Caveat Emptor (31 page)

Indeed, many important paintings fetched more unrestored—with all their dirt, holes, and tears—than if they had been cleaned up and presented in pristine condition. The reasoning behind this peculiarity of the art market is that the presentation of an uncleaned picture attests to its “freshness”—that is, it has come straight out of a dusty old attic. Psychologically, this condition will excite potential buyers to pay a premium price.

When at last I felt that the paint was sufficiently dry and hard, I was ready to begin the aging process—and prepared to use every trick in my book.

The cracking went perfectly, forming a pattern that would fool even the most seasoned expert. And the caramel-colored varnish, stripped off the surface of several nineteenth-century paintings, was transferred onto the “Heade,” giving it an impeccable, albeit heavy, patina.

It is common for antique paintings that might have incurred minor tears or punctures to acquire a number of crude repairs through the years. So for the benefit of any connoisseurs who fancied themselves forensic experts, I added two small patches, cut from antique canvas, to the back of the painting.

Astute experts might examine these repairs carefully and note if the paint used for the touch-up on the front of the painting had been applied on
top
of the old varnish or
under
it. If the retouching had indeed been applied on
top
of the surrounding varnish, and if the repair was of considerable age, it could be added proof that the discolored varnish might well be the original coat applied by the artist.

Next, since the time I first observed accumulations of fly deposits on some of Jimmy Ricau's paintings, I'd realized that these can act as another convincing piece of forensic evidence establishing the age of a painting for the trained expert. It could take seventy-five years or more for an undisturbed accumulation of these droppings in their peculiar characteristic patterns to become visible on the surface of a painting. Transparent when first deposited by common houseflies attracted to the surface of a painting by the sugar present in the varnish, they eventually turn brown and then black with the passage of time. The tiny nubs ultimately become insoluble and can
only
be removed with the sharp point of a scalpel.

For some time, I had been perfecting the simulation of these deposits by mixing up some epoxy glue with an amber-colored powered pigment, dipping the end of a pin in the glue, and then touching the surface of the painting with the pinpoint covered with the glue. The result was a small elevated globule virtually indistinguishable from the real thing. It was tedious work, but in this manner I was able to arrange the droppings in their characteristic clusters. Flyspecks go hand in hand with dark, discolored varnish and are usually found on lost and neglected paintings that have been relegated to an attic or barn for storage long ago. On this occasion, when I was ready to apply my fly-specks, I realized that I had just used up the last of my epoxy glue, but I found that thickened linseed oil, which I kept in a bottle nearby, had a viscosity similar to the epoxy and worked just as well. A week later, after the “flyspecks” had dried, a final dusting of rotten stone finished the job.

From the moment it was fitted into its frame, with the use of some nineteenth-century nails, the painting took on a life of its own. It was the perfect fake. I decided to hang it in the house above the fireplace and enjoy it for a while. One evening a friend came over for dinner and was greatly impressed with the painting. He dubbed it “Fat Boy.”

All that was left now was a plan. A “flea-market find” was simply out of the question. The last thing I needed was to have another story in the press and have someone get suspicious. I wanted a discreet but plausible story. There was, however, a “provenance” I had been keeping in reserve for just the right situation. I decided this
was
the situation, and that
now
was the time to play the Ricau card.

In June 1994, I wrapped Fat Boy in a blanket, strapped it in the backseat of the car, and drove up to New York. When I got there, I shoved it under the bed in a friend's apartment in the Village and hung out around the city, deciding on how and when I would make my move.

I was having lunch one afternoon in a café on Madison Avenue, contemplating a photo of the painting. Well, what the hell, I thought, let me give it a try. I paid my bill, walked to Seventy-Second Street, and hung a left. Sotheby's is housed in a tasteless glass-and-steel building situated on the corner of York Avenue and Seventy-Second Street. There wasn't much to distinguish it from the New York City Hospital complex next door, except the name Sotheby's in bronze letters above the doors and, of course, the usual black limousines double-parked outside. I strolled through the glass doors, entered an elevator, and pressed the button for the American Picture Department on the third floor.

Here goes, I thought, as the doors opened. This was very different from London. The New York operation didn't have time for the riffraff and no longer had a valuation counter to encourage walk-ins. I stepped into the reception area and approached a young man sitting at a desk who was involved in some paperwork. “Can I get an opinion of this painting?” I asked as I laid the photograph of Fat Boy on his desk.

“Have a seat and I'll have someone take a look,” he said, and disappeared with the photo through a doorway. Several minutes passed, and he returned with a young lady who, after introducing herself, stated: “If you'll follow me, Dara Mitchell would like to discuss your painting with you in her office.” With that, I got up and followed her. In her office! I thought. “That's quite a painting you have,” my guide remarked with a smile as we walked along.

This was the first time I had gotten behind the scenes at an auction house. We passed by a large open area where people were leaning over layout tables, perhaps organizing the sales catalogs. After working our way through a maze of hallways, we arrived at Ms. Mitchell's office. She was VP of the American Picture Department: tall, blonde, attractive, the very embodiment of a high-class New York executive. Standing behind her desk, she extended a hand, introduced herself, and said, “A painting like this only comes in once a year!” I thanked her, introduced myself, and sat down in the comfortable chair she offered me. At this point, we were joined by Peter Rathbone, president of the department. Introductions were made, and now it was time to get to business.

“Well, how did you come by such a marvelous painting?” Dara asked.

“Actually, it was a gift, given to me years ago by Jimmy Ricau. He was a collector. Perhaps you've heard of him?”

Jimmy had been dead nearly two years. His collections had been bequeathed to a number of museums. The rest of his estate, including his magnificent house, had been left, as the story that was circulated went, “to a young man from Pennsylvania.”

“So you knew Jimmy?” Peter asked.

“Oh, yes, we were good friends. Years ago, I used to spend summers up at his house and help him work on it.”

“Up in Nyack, was it?” Peter asked.

“Piermont, in fact,” I responded. “I collect antiques, and Jim taught me everything I know. He gave me the painting as a gift, and I've been sitting on it ever since. I live in Florida now. There's a piece of real estate I've had my eye on that just came on the market. I have to raise some cash fairly soon if I want to get it.”

“Well, this could certainly do that,” Dara said, with her eyes on the photograph of Fat Boy.

“Exactly. So that's why I'm here. I'd like your opinion on what it could fetch and how long it would take to get it sold.”

“Obviously it's a very important painting, but you realize that we have to examine its condition before we could give you an accurate estimate. But I would say at the very least it's probably worth three or four hundred thousand, perhaps more.” Then after a pause to gauge how that sat with me, she asked, “Where is the painting now?”

“Oh, it's just downtown at my friend's apartment,” I casually replied, and noticed how that perked them up.

“I hope it's in a secure place!” Dara said, slightly alarmed.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “It's under the bed. The only problem I would have is the time frame—when could it be sold?”

“The first sale we could put it in would be September,” Dara said, then added: “But we have a more important sale where you might do better, in November.”

Now I felt confident enough to spring the trap. “Well, I'll have to give it some thought, whether I want to go the auction route or see what I could get from one of the dealers on Madison Avenue for an immediate sale.”

Dara cringed. “Oh, they'll never pay you what you want. Look, if it's a matter of immediate cash, we can easily arrange an advance, say a hundred thou?” I pretended to be mildly impressed, when in fact I was in an acute state of ecstasy.

“Well, I'll have to check with the broker, but that might do the trick,” I said.

“Yes, well, we're in the business of instant gratification here,” Dara said, and the meeting took on a more humorous tone.

“So you stayed up in the old house with Jimmy?” Peter asked, obviously intrigued.

“Is it true that even the dust in the house was nineteenth-century?” Dara jokingly asked.

I replied in the affirmative, and for the next half hour I entertained them with Jimmy Ricau stories. We covered everything from the black one-eyed cat to the marble-bust cemetery in the basement.

“So, when could you bring the painting in?” Dara asked.

“Well, if you want, I could go now and be back with it in an hour.”

“Please, by all means!” she gushed.

We all shook hands, my escort was summoned, and I was led back out through the maze. With my bona fides established and the promise of a hundred grand in cash, I was deliriously happy as I walked toward the subway. When I got to my friend's apartment, I pulled Fat Boy out from under the bed, wrapped him in a black plastic garbage bag, slipped the whole thing into a Bloomingdale's Big Bag, and headed back to the Fourteenth Street subway station.

This time when I got out on the third floor with my package, the young man at the desk was on the phone before the elevator doors closed behind me and my pretty escort was out in a split second with an even bigger smile. Once again we passed the layout tables, only this time the employees' eyes followed me.

Dara warmly greeted me at the door of her office. She made a call and we were joined by Peter and another young lady I assumed to be an assistant. Dara suggested I use the countertop above some cabinets in her office to rest and unwrap the painting on.

For me, it was the moment of truth. I once read that the second an expert lays eyes on a painting, he knows whether it is genuine or fake. If anything is wrong with the painting, be it compositional, technical, or aesthetic, he'll catch it on his first impression, and it could doom the sale.

My audience silently took their positions behind me as I placed the wrapped painting on the counter. Carefully feeling the edge of the frame, I made sure the back of the painting would be facing them as I pulled off the covering. Certain that they had glimpsed the period stretcher, canvas, and patches, I turned the picture around. All three zoomed in for a close look as they studied Fat Boy in silent admiration.

“That's the finest passionflower I've ever seen painted by Heade,” Peter said.

Compliments and nods of approval came from the other two. I made for the chair and got comfortable. Dara sat down behind her desk, and Peter relaxed against the counter with his eyes on the “Heade.”

As the tension lifted, Peter made an observation. “Do you know what those little black specks are?” he asked rhetorically, pointing to the tiny clusters on the painting. “They're fly droppings. For some reason, flies love paintings and leave those tiny specks. Some paintings are covered with thousands of them.”

I confessed that I was puzzled over those little spots and thanked him for sharing that interesting bit of information. Peter then went on to observe that although the picture was quite dirty, it was in remarkably good condition.

“Well, then,” Dara said, “I'm sure we could have an advance arranged for you in just a couple of days. Shall we write up a contract?”

“I guess so” was my reply, and we all shook hands. With that, Dara handed some notes to the assistant and asked her to prepare a contract.

“Have you considered having it cleaned?” Dara nonchalantly asked.

“Well, actually, no,” I responded. “Jimmy always told me it was best to sell pictures in their original condition and never tamper with them.”

“Yes. That used to be true,” she said, “ten years ago when dealers dominated the market, but that's all changed.”

“These days you have wealthy private collectors who go head-to-head with dealers, and they want everything in restored condition,” Peter said.

“I can see a catalog cover here if it was cleaned,” Dara added in an attempt to persuade me.

“No, no, I really don't want to fool with it,” I said. “I'd rather leave well enough alone. Why risk it? What if we ran into problems?”

They both nodded, and that seemed to settle the matter, but then I stuck my foot in my mouth by saying, “Besides, I don't think it's all that dirty: after all, you can easily see the picture just fine.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” they sang in unison. “It's very dirty.” And to demonstrate just how very wrong I was, Peter seized the painting and told us to follow him to the “darkroom.” We marched down a hallway and entered what I took to be a technician's room with a large worktable in the center. Peter placed the frame facedown on the table and, with a pair of pliers, removed the antique nails, which, I noted, he studied for a second. When he removed the painting, Peter was quick to point out how clean the paint was around the edges, a common occurrence with period paintings. A simple application of masking tape along the edges of the canvas before I sprayed on the “antique” varnish had taken care of that.