Site of meaning

For nearly a month, the art world’s been abuzz with word of the purchase by the Qatari royal family of one of the five renditions of Cezanne’s Card Players for what is reported to be in excess of $250 million. This at least doubles the known record price for the purchase of a work of art. Reportedly the painting will be displayed in a public collection being developed by the Qatar Museums Authority. Although acquired by private treaty, it is rumoured that Christies had a hand in facilitating the purchase. Not surprising this, as the Qatari royal family has a strange and mystical relationship with the auction house: the executive director of the Qatar Museums Authority is former Christies chair Edward Dolman.

Although pundits have all described the work as iconic, citing the illustrated presence of any one of Cezanne’s Card Players in virtually every art history survey text, the fact of its inclusion either avoids or at best abbreviates any consideration of why it might be. It’s been a few years, but my own experience in a foundation course in art history began with an examination of the function the discipline serves, specifically to determine how an artwork came to be created, and why it looks the way it does. Within the context of material culture, art historians, using a variety of methodologies, attempt to achieve when considering a work of art a site of meaning. That Cezanne created five similar depictions of peasants playing cards in  Aix-en-Provence would seem a prima facie argument for some considerable degree of significance, but anything associated with an art historical consideration of the work will now forever be occluded by the fact of its acquisition for a record setting amount of cash.

The fact of this is neither unique nor surprising. One wonders, for instance, the expense involved in the transportation by the Romans of huge Egyptian obelisks for display. Cultural swag, of course, in the same way that national art galleries to this very day serve less to showcase native born talent than to display the masterworks produced in distant and disparate- and declining- cultures. The work of Cezanne now on view in Qatar is no less unusual than Cleopatra’s Needle on the Thames Embankment in London. As many times as I’ve passed Cleopatra’s Needle on my way to Somerset House and the Courtauld Institute- itself an enormous repository of foreign art- I’ve never thought of the obelisk as anything other than an expression of 19th century British political, and concomitantly cultural, hegemony. As much as I enjoy visiting the National Gallery in Washington, I’m never there without knowledge that the leading lights responsible for its creation in the early years of the last century did so because they thought that it was something that was an appropriate accoutrement for the world power the United States had become.

Certainly, with its huge oil reserves Qatar’s rapid acquisition of the trappings of western culture is done because it can. Does its acquisition also portend a culture on the decline? Arguable, I suppose. For the immediate future, it seems a shame, though, that in the case of The Card Players, site of meaning  will certainly be bound up with $5/gallon gasoline.

Connoisseurship

On Monday, transiting through the fabled Silicon Valley just to the south, a young man passed us on the motorway in a new silver Porsche. One of my occasional Gestalt moments caused me to say to Keith ‘That’s what the tech types spend their money on.’ Not the deepest of insights, granted, but it’s nonetheless true, and not just for youthful tech millionaires. For anyone who’s out of school and begins to earn big money, the first purchases are expensive cars and expensive homes. That’s what we did, moderated, fortunately, by a little bit of background in collecting that eventually yielded the reasonable degree of connoisseurship that allowed us ultimately to enter the art and antiques trade.

That we had something of a leg up, with exposure in our early lives to art, antiques, and the world of collecting, we nevertheless were decades into our adult lives before the penny really dropped, and we stopped as merely acquisitors and moved toward discernment, a movement, I must say, that continues to this very day and will stretch, I hope, inexorably to the future.

The point of all this is, collecting and connoisseurship, while it can be achieved and fostered, the disposition for it must be arrived at on one’s own, at one’s own pace. The young collector who arrives at our doorstep or who we meet at a fair, by the very fact of his arrival implies he’s predisposed to collect. And, inevitably, the expensive car and expansive home have already been acquired. More often than not, the home with its interior frequently the expression of an interior designer, the young proto-collector finds vapid and seeks, ultimately, to build his own connoisseurship as a comfortable expression of something ineffable that resides within himself. That, of course, is what all of us do. Yes, the ultimate vision is within, but the ability to achieve that inner vision is helped, certainly in my case, by surrounding myself with beautiful objects with which I feel an almost ethereal connection.

All this I say to remind and abstract myself and our business from the focus on youth culture and the sad, pervasive, albeit specious, notion that period material might not be finding favor with the young and wealthy. Fortunately, we found early on as we began to integrate into our inventory 20th century pieces, it was the self same collectors who purchased our period material that were buying those darlings of contemporary design, mid century modern furniture. Moreover, we’ve found that, in our years in business, the age demographic amongst our buyer/collectors has stayed constant. It is not growing younger, but neither is it aging.

I suppose what I mean by this is, the so-called youth market in the art and antiques trade, is our equivalent of the mythical El Dorado. It exists, of course, but not in any way that can be quantified or captured. Marketing has changed, though, with the internet functioning as the virtual fair or gallery, and this, sadly, gives erroneous credence to the notion that it is the young that are out there buying. Bear this in mind, though- my 79 year old mother shops on the internet, and I’d venture to say she’s hardly exceptional.

In the trade, our primary job is to maintain our own connoisseurship and if reinvention is necessary, it should be to the extent that we make ourselves technologically accessible and responsive, and be gracious and welcoming when the younger collector seeks to engage us in developing their connoisseurship.

Louella and Hedda

We received this morning what could only be described as a jeremiad, penned by a well-known designer, a gentleman who has been a friend to us over the years, complaining in vigorous terms about his poor treatment by some people who, though a degree or two distant from the design community, nevertheless exercise what is perceived to be an inordinate degree of oftentimes baleful influence.

You’ll notice how carefully I’m couching all this, as we’ve no enmity toward either camp, but the fact of this fracas points to something that we see more and more in the closely allied art, antiques and design trades. Specifically, that things are in such a state of flux that within the world of fairs, galleries, show houses- all the things that in former times worked well to promote everything in the fine and decorative arts- we’ve all consequently become so defensive about maintaining and puffing our portion of inexorably shrinking turf that we’re unwilling to take anything on the chin anymore. In this regard, I am reminded of my own concern, expressed to one of my neighbors on Jackson Square, about the closing of a well-established gallery. My rather narrow-minded neighbor disputed this, and thought it a good thing, as, in his opinion, loosing one gallery meant more business for those of us who remained. Well, of course not- we all of us depend on each other for support. None of us does exactly the same thing- each designer has their own look, each writer has their own style, each art and antiques gallery has its own collecting aesthetic, and each finds consonance with its own likeminded cadre. A gallery closing on the street does not mean that, even in the short term, those of us who remain will see a bump up in sales. What it does mean is that what was once a venue becomes less of one, with a consequent decline in foot fall.

Though trying to avoid this spate of bitchy cynicism, it all does seem to be exacerbated by an inordinate number of people who, because the numbers of colleagues decline, are thrust forward within all the trades to positions of prominence, somehow managing to survive where others have not. The result of merit? Well, arguably, but I think it’s oftentimes more like Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper. The feuding Hollywood gossip columnists were reduced to one, Hopper, who as the younger of the two, would expect to physically survive her rival. It is said that Hopper always promised to prevail because she would, in Hedda’s own words, ‘Outlast the old bag.’ The upshot was, though, that Hopper survived in print only, dying some six years before Parsons, by which time Hopper herself became a journalistic anachronism.

I don’t suppose anyone in the larger design and antiques world really wants to achieve such a pyrrhic victory, so it behooves anyone who presently holds a position of influence to do some introspection to determine how their position was achieved. Times being the way they are, thankfulness and humility should be concomitant with survival. Moreover, it should always go without saying that a position of leadership, regardless of how it was gained, betokens a tremendous degree of responsibility for promoting the trade, much easier accomplished, wouldn’t we all agree?, through collegial promotion, rather than wiping out seeming competitors or those of differing points of view.

Original Condition

We don’t hear ‘How much is it?’ fractionally as often as ‘Is it in original condition?’ Presumably this is Les and Leigh Keno’s personal legacy, by way of the American version of ‘The Antiques Roadshow’, to all antiques dealers. Frankly, given the muddy appearance of many of the items over which some dealers and collectors wax eloquent, I now sometimes think French polishing has a lot to recommend it.

Not really… In fact, what the Kenos are trying to communicate is that original condition means that a furniture item has not been either altered or improperly restored. Pardon my Anglo-Saxon, but the vernacular term we use for bad restoration is ‘buggered’. This can mean, variously, a poor use of materials with, say, a plastic varnish applied over a proper shellac and wax finish, or a piece that has been completely stripped by chemical and mechanical means down to the raw wood, or ‘improved’ with the addition of marquetry and inlay where none existed before- or, tragically and too often seen, a combination of all of the above.

Frankly, our mantra is the littlest possible restoration is the best restoration. Certainly for English furniture, the quality pieces were meant by their makers to be shiny and brightly colored. Two or three hundred years of use and natural oxidation always do their work, and nothing, even under optimum conditions, will look exactly as it did when it first entered the dwelling of the original purchaser. We are, as we speak, working on the paint finish of a wonderful Regency period chair, whose original decoration is still largely intact- together with 200 years worth of furniture wax, soot, and poor retouchings. Even with painted furniture, the term ‘patination’ is frequently used, a catch-all meant to lionize rather than apologize for the effects of age. As I think about it, Keith McCullar’s birthday is coming up- I think I’ll tell him, by way of compliment on his natal day, that he’s becoming nicely patinated.

The point of all this is, despite the frequency of the query ‘Is it in original condition?’ the question rarely indicates what the buyer really wants to know- nor does it imply particular criteria for a buyer’s purchase. While we like minimal restoration, we also like pieces that show well. For an antiques dealer, there is just the slightest commercial imperative- we do have to sell something from time to time and pieces with a tired, ‘original’ appearance do not have much commercial appeal. This is the irony, of course- a prospective buyer might ask about original condition, but then actually find more appealing, to the point of purchasing, something with some restoration. There is nothing wrong with this because, when asking about original condition, what they really mean to ask is ‘Is this piece in serviceable condition, and how close is it to how it originally looked?’ When we acquire items for inventory, condition is critical as we want to accomplish any required restoration to put it in saleable condition without having to reinvent the appearance of the piece in our workshop. Consequently, when asked about original condition, we nearly always are able to respond- ‘We’ve had to do very little to it.’ This has proven to be a satisfactory response. In fact, our own rules about condition and restoration pretty generally accord with the vetting guidelines of the better antiques fairs: a piece must be substantially the same as when new- very little restoration, but not necessarily in unrestored ‘original’ condition. Further, a piece must also be ‘show worthy’, that is, of pleasing, saleable appearance. Maybe that’s what I’ll tell Keith on his birthday- that he’s passed vetting and is of show worthy appearance.

The Unusual

For my handful of devoted readers, harken ye back to my entry of a couple of weeks ago, wherein I chastised those punters who ask, for wont of anything better to say, for the unusual.

Well, we have it, and ‘unusual’ is said with an attenuated Hitchcockian accent, appropriately enough, because it is an item associated with the great man, albeit tangentially. Specifically, we have acquired out of the stock of Warner Brothers a George III demilune pier table of large size, well known to many of you, whether you know it or not, the result of its prominent placement in the Alfred Hitchcock film ‘Dial M for Murder’. With the movie itself taken from the play of the same name, cinematically it’s what’s known as a ‘rug show’, with all the action taking place indoors, in this instance in just two rooms of the fictional London apartment in Maida Vale occupied by the main characters, played by Grace Kelly and Ray Milland.  We’ve got some great photos of Grace Kelly looking harried and Ray Milland deceitfully calculating- with the pier table prominently behind.

Although Warner’s, along with MGM and Paramount, would import vast quantities of European antiques for use in set decoration, it is interesting to note that this piece was actually purchased from ex-star, prominent antiques dealer, designer to the stars and progenitor of the Hollywood Regency style, Mr. William Haines. As well as the Warner Brothers inventory mark, the piece also has a label from Haines-Foster, then located in exquisite premises at 8720 Sunset Boulevard. It was an astonishing place. Purpose built for Haines, with a colonnaded façade and curved display windows, Haines served the ne plus ultra in the industry, with prominent commissions from Joan Crawford, George Cukor, and Louis B. Mayer’s daughter and son-in-law, Bill and Edith Goetz. Haines was also the antiques purveyor to and designer for Jack Warner, whose grand new house designed when Warner married his wife Ann replete with Haines-selected fine quality English antiques.

In this case, though, the pier table connection between William Haines and Jack Warner is incidental, but more substantially linked to the set designer for ‘Dial M…’, the redoubtable George James Hopkins. A designer with a career in movies that lasted from the late teens into the 1970s, Hopkins work, mainly at Warners, included some stunning sets- ‘Auntie Mame’, ‘My Fair Lady’, and- wait for it- ‘Casa Blanca’. In his salad days, he was reputed to have had an intimate relationship with the director William Desmond Taylor, whose yet unsolved murder has always conjured up lurid associations with drugs and unconventional sex. Don’t you just love the movies?