Aaron — you're sitting on the best-kept secret in unscripted commerce: a business where every week delivers new inventory, new characters, and a built-in deadline. This document is the plan for turning Block Auction House from a Ferndale auction room into a national weekly event. The site it sits behind isn't a mock-up — the cataloguer on the homepage is live. You may have already tried it.
An estate sale is local, finite, and invisible. It happens to the forty people who drive past the sign. When it's over, the audience is gone and next week starts from zero.
An auction at a fixed hour is none of those things. It's an event — and an event that repeats at the same hour every week becomes an appointment. Saturday, noon. Sunday, noon. The same way a congregation knows when church starts, a national audience can know when the block opens.
The product isn't the furniture. The product is noon on Saturday.
Everything in this plan serves that sentence. The furniture, the paintings, the jewelry — they rotate. The hour doesn't. What you're building is not a bigger estate-sale company; it's the place America goes at noon on the weekend to watch things find their person.
One operating rhythm, run every week, forever. It's boring on purpose — the repetition is the brand.
Saturday is Design & Objects — furniture, lighting, glass, silver, the mid-century material you already dominate. Sunday is Art & Jewelry — the paintings and the cases. Two distinct audiences, two reasons to come back in the same weekend.
Two to four shoots a month, cut into weekly reality-style episodes that run Fridays. Not ads — episodes. The auction is the finale each week; the episode is the reason ten thousand strangers care who wins the piano.
Estate work is the most under-filmed premium story material in America. Every consignment arrives with a plot: the house, the family, the argument over the reserve, the thing in the attic nobody knew about. You don't have to invent drama — you have to point a camera at Tuesday.
Aaron enters the estate cold. First reactions, first finds, the family telling the story of the house. The core format.
Is it a real Wegner? The research trail — ledgers, marks, calls to specialists — cut like a detective story.
What the family thinks it's worth versus what the room will pay. Honest tension, resolved live on Saturday.
You, the people around you, the truck, the warehouse, the 6 AM load-ins. The characters people tune in for.
This is personal-brand work as much as company work: Aaron Siepierski, the auctioneer America watches on weekends. The company sells the lots; the person carries the show.
The site you just used is the front of a purpose-built system. Four pieces:
An app that downloads with your email — the country watches the livestream, follows the lots they want, gets an email before their lot crosses the block, and bids in real time.
Anyone photographs an item and names it; an AI trained on auction-room cataloguing returns a lot card in seconds: title, attribution, estimate, opening bid, session. Every card captured is a consignment lead with photographs attached.
An email list that gets the full catalog before the public. The list is the asset — it compounds every single week.
Bidders and consignors get an account the way you got this page: a personal link. No sign-up wall between a curious stranger and their first bid.
The cataloguer on the homepage is running against the real Anthropic API — the same class of model writing this document. It's a working piece of the future system, not a demo reel.
Stronger prices are the engine that matters: when families see what the block gets for a Steinway, choosing Block over a lawn-sign estate sale stops being a decision. Sellers chase prices, prices chase bidders, bidders chase the show. You only have to spin the wheel; the wheel recruits for itself.
Brand locked (you've just seen it), the live room built, the cataloguer public on blockauctionhouse.com, the email machine wired. First two shoots filmed.
First broadcast weekends — invite-only softness while the format tightens. Episodes running every Friday. The Thursday catalog becomes a ritual for the first thousand subscribers.
Paid amplification of the episodes (Facebook & Instagram feeds only), regional press, and the first out-of-state consignments arriving because someone watched the show.
This site, the brand, the live cataloguer, and this plan were built as a working specification — the kind of thing we do before a first conversation, so the conversation is about something real. If the direction is wrong, it cost you nothing. If it's right, the machine behind it is what we build for a living.
One call to walk the plan, the numbers, and what weeks 1–3 look like.
Talk to Cyrus — Automate Your Offer