Friday,
March 07, 2008
The
ANNOTICO Report
The
Italian government is now putting pressure on The Cleveland Museum of Art
to return a very rare, unique valuable statute "Apollo the lizard slayer" , created by Praxiteles in the fourth century
B.C. The Greek sculptor was the first to craft a nude female body and the
first to portray gods as intimate, human-like creatures. Praxiteles'
work changed the direction of Western art - yet no living person had seen
an original piece. Historians believed they perished long ago.
The
antique world has always been "shady"and
lucrative, with tomb robbers consorting with unscrupulous dealers who in turn
dealt with museums that justified their "antiquities" purchases by
stating that was their MORAL responsibility to protect art for future
generations. In essence, they were its legal guardians. It mattered not where a
piece had come from, just so long as it was safe. All LEGALITIES were
secondary.
But the art world
was forced to confront a new landscape with the fall of
Italian and Greek
authorities jumped into the debate. They too believed that tombs had been raided
and antiquities stolen from their soil. Suddenly, the conversation turned from preservation
to rightful ownership. And museums, long seen as noble custodians, found
themselves in the unfamiliar role of bad guys. "It became apparent that
the museums were on the wrong side of the acquisitions debate,"
For dealers,
there's always been an incentive to hide the history of a work. With fortunes
to be made, many had adopted a don't-ask-don't-tell policy. Museums weren't
particularly diligent either. In many cases, it was virtually impossible to
prove that an item had been stolen.
Then suddenly
there was. Police had long been suspicious of Giacomo
Medici, was one of the world's most connected dealers, and they raided Medici's
One of Medici's
closest associates was Robert Hecht, an American dealer who'd arranged
hundreds of transactions between Medici and
Armed with
tangible evidence and moral outrage, the Italian police started going after American
museums, who could no longer feign ignorance. Mounting public pressure
and the threat of massive lawsuits caused museums to react as they never
had before.
The
Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York gave back 21 works,
including a rare terra-cotta wine vase from 600 B.C. that had cost $1 million
in 1972. The J. Paul Getty
Museum in
The museums had
no choice, explains
The country's
cultural ministry was jubilant. "
After
three weeks in
But as he was
leaving Phoenix Ancient Art, an antiquities dealership in
The Aboutaams smiled. It's our newest acquisition, one said.
It's quite special.
The brothers
whisked off the cloth. Bennett couldn't breathe.
On the table lay
remnants of an ancient bronze statue. Even in fragments, he could see the
outlines of a graceful adolescent. His back was strong and lean. His left leg
curled behind his right. Wide almond eyes stared at the ground.
This wasn't just
any sculpture. This was Apollo the lizard slayer, created by Praxiteles in the
fourth century B.C. The Greek sculptor was the first to craft a nude female
body and the first to portray gods as intimate, human-like creatures.
Praxiteles' work changed the direction of Western art yet no living person had seen an original
piece. Historians believed they perished long ago.
Bennett
instinctively thought he was looking at an original. And if it was indeed
authentic, it was impossible to quantify how important the piece was.
"It's as if there were no existing works by Michelangelo then suddenly one appeared," he explains.
The curator
immediately phoned Katharine Lee Reid, the
The Aboutaams and Bennett talked for hours. By the time they
were done, the statue was promised to
On the plane
home, Bennett couldn't sleep. Worry sank into his gut. It couldn't be this
easy, he thought. The piece was too important. Something would go wrong.
He just didn't
know what.
The art world had
changed since Bennett's Harvard days in the '80s, when professors lectured
about the importance of preservation. "We are mortal, but art is
permanent," Bennett says.
At the time,
budding curators learned that their principal responsibility was to protect art
for future generations. In essence, they were its legal guardians. It mattered
not where a piece had come from, just so long as it was safe.
So great
discoveries like the Apollo were heralded, their finders dined and celebrated.
But the art world
was forced to confront a new landscape with the fall of
Italian and Greek
authorities jumped into the debate. They too believed that tombs had been
raided and antiquities stolen from their soil. Suddenly, the conversation
turned from preservation to rightful ownership. And museums, long seen as noble
custodians, found themselves in the unfamiliar role of bad guys.
"It became
apparent that the museums were on the wrong side of the acquisitions
debate," says Jenifer Neils, a professor at Case
Western Reserve.
The antiquities
market boasts annual sales of $100 to $200 million. For dealers, there's always
been an incentive to hide the history of a work. With fortunes to be made, many
had adopted a don't-ask-don't-tell policy.
Museums weren't
particularly diligent either. In many cases, it was virtually impossible to
prove that an item had been stolen. Tomb robbers, after all, aren't prone to
videotaping their raids. So there was rarely concrete evidence of a work's
illicit travels.
Then suddenly
there was.
Giacomo Medici was one of the
world's most connected dealers, supplying the globe with classic Italian art.
But Italian police had long been suspicious of Medici. With the aid of Swiss
authorities, they raided Medici's
One of Medici's
closest associates was Robert Hecht, an American dealer who'd arranged hundreds
of transactions between Medici and
Armed with
tangible evidence and moral outrage, the Italian police started going after
American museums, who could no longer feign ignorance. Mounting public pressure
and the threat of massive lawsuits caused museums to react as they never had
before. The Metropolitan Museum of Art in
After much
debate, the J. Paul Getty Museum in
The museums had
no choice, explains
The country's
cultural ministry was jubilant. "
In exchange,
Arriving back in
Cleveland in 2004, Bennett felt understandably nervous. In this new world of
paranoia, he was a suspect, not a hero. He hoped he was on solid ground, but
the odds were against him.
Hicham and Ali Aboutaam readily admitted to gaps in the Apollo's ownership
record. From what they were able to determine, the statue was owned by a German
family in the early 1900s. World War II forced them to flee, leaving their
belongings behind.
In the 1990s, a
surviving member returned to the family estate after the fall of
The man vaguely
recalled seeing the statue in the garden as a child, but he knew nothing of its
history. Believing the cost of repair would be greater than its value, he sold
the statue to a Dutch dealer in 1994, who in turn sold it to another collector,
who then sold it to the Aboutaams in 2001 with the
understanding that he'd remain anonymous.
"It's the
sort of story that could be true," says David Gill, professor of ancient
history at
Equally suspect were the Aboutaam
brothers. The same year Bennett bought the Apollo, the U.S. Bureau of
Immigration and Customs Enforcement arrested Hicham
for trading in looted Iranian art. He pleaded guilty to a misdemeanor and paid
a $5,000 fine.
Then an Egyptian
court convicted Ali in absentia, sentencing him to 15 years for smuggling art
to
"The [Aboutaam] name regularly pops up in association with people
I'd call suspect," says Neil Brodie, a Stanford
historian. Most dealers, he says, would be acutely "suspicious" of
anything that passed through the brothers' hands.
Bennett dismissed
the allegations. He'd been dealing with the brothers for years. In his
experience, they'd been nothing but forthcoming and ethical.
But to ease
suspicion, the Aboutaams granted
The findings were
definitive: The statue was authentic. "Short of finding a vase that says
Praxiteles made this, I don't think you could get much more certain about its
origins," says David Mitten, a Harvard art history professor. "I
think it's the most important classical Greek sculpture to come to a museum
since World War I."
Bennett was glad
to be part of the process. "I feel humbled really that I had a role in
bringing it to
The museum paid a
reported $5.2 million for the Apollo and placed it proudly in the middle of its
interior garden court. Visitors from around the world came to witness the
statue.
The Louvre even
called, asking whether it could borrow Apollo for a Praxiteles exhibit. In the
art world, there was no greater honor.
And that's when
the grenade landed.
In December 2006,
a French news agency quoted an anonymous source within the Greek Ministry of
Culture, who claimed the Apollo had been stolen. The piece hadn't been found in
a backyard in
Bennett was
astonished. The claim was "so absurd I had to smile about it," he
says. The museum's research showed no sign that the statue had spent time
underwater.
It seemed the
initial crusade over stolen art had turned into something of a strong-arm game.
"This debate
has nothing to do with scholarship and real curatorial work," says
Harvard's Mitten. "It's just political aggrandizement."
Art writer Guy
But the Louvre
bowed out. With apologies to
The defeat still
causes Bennett to seethe. So when the Italians also came
calling, asking for dozens of pieces back,
The Carabinieri's Tutela Patrimonio Cuturale, the Italian
police force charged with prosecuting art theft, were also playing hardball,
using legal pressure, ultimatums, and threats of blacklisting against American
museums.
"The
Italians wanted to make it very clear that [curators] have totally ignored
their professional responsibilities," says Gill, who supports
Others called it
by a different name: bullying.
"
Even as the Tutela Patrimonio Cuturale, known as the TPC, went after the major players,
there'd been rumblings that
But while
Princeton,
The art world
could only guess which pieces the Italians might have in their sights. Topping
the list was the Medea calyx krater,
a vase created in the fourth century B.C., one of the few works to have
survived the period.
Up until 1990,
the vase was part of the private collection of brothers Nelson and William
Hunt, whose family made its fortune in oil. In the 1980s, they'd been caught
violating securities laws by trying to corner the silver market. Each was fined
$10 million.
To help cover the
bill, the brothers put the Medea up for sale.
But
Also on the list
was the Apollo. It seems the Italians believed that the statue was rightfully
theirs, claiming that it had been recovered from its national waters.
If the list was
accurate, it meant the TPC were hoping to secure millions worth of art from
But talking to
Bennett, one gets the sense that the museum won't be quick to wave a white
flag. "Our policy is really straightforward," he says. "Anyone
at anytime" can protest an item's status. And "If someone has
information that proves [the piece was illegally purchased], the museum has an
obligation to look at that evidence . . . The Cleveland Museum of Art wants to
know as much as possible about the items in our exhibits."
At the same time,
Bennett claims that all pieces are vigorously researched. Just because a dealer
is charged doesn't mean all his deals were tainted. Hecht's case is ongoing.
But it's worth
noting that in the half-dozen or so instances that a work has been challenged,
Today, the Apollo
rests securely in the nether regions of the museum. There it will sit until the
doors open in 2010 to a new Greek and Roman exhibit.
Meanwhile, life
continues in its normal frenzy for Bennett. Between organizing new exhibits,
he's working on a book about the Apollo. And later this month, he'll be touring
He's very
excited. After all, he says, brown eyes sparkling like winter ice, you never
know what treasures might be unearthed
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