Creative Collecting

It has long been my belief that some important generalizations can be made safely about art collectors and collecting.

First, I firmly believe that almost anyone can become a collector, and that he can start collecting at almost any period of life. One need not be an expert or have large amounts of time or large sums of money to start an art collection.

Second, I hold that few human activities provide an individual with a greater sense of personal gratification than the assembling of a collection of art objects that appeal to him and that he—by whatever standards of taste or aesthetics he may apply—feels have true and lasting beauty.

Third, I maintain that the true worth of a collection cannot—and should not—be measured solely in terms of its monetary value. Artistic merit does not necessarily follow the values set in the market place. Although price tags are attached to works of art, the beauty an individual sees in an object and the pleasure and satisfaction he derives from possessing it cannot be accurately or even properly gauged exclusively in terms of dollars and cents.

Lastly, I am convinced that the true collector does not acquire his objects of art for himself alone. His is no selfish desire to have and hold a painting, a sculpture, a fine example of antique furniture, or whatever, so that only he may see and enjoy it. Appreciating the beauty of the object, he is willing—even eager—to have others share his pleasure. It is, of course, for this reason that so many collectors lend their finest pieces to museums or establish museums of their own where the items they have painstakingly collected may be viewed freely by the general public.

At some point or another, preferably as early as possible, the collector must make up his mind precisely what it is he wishes to collect. The decision can lie anywhere between two widely separated extremes.

He may, for example, limit his collection solely to bronzes of a certain period or even of a specific century and national origin. At the other extreme, he may conceivably emulate the late William Randolph Hearst, who literally collected everything from prehistoric figurines to old masters and entire castles and their contents.

The choice a collector makes is necessarily governed by many and various factors. The most important consideration is, of course, the simplest one of all: In what direction or directions do his interests in and liking for fine art lie?

What is the ultimate in artistic beauty to one person may well be a bore or an abomination to another. This should be obvious to anyone who has ever watched any sizable groups of people making their way through a large museum.

There are those in the groups who will glance at a Goya and give a distinterested yawn, but will stand transfixed, gazing with awe at a Gauguin. To some, Phidias is anathema, while Rodin is sublime. There are individuals who respond enthusiastically to Venetian Settecento furniture but remain completely unmoved by the finest examples of the 18th Century French cabinetmakers' art.

The variations among individual tastes, likes and dislikes are infinite in regard to almost anything in life. When it comes to fine art, individual preferences become even more pronounced—especially so with collectors.

My own philosophy regarding my collection can be summed up by a paragraph Ethel Le Vane wrote in the book Collector's Choice, a decade ago:

"To me, my works of art are all vividly alive. They are the embodiment of whoever created them—a mirror of their creator's hopes, dreams and frustrations. They have led eventful lives—pampered by the aristocracy and pillaged by revolution, courted with ardor and cold-bloodedly abandoned. They have been honored by drawing rooms and humbled by attics. So many worlds in their life span, yet all were transitory. Their worlds have long since disintegrated, yet they live on—and, for the most part, they are as beautiful as ever."

Banal as it may sound in this glib and brittle age, the beauty one finds in fine art is one of the pitifully few real and lasting products of all human endeavor. The beauty endures even though civilizations crumble; the object of art can be passed on from generation to generation and century to century, providing (continued on page 194)Creative Collecting(continued from page 111) a historical continuity of true value.

When I began to collect actively, I determined to keep my collection comparatively small, to purchase only items of the highest artistic quality. I felt that I would much rather own a few choice pieces than to amass an agglomeration of second-rate items. Also, I resolved to concentrate on certain schools, largely limiting myself to those which interested me most. Hence, the majority of my collection consists of five categories of works of art: Greek and Roman marbles and bronzes, Renaissance paintings, 16th Century Persian carpets, Savonnerie carpets and 18th Century French furniture and tapestries.

I have, of course, made several digressions. I recall one purely unintentional purchase I made at Christie's a few years ago. The day was warm—by English standards, very warm—and the auction rooms were terribly crowded. For some unknown reason, no one had thought to open any windows; the atmosphere inside gradually became hotter and stickier, eventually to such a degree that I was completely distracted from the sale then in progress. A friend had accompanied me to the sale. He sat next to me and was also suffering from the heat and lack of fresh air.

"You'd think the staff would do something about the ventilation in here," he commented to me sotto voce.

I nodded agreement and unconsciously reached up to loosen my shirt collar.

An instant later, I noticed the auctioneer pointing directly at me.

"Yours, sir—for one hundred guineas!" he announced loudly.

I blinked at him in astonishment. For several seconds, I was completely baffled—and then I realized what had happened. While I had been fretting about the ventilation and paying no attention to the sale, a painting was being auctioned. The bidding had reached the point at which the auctioneer was asking: "Will anyone offer a hundred guineas?"

Now, art auctions have their own etiquette. Buyers seldom call out their bids. They telegraph them through surreptitious movements of their hands or heads, by a flick of the catalog they hold or some other, similar means. Veteran auctioneers are constantly alert for such signals.

Thus, when, for the third time, the Christie's auctioneer had asked if anyone would give 100 guineas for the item then being offered and I made as if to loosen the collar of my shirt, he took it as a signal that I was willing to pay the price.

My consternation quickly became apparent to all those seated near me and occasioned much sympathetic laughter. I laughed, too. There was nothing to do but to accept the situation with good grace—and I consequently became the owner of what, in the sale catalog, was listed as "No. 18-A: a watercolor of Old London, a street scene of about 1845."

The circumstances surrounding another of my digressions as a collector were far different. In November 1933, I attended the Thomas Fortune Ryan sale at the Anderson Galleries in New York City. There, I purchased a total of 12 pieces. Ten of them were paintings by the Spanish Impressionist Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida, who died in 1923. Obviously, his work did not fit into any of the five major categories into which I intended to channel my collecting efforts.

However, I was struck by the remarkable quality of Sorolla's paintings, being especially fascinated by his unique treatment of sunlight. I bid in the ten canvases and the two other items I bought during the sale for an over-all total price of considerably less than $10,000. I have never since had any cause to regret my decision.

Looking at the acquisition from an investment standpoint, it was a highly fortuitous one. By 1938, the money value of the ten Sorollas had risen to $40,000. Today, Joaquin Sorolla y Bastida is acknowledged as one of the 15 or 20 finest Spanish painters of all time—and this includes such great masters as Goya and Velazquez. I would not care to hazard a guess as to what prices the Sorolla paintings would fetch if placed on the market at the present time.

I am certain of one thing, however. Although the purchase of these Impressionist works was a major digression from my usual fivefold collecting path, my opinion regarding their beauty, appeal and artistic merit remains the same as it was when I first saw the canvases at the Anderson Galleries. These digressions serve to illustrate that even the collector who is grimly determined to specialize or limit himself is highly likely to be led—or to lead himself—down many detours and byways. Although he may prefer one or a few types or schools of art to all others, his acquaintance with and understanding of specific forms of beauty cannot help but expand his aesthetic horizons. He cannot avoid, sooner or later, appreciating other forms, other schools, other categories of fine art. As his specialized collection grows, so grow his tolerance, his understanding and appreciation—and so grow his depth and dimension as a perceptive, sensitive and well-rounded individual.

I have made other exceptions to my general five-category rule. Among them are some excellent English portraits by Gainsborough and Romney. One Gainsborough has been described as "one of the really great English portraits" by no less an authority than Dr. Julius S. Held, professor of art history at Barnard College, Columbia University. There is, I might add, a tinge of irony in the fact that I own it. The portrait is of James A. Christie, founder of the world-famous London auction gallery, Christie, Manson and Woods (generally known as Christie's).

The portrait was painted in 1778, when James A. Christie was 48. It was immediately recognized as one of Gainsborough's finer works and was exhibited at the Royal Academy in London in 1778, 1817 and 1859 and subsequently at several other major exhibitions.

How and why the Christie family, steeped for generations in knowledge and appreciation of fine art, permitted this exceptional work and priceless heirloom to slip out of its hands is an unfathomable mystery. However, in 1927 it was sold—at Christie's—for £7560. The purchaser was Thomas Agnew & Sons, another art dealer. In 1938, I bought it from Colnaghi's gallery for £7500. It was one of a group of paintings that I lent to the New York World's Fair for exhibition in 1939. Another was Rembrandt's Portrait of Morten Looten, which has a fascinating history of its own.

• • •

It is far from unknown for a collector to become involved in controversies over art. These may be as minor as a simple difference of opinion in regard to the exact year in which a particular canvas was painted. At the other end of the scale, he may become embroiled in—or stir up—a storm of dispute that falls little short of creating an international incident.

I know, for I once innocently found myself in the middle of just such a major imbroglio. The story of the incident goes back to 1928, when I attended the Rembrandt Exposition at the Boymans Museum in Rotterdam.

It would be utterly fatuous for me to add anything to the millions of words of praise that have been written and said about Rembrandt van Rijn and his works. The incomparable genius of this leading representative of the Dutch school of painting is too well known to require any comment from me.

Some 40 of Rembrandt's works were assembled for display in the Boymans Museum—a fabulous attroupement of masterworks which literally overwhelmed eye, mind and emotions and which no person could reasonably absorb in a single visit to the exhibition. One of the works shown was Marten Looten, Rembrandt's second commissioned portrait, which he executed in 1632, when he was 26.

The more recent chronological history of the portrait was well known. In the early 19th Century, it was acquired by Cardinal Fesch, uncle of the French Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte, and then serving as the French ambassador to the Vatican. After Cardinal Fesch's death in 1839, Marten Looten was sold and became part of the English Coningham Collection. In 1849, it was purchased—for £800—by Sir George Lindsay Holford and added to his collection. In 1928—the same year as the Boymans exhibition—Anton W. W. Mensing, a wealthy and intensely patriotic Dutchman, bought the panel from Holford's descendants for $204,000. Although he added it to his own collection, Mensing bought it primarily so that Marten Looten would be repatriated to its native land.

Marten Looten was a painting that caught and held me. I was drawn back to it time and time again. The master Rembrandt had made his subject—a Dutch merchant—appear alive. To employ a much-abused, but in this instance entirely valid, expression, Marten Looten appeared as though he would step from the canvas—actually a wood panel—and begin chatting with the spectators at any moment. The portrait made such a profound impression on me that, long after I left Rotterdam, I was haunted by it.

Ten years later—in 1938—I learned that the great Mensing Collection was being broken up; some of the finest pieces were to be sold.

Among the items to be placed on sale was the Portrait of Marten Looten!

I was then in the United States and the press of business prevented me from going abroad to attend the sale personally. I did the next best thing—and without delay. I cabled the dealer through whom I normally made my art purchases in the Netherlands, telling him I was definitely interested in obtaining the Marten Looten. Aware that the aftermaths of the Depression and precariously unsettled conditions in Europe were keeping art prices at comparatively low levels, I knew the portrait could not possibly fetch anywhere near what Mensing had paid for it in 1928. However, so great was my desire to own the painting, I authorized the dealer to bid up to $100,000 for it. This figure, the times and the conditions which prevailed being taken into consideration, was quite high. Also, following a practice entirely common in the art world, I instructed my dealer to keep my identity a secret—to reveal only that he was acting on behalf of an "unnamed American."

The sale was duly held, the dealer acted to the letter of my instructions—and, to my delight, succeeded in bidding in the Marten Looten for only $65,000!

At this point, a considerable amount of emphatic protest arose in the Netherlands—and particularly in Amsterdam. Segments of the Dutch press and public deplored the country's loss of the magnificent Rembrandt to an "unnamed American." Articles in Dutch newspapers and periodicals regretfully observed that a great national treasure would now go abroad, to a foreign owner and a foreign land. The loss was most keenly felt in Amsterdam, for Marten Looten, the subject of the portrait, had been a prominent citizen of Amsterdam in the 17th Century. Thus, the people of the city felt a deep sentimental attachment to the painting—not only because it had been painted by the great Rembrandt, but also because the Marten Looten was, in truth, really one of their own.

There had been much satisfaction and reaction in cultured circles in Amsterdam when Anton Mensing had brought the Marten Looten home in 1928. Now, there was deep regret that the painting's stay at home had covered only a brief ten years—and it was again going abroad.

Since the portrait had been in a private (the Mensing) collection and had been auctioned at a public sale, there were no legal or other restrictions on its purchase or its export. I felt that I had acquired the panel fairly and squarely. I thought it best to ignore the criticisms that were being voiced and remain anonymous. This course, I felt, would tend to minimize the possibility of additional controversy. It was the right decision; before long, the Dutch aimed their criticisms at their own government, contending it should have provided the funds necessary to top any and all foreign bids for the Marten Looten so that it could have been purchased for the Rijksmuseum. Nevertheless, a degree of regret lingered in Dutch art circles over the fact the portrait had been acquired by an unnamed American and would therefore leave Amsterdam and Holland. Many years and World War Two were to intervene before I would be able to erase the last traces of all such feelings in Holland.

In the meantime, the panel was shipped to me in New York, arriving there in January 1939. The New York World's Fair was scheduled to open on April 20 of that year. I contacted Fair officials and offered to lend the Marten Looten and some other important pieces in my collection for exhibit in the Fine Arts Pavilion. The offer was accepted and, as a result, I was able to share my joy of owning the masterpiece with millions of people.

(As a sidelight, amusing in retrospect, I offer my rather rueful diary entry for March 25, 1939: "My Rembrandt, being on wood, suffered from New York City's dry air. The cost of fixing it has been $1500—which shows what three months in New York can do.")

Another decade passed. August 1949 found me once again in Rotterdam. The fascination the Marten Looten held for me had never lessened. On the contrary, it had increased—to the point where I avidly desired to learn all I could about the painting and the man whom it portrayed. Also, I wanted to see if I could discover anything that might help solve the long-debated mystery of the letter which Marten Looten is shown holding in his left hand in the picture.

There had been countless theories about the letter and its significance and meaning. Before I bought the Marten Looten, a Dutch physician, Dr. J. W. Kat, had announced that he'd deciphered the words scrawled on the letter by a chemical-optical process, the nature of which he steadfastly refused to divulge.

According to Dr. Kat, the letter depicted was from Rembrandt to Marten Looten himself and read as follows:

Marten Looten—XVII January 1632 Lonely for me was Amsterdam; your company, friendship just gave me unforgettable peace created from an endless respect.

(Signed) RHL

The "Marten Looten" and the date are perfectly legible in the painting. The "RHL"—Rembrandt's actual name was Rembrandt Harmensz Lugdunensis—is also legible. But the text—four lines in the painting—remains gibberish even under the strongest magnifying glass. Consequently, Dr. Kat's announcement had been greeted with howls of derision in Netherlands and world art circles, and innumerable other students of Rembrandt and his work had advanced other theories, none of which were very widely accepted. It was my hope that, through patient research in Dutch archives, I might unearth some clue to solve the riddle.

The last, but far from the least, of my reasons for visiting the Netherlands was to clear up whatever misunderstandings and resentments remained as a result of my acquisition of the Marten Looten in 1938.

The art dealer who had acted for me at the sale graciously agreed to be my companion and act as my intermediary during my stay, using his considerable acquaintance and reputation to help open doors which might otherwise be closed to me. When necessary, he also acted as my interpreter and translator—although this was seldom. The Dutch, like the Swiss, are usually bi- or multilingual, speaking German and often English and French in addition to their own tongue. Although my own Dutch was limited to little more than guidebook phrases, I spoke both German and French, and hence communication was not much of a problem.

Because I felt it would serve to provide me with a solid foundation on which to base my other efforts, I chose to tackle the identification of Marten Looten himself first. This required many days of searching through musty files, of shuffling through yellowed and fragile documents in the Rijksmuseum, town halls and elsewhere. Throughout it all, I carefully hid the fact that I was the unnamed American who had purchased the portrait. I posed, instead, as an American art journalist doing research for an article on Rembrandt.

Eventually, a fairly comprehensive description of Marten Looten and his life emerged from the hours of research and the masses of notes my companion and I made.

The Looten family had its origins in Aardenburg. Devout and zealous adherents of the Reform Movement, the family was forced to flee Aardenburg due to religious persecution in the 1500s. It settled in Houndschoote in French Flanders, where Marten Looten's father, Dirck, was born. The family prospered in Houndschoote, which was then an important center of the textile industry.

In 1582, Spanish troops invaded Houndschoote and burned the city. The Lootens fled again—now one less in number, for Dirck's brother, Jacob, was killed by the enemy soldiers. The family sought refuge in Brugge. Evidently, the Lootens managed to salvage some of their wealth, for they were soon active and prospering in business again. It was in Brugge that Marten, the seventh and last child of Dirck, was born.

Some years later, religious persecution once more forced the Looten family to seek safety elsewhere. It returned to Aardenburg, where the Lootens were now welcomed. Dirck Looten became a brewer—and eventually the mayor of the town. This peaceful, prosperous period was only a lull. The religious issue again forced the family to move, first to Aachen, then to Leiden.

Leiden was Rembrandt's birthplace. His father, a well-to-do miller, became acquainted with the Looten family. Marten Looten, who was 20 years older than Rembrandt, moved to Amsterdam. In 1631, Rembrandt himself moved to that city. The most probable assumption is that the young artist—he was then 25—looked up Marten Looten in Amsterdam.

It is entirely likely that Marten Looten was impressed by the work of the budding genius and encouraged him. After all, Marten had become a successful grain merchant. However, being the youngest of seven children and only fractionally as successful as his older brother, Charles, who had amassed a considerable fortune in business, Marten suffered from what today we would describe as a marked inferiority complex.

Thus, it is not beyond the realm of possibility that he commissioned Rembrandt to paint his portrait to satisfy his own vanity. There is a substantiating element in the fact that, soon after the portrait was completed, Marten bought a large property consisting of a fine house and gardens for the then-impressive sum of 4600 guilders.

Old tax records showed that Marten Looten, though by no means as rich as his brother Charles, was well off. In 1631, he was taxed on the basis of a worth of 30,000 guilders. Thirteen years later, the tax authorities assessed his fortune at 71,339 guilders.

As for the disputed letter and Dr. Kat's deciphering of it, we turned up considerable evidence to indicate the good doctor and his optical-chemical system might have slipped a cog somewhere.

The tone of Dr. Kat's version of the letter is one of a man who felt sad and alone and who was humbly thanking a benefactor for having shown him kindness. But Rembrandt could hardly have been lonely in Amsterdam by January 1632. He had made many friends and acquaintances in the city—among them some fairly wealthy and important persons. He was a rising young artist whose work was already attracting favorable attention (1632 was the same year in which he completed his world-famed Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Tulp). Nor, at that period in his career, were Rembrandt van Rijn's personality and temperament of a type to write a letter such as Dr. Kat purported it to be.

No. All indications pointed to the conclusion that the letter was nothing more than an accessory, a prop, with four lines of meaningless scrawlings, which the artist had his subject hold to give the portrait a more relaxed and realistic quality and also to improve the composition of the picture. It was also a novel means whereby he could at once title, date and sign the panel. (Remember, the "Marten Looten," the date "XVII January 1632" and the initials "RHL" are legible.)

Further research revealed that the majority of authoritative opinion agreed with the conclusion I reached.

Now I had achieved two of my goals. The long hours of research and study behind me, I felt that if Marten Looten ever did step out of the canvas and begin to talk, I would be able to greet him and converse with him as though he were an old acquaintance. I also felt satisfied that I had solved the mystery of the disputed letter—by determining that it was not, and never had been, a mystery at all.

Thus, I was ready to take on my final self-imposed task—that of revealing myself as the unnamed American who had bought the portrait of Marten Looten and of making my peace with Dutch art circles.

One of the leading authorities on Rembrandt in the Netherlands was Professor Van Dillen, who was a member of the faculty at the University of the Hague. Coincidentally, he had also been one of the more outspoken critics of the sale of the Marten Looten to an American—a foreigner—and one who deeply deplored the Netherlands' loss of the portrait.

I reasoned that if I could mollify Professor Van Dillen, prove to him that I was no uncultured barbarian and that the display of the portrait in America had done—and would continue to do—immeasurable good by acquainting millions with the glories of Dutch art, the entire problem would be solved. I therefore asked my dealer friend to arrange an appointment for me with the professor.

"But please do not tell him that I'm the man who bought the Marten Looten," I said. "Just stick to our usual story—that I'm preparing an article on Rembrandt."

"Why on earth do you want to do that?" my friend demanded.

"Because I want him to judge me without prejudice, as an individual, before he learns that I own the portrait," I explained.

Some days later, my dealer friend and I were received by Professor and Mrs. Van Dillen in their apartment on the uppermost floor of a traditionally styled old Amsterdam house—narrow, picturesque and located along a canal.

We had been invited for tea. In my role as an art journalist, I chatted amiably with the professor. Before long, a bond of warmth sprang up between us. I found him to be a learned—but by no means pedantic—expert, with an excellent sense of humor and a great deal of personal charm.

Professor Van Dillen asked me many questions about the United States. Implicit—though never openly expressed—was his surprise that an American could be conversant with the fine arts and especially that he could possess any but the most superficial knowledge about Rembrandt van Rijn and his life and works.

Finally, I began to gently steer the conversation around to the Marten Lootten. I asked the scholarly professor several questions about the portrait and mentioned that I had read some of the articles he had written about it—as I had done during the course of my recent researches.

Soon, Professor Van Dillen shrewdly realized that I was showing much more interest in the Marten Looten than I would if I were merely preparing a general article on Rembrandt.

"Tell me," he murmured quietly. "Why are you so intensely interested in even the most minor details regarding the Marten Looten?"

It was now or never, I thought to myself.

"Because, sir, I am the unnamed American who purchased it in 1938," I replied.

The professor was startled, and for a few moments he said nothing.

"I can understand how you felt about it, sir," I continued. "However, the Marten Looten was not lost to the Netherlands—for it, like every Rembrandt, will forever be Dutch. The portrait is in America—that is true. However, it is acting as a cultural ambassador of your country and its heritage."

I went on to describe where and how the painting had been exhibited, how it had been viewed by millions—and would be viewed by millions more, for I was soon to donate the Marten Looten along with some other of the finest pieces in my collection to the Los Angeles County Museum.

The professor's face gradually softened—and finally broke into a huge and sincere smile. I had won not only my goal, but a friend. When we parted, the last of Professor Van Dillen's resentment against the "unnamed American" had vanished forever. I knew that within a very short time, all hostile feelings throughout Dutch art circles would also be permanently erased.

When I left Amsterdam soon afterward, I felt highly content. I'd accomplished much. Few collectors are fortunate enough to become as intimately acquainted with their treasures as I had become with Marten Looten and the master who had painted his portrait. I had satisfied myself regarding a controversy that had long raged over the letter that Marten Looten is shown holding in the painting.

Above and beyond this, I had succeeded in ending a much greater controversy over the purchase and ownership of a great Dutch painting by an American. In that, I felt I had really accomplished something worth while, helping in at least some small degree to cement the bonds of cultural understanding and friendship between those who love and appreciate fine art in two countries—Holland and my own.

Excitement, romance, drama, a sense of accomplishment and even of triumph—they are all present in collecting. And I think this little story of the Rembrandt Portrait of Marten Looten serves well to prove the point.

• • •

It might be well for me to make a few observations, based on my own experience, regarding the collecting of Greek and Roman antiquities.

To start with, most of the items I have were obtained from other private collections or, with a few exceptions, from dealers outside Greece or Italy. There are good reasons for this.

For many years, both Italy and Greece have enforced strict embargoes on the exportation of antiquities that were not already in private or dealers' hands at the time the laws were passed. The purpose, of course, of these laws is to insure that no additional art treasures are lost to the countries.

True, museums, universities and similar institutions will organize archaeological expeditions and will frequently discover new troves of art and artifacts. However, even such activities are subject to stringent controls. The host country—Greece or Italy—may issue permits for archaeological projects and excavations, but seldom if ever to private groups or individuals. And, the permits are granted solely with the proviso that the bulk—and usually the best—of any and all art or artifacts uncovered belongs to the host country. The foreign archaeologists can take only a certain share of what they find back to their own countries—and then usually only if they are to be placed in university collections or public museums.

The objects of ancient Greek and Roman art that were not already in private hands years ago are the property of the state or are in public museums. The days when a Lord Elgin could ship large quantities of ancient Greek marbles out of Greece are long past.

There are exceptions, of course. An Italian farmer excavating the foundations of a new barn might well accidentally unearth a marble bust or a bronze statue. If he is sophisticated—and unscrupulous—enough, he will not report his find to the authorities, but will slip the object to some dealer no more scrupulous than himself. The dealer will, in turn, either offer it "under the counter" to some especially avid—or particularly gullible—collector or will smuggle the object out of the country and sell it abroad.

To buy any object from such dubious sources is obviously risky. In the first place, the buyer is contravening—or at least conspiring to contravene—the law, and is liable to penalties ranging from heavy fines to actual imprisonment. Then, the "rare object" he is buying may not be at all what it is represented to be. It could be a forgery—or even an object that had been stolen from a museum or a private collection.

To all intents and purposes, the modern-day collector of ancient Greek and Roman art must confine himself to buying from one of two types of sources—well-established and highly reputable dealers or other collectors.

Even then, the wise collector will have the object he wishes to buy vetted by an outside expert, or even, if the purchase he is considering is important enough, by several independent authorities.

More than one otherwise prudent individual has been stung—and stung badly—by allowing himself to be talked into buying some mud-caked figurine that the seller purported to be a Fourth Century B.C. Greek work or an example of Second Century A.D. Roman art. Privately, even some established dealers will admit that they have been fooled (but it must be noted that reputable dealers will immediately and without question refund the full purchase price on any object they sell that later proves to be anything except what was represented).

The cost of having an independent authority expertize a work of art before he buys is the cheapest insurance any collector can obtain.

Notwithstanding all that I have said above, the beginning collector with only modest means at his disposal need not throw up his hands in despair at the thought of starting a collection of Greek and Roman antiquities. There are more of these around and available at reasonable prices than one might imagine. True, they are not the finest and the rarest and not of museum quality. However, they are still authentic, still beautiful and still very likely to appreciate in value as time goes on.

Besides, the astute collector starts small and gradually builds his collection. He can, by careful purchasing, buy items that he may later sell—or perhaps even trade—to obtain some thing of better quality and greater value.

Then—although the chances are not great, they are better than is generally supposed—there is always the possibility of making a real find in some flea market or junk shop. It does happen that the housewife who "picks up a bargain" marble bust at a rummage sale later discovers that she is the astounded owner of a rare piece worth thousands of dollars. More than one individual in recent years has purchased, say, a bronze statuette for a few dollars in a European flea market and had it prove to be a valuable piece.

One must never forget that objects of art frequently have a strange habit of traveling far and to strange places.

I'll wager that if I could comb through every cluttered attic in the old New England coastal towns, I would find very many worth-while works of fine art that have been gathering dust, unrecognized for what they are, for many decades. Many such works were brought home by the men who sailed the merchant vessels and clippers of the 18th and 19th Centuries. According to references in old diaries and the memoirs of such men, Greek and Roman marbles and bronzes—which in those days could often be picked up for practically nothing in Mediterranean seaports—were among the souvenirs they took back to the United States with them.

What happened to all those treasures—are not at least some of them lying in attics or cellars?

And this is only a single example of a possible source. I could, allowing my imagination a little rein, think of several others—and so, I'm sure, could any of my readers.

This brings us to a crux. In order to be a successful collector of any type or school of fine art, an individual must learn as much as he can about it before he starts collecting. He must be able to recognize what he is looking for—and be able to recognize at least the more patent counterfeits.

The studying up involved pays many extra dividends. In learning about ancient Greek and Roman art, one cannot help but learn also about the civilizations and the people who produced the art. This will unquestionably serve to broaden the individual's intellectual horizons—and, in increasing his knowledge and understanding of past civilizations, greatly aid him in knowing and understanding our own.

But then, all that is needed is a start—a beginning. Once an individual starts out as a collector, he will, in nine out of ten cases, become fascinated and enthralled. Even the most battered fragment of a statue, a headless terra-cotta figurine or a cracked and dented bronze object will come alive, as fresh and as beautiful as the day—centuries ago—when it was completed by its creator.

And, when that happens, the collector can, at will, transport himself back in time and walk and talk with the great Greek philosophers, the emperors of ancient Rome, the people, great and small, of civilizations that are long dead, but that live again through the objects in his collection.

• • •

As a rule, paintings should be purchased only through reputable dealers or, if obtained through private sources, only after consultation with a qualified expert. There is, of course, an exception to this rule when dealing with living artists. Individuals who collect the works of contemporary artists—whether already established or even famous or younger painters who show promise—can often buy directly from them at their studios.

Much caution is needed in buying paintings, whether those of old masters or living moderns. There are many—all too many—wrongly attributed or totally spurious paintings about, as well as large numbers that have been stolen from their rightful owners. Such is the traffic in bogus or stolen paintings that Interpol, the international police organization, was reported in 1963 to be establishing a special branch for the express purpose of waging war against art thieves and forgers.

Art thefts are reported frequently in the press. Thieves know a ready and lucrative market exists for their readily transportable loot. Entire highly organized gangs specialize in this form of larceny—as an example, the gang which, a few years ago, broke into a French Riviera restaurant famed for its spectacular collection of modern paintings and stole more than 20 canvases worth a fortune. These included works by Braque, Bonnard, Picasso. Rouault, Modigliani, Miró, Buffet and Dufy.

Counterfeits? They are legion.

As recently as June 1965, Italian police smashed an art-counterfeiting ring operating in Florence—and which, police stated, had been operating for several years without being detected. The culprits had been sending (and selling) spurious paintings—supposedly the work of such modern artists as De Chirico, Guttuso, De Pisis and many others—in wholesale lots. Indicative of the scale of the operation, the authorities seized no less than 150 bogus De Chiricos which the forgers had in their headquarters, ready for shipment.

So good was the counterfeiters' work, Italian authorities declared, that dealers and private collectors in Paris, Berlin, Stockholm, London and the United States had been completely duped. The police stated the forgers concentrated on counterfeiting modern artists whose high status was accepted, but whose works were not so thoroughly cataloged as those of the old masters. It was estimated that some thousands of fraudulent works had been produced and sold by this one ring alone in the last four or five years.

Old masters are forged, too—and offered to and purchased by the gullible who fail to take the simple precaution of having the painting examined by one or more experts. I say one or more not because I am suggesting that an expert may not render an honest verdict, but because some forgeries are so good that it may require several highly qualified authorities on the particular period or painter to detect the revealing flaws.

It might seem to the reader that, and no play on words intended, I am painting a very discouraging picture for the individual who would like to start a collection. But I am only offering words—of warning—to the wise. The situation is nowhere near as gloomy or discouraging as I might have made it appear by accentuating the negative.

True, when it comes to the works of deceased painters of top rank, examples of their work that are of museum quality are almost all in museums or in private collections. Those that are not are either lost or in the hands of dealers. If lost, there is always the one-in-a-million chance that some uncommonly fortunate individual will find them—innocently buying a priceless masterpiece for the proverbial song.

If, on the other hand, a museum-quality painting by an artist who is considered to be of top rank is in the hands of a dealer or offered for sale at auction, the price it will bring is certain to be high. A very recent illustration of this can be found in the March 1965 sale at Sotheby's, where Rembrandt's portrait of his son Titus fetched $2,234,000. Much the same sort of situation prevails with regard to the works of highly regarded, more modern painters. In 1959, an early Braque—which once sold for $15—was purchased for a thumping $155,000 by the Queensland Art Gallery. In June 1965, a Monet sold for over $500,000, a record price for a work by this artist.

However, though not renowned masterpieces or the work of artists who are regarded as being among the all-time greats, there are still large numbers of good and beautiful paintings available at prices to suit almost any purse. And it doesn't make any difference if the collector with limited means prefers the old or the new.

Here, I would like to interject what to some might seem minor, to others self-evident and thus redundant, reminders—but which concern matters all too often overlooked. The first regards the framing of paintings. It is foolish to purchase a painting and then to provide it with a frame of inferior quality or one that does not suit the painting. Any painting that an individual feels is worth buying and having deserves to be framed properly. Artists and art dealers can—and most generally will—give constructive suggestions, taking into consideration not only the character and characteristics of the painting, but also those of the room in which it is to be hung. Where necessary, they will usually be able to recommend competent, reliable picture framers.

Next, I would like to mention the display of paintings. Obviously, no hard and fast rules exist. Almost all depends on the painting, the nature, size and decor of the room in which it is to be hung and, last but not least, the personal taste of the owner. However, a painting should be displayed to best advantage, so that it can "show itself" at its best. There should be artistry in the hanging of pictures on a wall just as there must be in paintings themselves. And, of course, a painting should have proper lighting—lighting that enhances its beauty and, whenever possible, serves to further emphasize whatever effect the artist has tried to achieve.

Lastly, a word or two about the care and preservation of paintings. They should not be exposed to extremes of temperature, humidity or direct sunlight. When they require cleaning or repair, these operations must be performed by qualified professionals. A painting cannot be cleaned properly or safely by even the most meticulous housewife. (I know of one painful and ultraextreme incident in which a well-meaning housewife took a hanging, an oil painting on so-called monk's cloth, worth $750 and ran it through her washer-dryer because it was dusty and grimy!)

By the same token, the repair of a painting—or even of a good picture frame—is hardly a chore to be undertaken by even the handiest home repairman. Such tasks are for specialists—and the amateur will at best only worsen the existing damage or defect and at worst will cause irreparable harm and destroy not only the value but also the beauty of the painting.

These points covered, I would like to offer one final counsel. Whatever school or type of painting the collector chooses to collect, let the choice be his own, in accord with his (or her) own taste and preference. One of the greatest joys of collecting lies in the gratification an individual derives from obtaining an object he or she wants, that satisfies his or her own tastes.

Collecting certain types of objects or certain schools of painting just because it is the fashionable thing to do or the fad of the moment provides no real and lasting satisfaction, offers no excitement—and gives no joy.

Someone once criticized my collection to Sir Alec Martin of Christie's, arguing that I collected in unrelated categories, that my collection lacked the singleness of purpose and the concentration that he, the critic, thought should characterize a collection.

The critic concluded his tirade by disdainfully sneering: "Paul Getty buys only what he likes!"

Since Sir Alec Martin's reply and comment have been widely published in a book written by Ralph Hewins, I feel that I can quote it here without compunction and without feeling that I am being unduly immodest about doing so.

"I don't hold it against him at all that his collections are an expression of the man," Sir Alec declared. "I'm rather fed up with these impersonal, 'complete' collections that are chosen by somebody for somebody else. The formation of his wonderful collection has been a public service."

No collector could hope for greater vindication of his collecting philosophy—or for higher praise of his collection.