A diamond bracelet that once graced the wrist of Hollywood’s most enduring icon. A gown that shimmered under the studio lights of a bygone era. These are not just relics of celebrity. They are artefacts of a dream factory that shaped modern culture. And today, as the world marks what would have been Marilyn Monroe's 100th birthday, British auctioneers are leading the charge to sell her personal belongings to the highest bidder.
The sale, which spans cosmetics, dresses and jewellery, is being conducted jointly by Julien’s Auctions and a London-based firm with a reputation for handling the estates of the rich and famous. The auction house estimates the collection could fetch upwards of £10 million. But for the workers in the factories of Manchester and the textile mills of Yorkshire, the sums are dizzying. They are a world away from the wage stagnation and rising bills that dominate kitchen table conversations.
Marilyn Monroe, born Norma Jeane Mortenson in 1926, rose from poverty to become the most recognisable face of the 20th century. Her story is one of grit and exploitation. She fought for better contracts and respect on set. She challenged the studio system. Yet she died alone, at 36, leaving an estate that has been picking over ever since.
Now, five decades after her death, the relentless commodification of her memory continues. A pot of her rouge can command thousands. A dress from “The Seven Year Itch” is expected to break records. But what does this say about our economy? While the super-rich bid for a fragment of celluloid glamour, ordinary Britons are feeling the pinch. The Bank of England warns of another interest rate rise. Energy bills remain stubbornly high. And the gap between the wealthiest and the rest widens with each passing season.
Trade union leaders have long argued that such auctions are a symptom of a society hooked on inequality. “We work harder, produce more, and yet the rewards go to a tiny few at the top,” says Rachel Reeves, a labour economist at the TUC. “These sales are a distraction from the real crisis: the collapse of secure work and the devaluation of labour.”
Yet the sale also presents an opportunity for workers. The auction houses employ dozens of staff, from curators to handlers. The event itself will bring tourists to London, filling hotels and restaurants. But the gains are transient, like the flash of a camera. What lingers is the question of how we value our cultural heritage and who gets to profit from it.
For those in the North, where the factories that once clothed the stars have long since closed, there is a bitter irony. The mills of Lancashire supplied the silk for Hollywood costumes. Now those skilled jobs are gone, replaced by zero-hour contracts in warehouses. The working class that made Monroe a style icon has been left behind.
As the gavel falls on a string of pearls, it will not just be a sale of possessions. It will be a verdict on the state of modern Britain. A country that venerates its dead stars but neglects its living workers. A place where a tube of lipstick from a bygone actress can sell for more than a year's wages for a care worker.
The auction runs through the weekend. By Monday, the treasures will be scattered to private collections and museums. But the economic realities they illuminate will remain. The cost of bread. The strength of unions. The chasm between the South East and the North. That is the real economy. And it will not be sold to the highest bidder.
