

Other pieces have drifted in through circuitous routes. For instance, there is jewelry that bears the insignia of Jacob & Co. Like a lot of those in the world to which he catered, Arabo has had legal troubles, including a conviction for lying to federal agents investigating a money-laundering scheme. You won't find Arabo's name mentioned in any of the auction's publicity literature. It is one thing for a rapper to burnish his credibility by speaking of his brushes with the law. Such attention does an auction house no favors.

Any prospective buyer attracted to the jeweler's sordid back story, however, will want to pay special attention to a link bracelet worn by 50 Cent that is so bloated with diamonds that wearing it would be akin to hoisting a five-pound barbell all day. "Jacob & Co." is discreetly etched on its back.

Also both dazzling and daunting is the diamond pendant that reads "Crunk Ain't Dead" -- a reference to a Southern style of hip-hop -- that was worn by Lil Jon. It measures close to 8 inches long and 2 inches deep and weighs approximately 13 pounds in total. It hangs from a thick gold rope -- not a chain, but a rope -- and could surely serve as an anchor for a dinghy.

There is an intimidation factor to this jewelry that announces the big dog in the room, just as expensive cigars and bespoke suits serve as badges of prestige in the boardroom. But this jewelry goes a step further. In the business hierarchy promulgated by these masters of rhyme, the jewelry functions as a personal spotlight. Their wealth, influence and achievement must never be forgotten and must always be honored. Ring-kissing optional.

"It's all about creating that larger-than-life image," says Alia Varsano, head of contemporary jewelry at Phillips de Pury, who organized the auction.

When the pieces were worn by the performers, intellectually one knew that the gems were real. Would Missy Elliott wear cubic zirconium? Of course not. But the pieces are so large and eccentric that it was sometimes difficult to believe they weren't fake. Seeing them up close, their authenticity can't be denied. And removed from the bravado of the concert stage, video set or photo shoot, they become miniature works of art exuding the humor, power or aggression of contemporary sculpture, painting or other collectibles. If there is a market for Claes Oldenburg's "Soft Toilet" or Andres Serrano's "Piss Christ," then surely there is one for a battery-powered, diamond-encrusted spinning globe pendant that reads "Killa Cam Harlem World."

By bringing hip-hop jewelry into the world of the auction house, Phillips de Pury suggests that it's worth parsing for cultural relevance. Varsano expects the auction audience to include looky-loo fans of the music as well as collectors from the United States and abroad, particularly Japan, where hip-hop has had a significant impact on the visual arts.

The jewelry elicits the same range of responses as the music, from a chuckle to open-mouthed awe to distress.

Several pieces delight in childlike silliness, such as the multicolored diamond link necklace worn by Pharrell Williams, which comes with matching upper and lower grilles. It's impossible to admire that necklace or pick up the teeth guards (mercifully disinfected) and not chuckle. This suite of jewels blends thug with comic book villain. Serious gemstones have been manipulated to convey the impishness of a wafer-candy necklace.

The turntable ring that belonged to Elliott has moving parts and looks like a prize from an extraordinary box of Cracker Jack. The same is true of the diamond-studded cassette pendant worn by Biz Markie. It could almost pass for a trinket picked up from a vendor on 125th Street, Harlem's main drag.

Success is celebrated with unembarrassed glee. The music brought the young stars awesome wealth, and they are commemorating their giddy delight in diamonds. It's a quintessential expression of new money: bigger, flashier and, most important to hip-hop, personal.

These performers didn't thrill at purchasing the largest, most flawless single diamond in the display case or buying an acclaimed piece of jewelry that belonged to someone else. The performer and the jeweler worked together to create something unique that spoke to the performer's personality and worldview. Hip-hop's practitioners focus on making money, but they're equally obsessed with standing out. One could almost guess that the black Jesus pendant with decorative diamonds would belong to Kanye West, whose relationship with God is woven throughout his work.

In a few cases, the pieces themselves are not especially dynamic. The gold and diamond M.O.B. ring that belonged to Shakur, for instance, does not have much sparkle. The design is mundane. It resembles something that might have come from a mid-priced jeweler like Kay or Zales. But it's among the most memorable pieces in the auction. Its importance? The initials, which stand for "Member of Bloods." Or "Money Over . . . [rhymes with witches]." Varsano notes that the ring was given to Shakur by Suge Knight when the rapper signed with Death Row Records. It's the "pact-with-the-devil ring," symbolic of that violence-filled relationship.

The ring speaks to a particular chapter in hip-hop's evolution and reflects the violent world out of which one genre of rap -- gangsta -- was born. It stirs up images of the dark side of hip-hop: the politics, the rivalry, the blood sport. As a cultural artifact, the ring connects hip-hop to the American tradition of wealth gained through illicit means, methods that have been mythologized and, over time, romanticized. The ring places hip-hop into the context of bootleggers, mob bosses, corporate raiders, "The Godfather," "The Sopranos" and "Wall Street."

Hip-hop upended the prevailing social hierarchy by creating millionaires and moguls who brought a new aesthetic into fashion, into the corporate corner office and to the Hamptons. The auction illustrates that change with a diamond star pendant that hangs from a chain also set with diamonds, each more than one carat. Jay-Z wore the pendant when he was photographed for the cover of L'Uomo Vogue, says Varsano.

The performers' tastes have also influenced the contemporary jewelry market, Varsano argues. Is the trend of giant pendant necklaces for women traceable to that "Crunk Ain't Dead" pendant, which was made by Jason Arasheben, better known as Jason of Beverly Hills? Or is the desire of seemingly every teenage boy to have a M&M-size stud in his ear a direct result of performers like 50 Cent? Perhaps so.

Yet even as men such as Sean Combs and Shawn "Jay-Z" Carter move up the corporate ladder, their style has become more understated. They have transformed into fancy-suit-wearing bigwigs -- the jewelry left for the cameras, for when they need to restate their performing credibility.

Their hip-hop jewelry remains an outsider's proclamation of wealth and status. Most likely, it will never become as unremarkable as a pair of expensive cufflinks or a saucer-size Panerai watch. There's still something inelegant about the jewelry, something self-involved. Through its flamboyance, it makes a relentless, bragging announcement of success. It will not shut up.

It keeps reminding us that while we might like to define the American success story as primarily about family, health and community, the truth is that an essential part of that dream is the competition to accumulate the biggest pile of dough.