Leonardo's Lost Princess (17 page)

In a long experience humanity has learnt what beasts of the field, what fowl of the air, what creeping things, what fishes, what vegetables and fruits it can feed on. In the course of thousands of years it has learnt how to cook them so as to appeal to smell, palate and teeth, to be toothsome. In the same way some few of us have learnt in the course of ages what works of art, what paintings, what sculpture, what architecture feed the spirit. Not many feel as convinced of what they are seeing as of what they are eating. Just as all of us have learnt what is best as food, some of us think we have learnt what is best as art.
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Although Berenson pointed out that art lacks the urgency of food, he set out to educate the artistic taste buds of generations of art lovers. Berenson’s idea of connoisseurship was pure, and I have often wondered what he might think of the advanced technological measures we have at our disposal today. I suspect he would have been intrigued by the opportunity to investigate art in such a bold new fashion. He was known to have said, “Between truth and the search for it, I choose the second.”

Berenson pretended to have an egalitarian view of art: that the masses should consume it as they do good food (although you wouldn’t find the masses dining at a fancy French restaurant). Thomas Hoving likewise took a shot at a populist approach when he wrote a treatise, “Becoming an Art Connoisseur,” for Dummies.com.
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Art connoisseurship for dummies is surely a stretch, but Hoving gave it a try. His basic, rather weak, point was that one must saturate oneself in works of art in order to appreciate and understand them. That’s a fine ambition for anyone, but a firm distinction must be drawn between one who loves art and one who holds in his or her hands the responsibility of authenticating it. (By the way, there are also Art Connoisseur Cruises sponsored by Princess Cruise Lines and a Facebook group called Contemporary Art Connoisseurs Weekly Exhibitions.)

We live in an age when the common “everybody” can aspire to be a writer, a singer, an artist, a chef, or an art critic. There are appealing aspects to this trend, but in reality the art connoisseur, like the scientist or the brain surgeon, holds an expertise that is beyond the ability of the untrained amateur. It is not a job for “dummies,” although I’m sure there have been some accusations that some of the practitioners
are
dummies.

The responsibility of the modern connoisseur is greater, it seems to me, than that of the Morellis and the Berensons. They had only to trust their own skills and interior judgments and follow the trail of their “sixth sense,” as Berenson put it. Today, a connoisseur must embrace technology as well and become learned in its ways. Resistance is futile, just as a writer who resists the computer will get left behind.

The sad truth is that even the most cautious museum curators can be blinded by the tempting dangle of a well-timed donation. I can’t help being amused by the saga of a man named Augustus Landis, a prolific American forger and pretender, whose thirty-year spree has challenged the entire concept of the connoisseur’s eye. Landis’s particular genius has never been the high quality of his work, but that in every case he donated the art for free—in the name of his diseased parents—thus dazzling museum curators who could not turn away, or stand to question, what they regarded as a marvelous gift. Upping the psychological ante, Landis often appeared at the museum gate disguised as a priest.

He has become the bane of museums, but what is his motivation, if not cash? Perhaps it is a deep-seated resentment toward the elitism of the art community. Or perhaps he is a frustrated artist who could find an audience for his work only when it was signed by someone famous. Some argue that he might be mentally ill.

He told John Gapper, a
Financial Times
reporter who wrote a piece about him, “I was awful upset when dad passed away. When mother went—I don’t know if I’ll ever get over that. I’d like to have had a museum named after dad or mother but I’m not a billionaire. Lots of people have pictures in museums in loved ones’ memories, don’t they? I mean everybody’s got a tombstone, that doesn’t mean anything, but a picture in a museum, that really means something.”
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In Gapper’s treatment, Landis comes across as a man with no malicious intent, but the art world certainly disagrees. To its members he is a menace and a waster of resources—although so far he has escaped the attention of the law, since he never asks for money. Still, in poking the elite museum world in its eye, he has created his own brand of graffiti; it’s just another way of recognizing art as beauty.

But the real question we must contemplate is why the curators were fooled. It’s not so much that the value was enhanced in their eyes because the paintings were free; it’s that they were so comfortable with the aura of snobbery—the pretense Landis created that he was from a wealthy family, the kind of high-toned people who donate to museums. The religious garb made it all the more convincing: a priest from an elite family walks into a museum, seeking to perform an act of charity in honor of his beloved parents. Gotcha! Perhaps if the curators had had the means and the willingness to perform simple tests before they were tricked, they could have shown Landis the door more quickly. But every curator, even in small museums, wants to think that he or she has that sixth sense—the ability to instantly recognize great art.

I can imagine a time not far in the future when every respectable museum and auction house will have versions of the multispectral imaging camera and other technologies to immediately eliminate the frauds. It is chilling to contemplate how many misattributions might come to light were the pictures subjected to the revealing scope of Pascal’s camera today. For this reason, I imagine the museums aren’t in a big rush to install the technology. It’s not that they don’t want the assurance that they hold the real things. But human nature being what it is, even the best minds can be a bit squeamish about proof.

What this whole debate around the Leonardo boils down to, basically, is this: Whose eye should one trust? I would not dream of asking the world to trust my eye, because I am, academically speaking, a nobody. But I can say the following in my defense. In the past thirty years I have had to “put my money where my mouth is,” as they say back in Brooklyn, where I spent tough years as an immigrant kid. “Put up or shut up” was the game we played, and I learned my lessons. From auction rooms, dealers, antique shops, and other venues, I have had to buy works of art with my own money, using my knowledge and experience. If I made a mistake, I had to assume the consequences. It was the school of hard knocks, but I willingly accepted the challenge because I knew that the rewards were potentially very high—especially in the field of Old Masters, be it sculpture, drawing, or painting.

Today’s auction houses, unlike those in the past, seldom hire the top people; they can’t or won’t pay the salaries required. So they keep on turning over the staff, bringing in new employees with less and less experience. Consider how many fakes or wrongly attributed paintings clutter museum cellars. There are several instances in which museums such as the Met have sold donated paintings that later turned out to be major works. For example, a picture donated to the Met and sold immediately, without further study, was later found to be a Raphael, and it was exhibited in Gothenburg.

Although it is not the job of academics and museum curators to take risks and immerse themselves in marketplace concerns, museums do cultivate relationships with dealers from whom they hope to make purchases for their museums—inevitably at a premium over the price paid, but only after the dealer has bought the work with his or her own funds and has given it an imprimatur as being worthy. If museum people make a mistake, they do not suffer the consequences of the market. Public funds support their errors, so they aren’t personally paying out of pocket. I say none of this out of resentment, but only from a desire for us all to put our cards on the table.

For myself, I’m glad to be out there putting my money on the table, taking the risk and hopefully reaping the reward, be it a material one or just the satisfaction of spotting something others missed.

I have been asked by many people what it feels like to have made such a discovery and how it has changed our lives. It would be an obvious understatement to say that little has changed for us since the news broke. I have been inundated at times by the press and TV stations worldwide. And this has undeniably been great fun and exciting—my proverbial fifteen minutes of fame. More satisfying, however, has been the knowledge that my name will, if only in some small way, be forever linked with that of one of the greatest intellectual heroes of all times.

In August 2010, I got a call from Milton Esterow, the revered editor of
ARTNews
, with whom I had become friendly. He and his publication had followed the story of
La Bella Principessa
closely, and he was preparing another article. I think Milton expected to find me stressed and anxious after all the controversy.

As it happened, however, his call to my cell phone caught me as I was walking through fields of flowers in the Bagatelle Park in Paris on a mild, sunny afternoon. The experience was pure bliss, and nothing could take away from that, so I let Milton ask his sharp and serious questions, and I was forthcoming and quite cheerful in my replies. Over the line, I could hear the clattering of Milton’s ancient typewriter as he took down my answers. I teased him, saying, “Milton, you should get into the twenty-first century and buy a computer. You’re a medieval relic!”

We continued talking, and Milton finally asked me what I thought of all the controversy. I said quite truthfully, “I’m having the time of my life.” My response was not what he expected, and he asked how I could be so cavalier.

I wasn’t entirely sure myself. Perhaps it was the beautiful day and the field of flowers. Perhaps it was something deeper. My thoughts traveled back to my youth in Brooklyn as a poor child of immigrants. I had enough inherent confidence to know that I’d do well in life, but I didn’t really expect to score big. I chose a career in art collecting for love, not money—and certainly not for notoriety. The immigrant boy still living inside me was at first incredulous to be in possession of a Leonardo, but little by little I started to believe.

From the outset, I thought that even if the work didn’t turn out to be a Leonardo, the process of investigating it would still have been a marvelous adventure. I was open to whatever might be revealed. And then, when the evidence of the portrait’s authenticity began to mount, I was humbled and grateful to be living in such a historical moment.

Milton and I had lunch a couple of months after our conversation. We talked about the story and the critics and all the insanity out there. But we also talked about his origins and mine. Both of our families had come from what is now Poland and had immigrated around the same time to the United States, fleeing persecution and pogroms. I remember my dad telling me stories when I was a child of the Cossacks entering villages and slaughtering every man, woman, and child. My dad had a scar on one cheek from an attack that occurred when he was only two and in his mother’s arms. Milton had similar horror stories of his own to recount.

Finally, our toasted bagels arrived, and as we loaded them with cream cheese and lox, I said, “Milton, you asked how I could not take all the negative crap to heart and be wounded by it. How could I laugh in the face of such adversity? Well, here you have it. Look at the real adversity our parents and grandparents went through—the life-and-death choices and experiences. That was serious stuff! We are so fortunate to be where we are and in good health. Everything else seems extraneous. So, yes, I feel thankful and happy, and I am indeed having the time of my life.”

Milton smiled at me, nodding. “You are absolutely right,” he replied. “Mazel tov, my friend.”

I meant what I said. How else would I have had the privilege of meeting so many remarkable people and engaging in such a thrilling mystery hunt? I felt deeply blessed.