Caveat Emptor (32 page)

Suspended above the table was a large lamp. Peter placed the picture on the table, drew an enormous curtain across a wall to block out the light from a window, and then turned on a switch. For my part, I assumed the role of the studious novice as the ultraviolet light came on and Fat Boy took on a strange greenish glow. For the next fifteen minutes, I was treated to a dissertation on “the effects of ultraviolet light on antique paintings.”

After Peter made an airtight case proving that the painting was smothered in old discolored varnish most likely “applied by Heade himself,” we returned to Dara's office, where a contract was waiting. Thankfully, this trumped the issue of the cleaning, and the subject wasn't mentioned again. The papers were signed amid handshakes and smiles. Fat Boy was whisked away, and I took my leave with a promise of an advance in a couple of days.

On the morning of my appointment, Dara called. “Can we push back our appointment until two o'clock this afternoon?” she asked. “The financial officer will be here then, and we'll discuss the situation concerning the advance.” I agreed I would be there and hung up. I didn't want to ask any questions on the phone, but I didn't like the word “situation.”

When I arrived at Dara's office that afternoon, the word “situation” was clarified for me by a bald-headed man with wire-framed glasses in a Brooks Brothers suit. Peter was also present.

“Dara explained to me your need for an advance on your painting,” the moneyman said, getting right to the point. “We would certainly like to give you the funds against the sale. However, we've had a change in our policy. We now require a proof of ownership, a purchase receipt, or a copy of a will, for instance, before we can make an advance. In your case, perhaps you have some correspondence from Mr. Ricau acknowledging the gift to you?”

“You see,” Dara chimed in, “we recently paid out an advance of two hundred thousand dollars to a gentleman who brought us a number of paintings to sell. Then when the paintings went up for sale, we were served with an injunction secured by his relatives forbidding the sale. As it turned out, he really didn't have the right to sell the paintings.” Dara paused and added, with great gravity, “We never recovered the two hundred grand.”

Peter solemnly nodded in affirmation. The way Dara said this gave the impression that it had brought the auction house to the brink of bankruptcy. I expressed my disgust at the incident, but thought, What a great guy!

I was caught off guard by this development and had to make a fast decision. It had always been against my principles to prop up any of my pictures with phony documentation. I had read books about art forgers of the past who relied on false documentation to dupe amateur collectors. When the paintings eventually came under the scrutiny of experts, they were recognized as fakes. I, on the other hand, preferred to subject my works to the scrutiny of experts first, and then the sale would follow, so my answer was that I didn't think I had any such document.

“Not even a card or note he might have written to you?” Dara pleaded.

“I don't think so,” I said and deliberately looked perturbed to see what Dara would do. After all, she
had
made me a promise.

“Well, if you can't come up with something,” Dara offered, “we would be willing to waive the thirty-day hold on the funds at the time of the sale. As soon as we get paid, you will be paid.”

Once again, I learned the hard way that when you made a deal with Sotheby's,
you should get it in writing!
I reluctantly accepted her offer, but let her know that this could be a real problem for me. Dara reiterated that I would get paid as soon as they received payment.

Now that that was settled, Dara dove right into the next issue, and the subject of the cleaning reared its ugly head again. After seeing my hundred grand evaporate, I needed this like a hole in the head.

“Well, have you thought about the cleaning?” she asked.

“No, I haven't,” I answered, looking a bit puzzled. “As I said, I really don't want to take any risks.”

That was no good with Dara. “You really are doing yourself a great disservice. It could mean an extra hundred grand in the price!”

“Well, I don't know about that,” I said. “Jimmy always told me not to tamper with valuable pictures.”

“We have the very best restorers,” Peter said. “This would be routine for them.”

“Yes. I really must insist,” Dara said. “There isn't any reason it shouldn't be cleaned, unless there is some problem.”

“Some problem,” I thought. What exactly did she mean by that? I knew I was now in a delicate situation. If I became too adamant in my refusal to have the picture cleaned, “some problem” might blossom into her full-fledged suspicion. My instincts told me to play the novice.

“You have to understand, selling this picture was a big decision for me. I probably won't ever get another chance to make this kind of money again, and the thought of fooling around with it terrifies me. I really would prefer to leave it alone.”

Dara seemed to understand that, and Peter nodded. It was clear to me that Peter really didn't care, one way or another.

“And besides,” I added, in what I thought was a brilliant stroke, “I would hate to deny the new owner the excitement of seeing this picture cleaned for the first time since it was painted.”

This apparently struck a chord with Peter, and he agreed. Dara, exasperated, finally gave up and wanted to discuss the reserve price. On her desk, she had the department's file on Heade's passionflower pictures (not as extensive as my own), which gave the prices they had brought and the dates of the sales. A figure was agreed upon, and at last our business was finished. We all shook hands again, and I left.

Crestfallen about the hundred grand, and uneasy with my disagreement with Dara, I went to a nearby café to get a glass of wine and think things over. Suddenly this deal had taken on a whole different configuration. The hundred grand was out the window, but it was replaced with a promise of immediate payment when the buyer settled. The timing of the payment and the timing of the inevitable cleaning were both critical issues. It was imperative that I get paid before the picture was cleaned, as I had planned, but now Dara's insistence on having the painting cleaned prior to the sale threatened everything.

Normally, auction houses hold the proceeds of a sale for thirty days before releasing them to the seller. For me, this waiting period would be the danger zone. After a buyer settles on the lot he purchased, it becomes his property, and he can do anything he wants with it—have it analyzed, examined, restored, etc. Occasionally, a serious problem is discovered, such as the revelation of extensive restoration that wasn't disclosed before the sale, or the fact that the property was not correctly attributed to either the period or artist listed, or the discovery that the property is an outright fake. If the purchaser returns the property to the auction house before the house settles with the seller, and the claim is valid, the sale will be rescinded and the money held by the house will be returned to the buyer. If a purchaser discovers a problem with a property after the house has settled with the seller, he
can
still get a refund, from the auction house, but it's a lot harder and sometimes impossible.

Because I had created my picture to appear as though it had never been cleaned, it was a foregone conclusion that it would go from the auction house to the restorer. The only thing I could
not
foresee was the timetable of the events that would follow. If, for instance, the buyer waited two weeks to settle on my picture, which isn't unusual, that would only leave open a sixteen-day window for the buyer to go to a restorer, discover it to be a fake, and get a refund within the thirty-day period.

In the auction game, some big spenders will settle on the day of the sale, and others will wait a month. It's all up to the individual and how fast he wants to get his hands on the property. Some might have a picture cleaned immediately, while others might leave it alone indefinitely. I had to plan on a worst-case scenario and assume the picture would be settled on immediately and go straightaway for restoration. Although an antique picture can be cleaned on the spot, as Dara was so anxious to prove, it would have been breaking the rules of professional protocol and indeed subjecting the picture to a certain, albeit limited, amount of risk.

In the hands of a professional restorer, an antique painting—especially a valuable painting—is always removed from the stretcher first. This is accomplished by carefully extracting the old tacks that secure it around the edge. The painting then undergoes the relining process. It is only after the relining that the painting is ready for cleaning.

The reason for this sequence is easy to understand. The restorer must, above all things, cause as little damage as possible to a picture during the course of the restoration process. Antique paintings are cleaned with powerful solvents such as acetone. When acetone is applied to the surface of a painting that has not been relined, the solvent will immediately soak down right through the cracks in the painting and saturate the old dried-out canvas. This might, in some instances, have an undermining effect on the undercoat of gesso. This could destabilize the gesso layer and cause tiny pieces of it to separate from the old canvas. These loosened pieces would in turn be caught and pulled up by the cotton swabs used for the cleaning. These dislodged pieces are referred to as “losses,” and enough of them can result in serious damage.

The relining process greatly minimizes the risk of losses by reinforcing and stabilizing the gesso undercoat by the impregnation of the adhesive used, be it hot wax or heat-activated glue, which is spread all over the back of the original canvas before the new canvas is pressed onto it.

The paint on Fat Boy would not be able to sustain a prolonged cleaning. True antique oil paint becomes extremely hard over time and insoluble to acetone. However, modern paint will quickly dissolve under a swab of the solvent. This would alert the restorer to the fact that something was wrong. Assuming, therefore, that Fat Boy would be dispatched for restoration shortly after the sale, I had come up with an idea that would delay any cleaning—indefinitely.

After Fat Boy had received his coating of “antique” varnish, I filled a hypodermic needle with epoxy glue and injected a bead of resin behind and between the stretcher and the canvas. Hidden by the stretcher and virtually impossible to see, it literally welded the canvas to the stretcher. Nothing short of a jackhammer would ever separate the canvas from the stretcher again.

Although it's rare, a restorer will occasionally run into a painting that has become fused to the stretcher. This can occur if a painting has been lying around in a damp area over a prolonged period of time. The rabbit-skin glue used in the gesso has been known to leach out in damp conditions and can fuse the canvas to the stretcher, especially if the canvas is being pressed against the stretcher by some external means. Sometimes a separation is achieved by the simple action of slipping a spatula down between the canvas and stretcher and sliding it along, but, occasionally, a separation can be very difficult. And in certain instances, the stretcher has to be literally ground away from behind. A complication like this could delay the relining and subsequent cleaning for months.

The only other defense I had against a premature cleaning was a coat of catalyzed lacquer I had sprayed on Fat Boy before he received the final coat of “antique varnish.” Catalyzed lacquer dries to an extremely hardened state. It is usually used for commercial purposes and is very toxic. The user must wear a gas mask when applying it, and it requires the use of a special gun. In my experiments, I found that a thin coat, impossible to detect visually, can add a measure of resistance to acetone and delay the breakdown of the paint underneath. However, it was nothing one could entirely depend on.

If Dara was going to waive the thirty-day waiting period, though, the risk of discovery before I got paid would virtually disappear. Nothing could replace the feeling of a hundred grand cash in my pocket, but after I got over my disappointment and had time to think it over, I realized that anything could happen during the thirty-day holding period, and that maybe this new policy concerning advances and the subsequent concession given was a blessing in disguise. I thought, Well, maybe this wasn't such a bad day after all.

I was hoping that the next time I heard from Dara would be at the time of the sale. But after several days, she called me. “I have some exciting news!” she said. “I took the liberty of cleaning a small area in the corner of your painting, and you simply will not believe the difference!” The only thing I couldn't believe was what I was hearing. “I'm sure,” she said, “when you see this, you'll reconsider the cleaning.”

Yeah, right! I thought. It was Friday and she asked if I could come in the following Tuesday. I agreed, trying to be as pleasant as possible, but after we hung up, I was livid.

I concluded that she was completely out of control, and now anything could happen. All weekend long, I was tortured over this latest development. Had this just been a ploy on Dara's part to test my reaction? Perhaps I should have gotten indignant. Perhaps she would take my complacency as a green light to finish the job off. All weekend long, I imagined scenarios in which Dara, armed with a can of acetone in one hand and a wad of cotton in the other, reduced Fat Boy to a puddle of swirling colors.

Tuesday morning, I was back at Sotheby's at the appointed time. Once again the smiling assistant escorted me through the maze and straight into Dara's hot seat. Fat Boy, minus his magnificent frame, was waiting in the middle of Dara's cleared desktop. She greeted me with a smile of victory on her face. With a wave of her manicured hand, she invited me to have a look. An area the size of a dime in the upper-right corner had clearly been cleaned. The bright-blue sky shone out in contrast to the surrounding area. Right on cue, the door opened and Peter appeared. “So, what do you think?” pushy Dara asked. “Is it a go?”