Author: Michael Chappell

A headline in yesterday’s Guardian read:

‘Save jobs and sell the Hockney? The dilemma laying bare inequality in the arts.’

The paper’s cultural affairs writer Charlotte Higgins goes on to discuss the ability of the Royal Opera House to sell a David Hockney portrait of its onetime director David Webster in order to fund daily operations. Her general tenor is something like this- that the opera house has something of this value to sell when so many other failing albeit less vaunted institutions don’t renders the opera house as bad. And that, of course, the Hockney will sell for an uber price and disappear from view into the clutches of a super-rich collector, that’s even more bad.

Hmmm…

You know, for myself I like high culture of the type that the Royal Opera House represents. Am I an elitist, a social climber, someone trying to, in the words of another era, ape my betters? No- I like what I like, and can think of very few other times I’ve had as much enjoyment than by watching a performance at Covent Garden, even squashed into one of the wildly uncomfortable seats in the stalls, and queueing for a small, lukewarm drink in one of the appropriately named crush bars, or having my nostrils assaulted by the smell of damp woolen clothing too long awaiting dry cleaning whilst in line at the cloakroom.

Who would ever think the Royal Opera House would be on the ropes? Or the Metropolitan Museum in New York? And the list goes on inexorably and worldwide- and, let’s not forget, this is a juggernaut though hugely exacerbated by the COVID pandemic, was already well underway beforehand. The arts and culture generally, high and low, have had an increasingly tough slog for years. The internet and 1,000 channel TV and global fixation on handheld devices will continue to erode an interest in cultural institutions when the COVID pandemic is an unpleasant memory.

As my last blog entry argued for the sale of a Jackson Pollack painting to keep the doors open and the lights on at a small survey art museum, I would plump even more strongly for the Royal Opera House to sell a Hockney painting, an object that is hardly central to what it is the opera house does.

That not every regional opera house or performance venue has something of similar value to sell to keep the wolf from the door- well, what can I say? In a better world than this, all arts organizations would be well-funded and succeeding based on grassroots support of their various constituencies, with that support topped up by right-thinking, enlightened governments.

But that’s not going to happen any time soon, or certainly not soon enough to stave off the closure of the likes of the Royal Opera House. Charlotte Higgins in her Guardian article writes about how, once cultural artifacts are sold off and gone, they are gone for good. She’s right, of course, but even more’s the pity if, for want of a sale of a small, adjunct component in the form of a Hockney painting, the Royal Opera House itself were gone for good.

The Wall Street Journal has yesterday published the following incendiary headline:

‘ Art Museum Sells its Soul’

The accompanying article goes on to discuss in heated terms what the writer characterizes as the morally flawed decision on the part of the Everson Museum of Art in Syracuse to sell a Jackson Pollock painting, to fund other acquisitions of greater diversity. Of course, with most cultural institutions world wide and not just in upstate New York already on the ropes well before they began to feel the crushing bottom line effects of the COVID-19 pandemic, one would assume that their ostensible goal masks their real objective- raising money to fund a huge cash shortfall in support of ongoing operations. Put another way- to stave off bankruptcy and closure.

Though the author of the Wall Street Journal article may not agree, I think the sale of the Pollock, if it can do some good to keep the museum afloat, is a good idea. I am not familiar with the Everson Museum and what its collections consists of, but frankly, an isolated ab ex work in what is otherwise a survey art museum would hardly have the effect of undermining an understanding of what remains on the walls, or in the museum’s back room. Too often, museums will retain a single work that, important in itself, does not really articulate with the balance of its collection. And, of course, that it might have been part, or perhaps all, of the benefaction of some local grandee whose generosity is woefully tempered by the limitations placed on the museum by the benefactor’s deed of gift further complicates matters- matters now so dire which no donor or curator or acquisitions committee could have foreseen at the time the gift was accepted.

In earlier times- and those earlier times were not so long ago- it was standard practice to place severe restrictions on the sale of works of art. The general rationale was to insure a level of sustained financial discipline within the beneficiary museum, assuring thereby the permanent and ongoing public acknowledgment of a donor’s generosity. Consequently, a museum’s permanent collection acquired sacred cow status, and could not be sold to support its operating budget. Or as I heard it put rather pointedly, to fund the lavish salaries paid to curators. As someone who’s had some exposure from inside the museum world, I’ve never yet seen any museum curator or director who didn’t absolutely, positively earn every cent they were paid, and most of them are paid peanuts- and fewer of those peanuts all the time. The Honolulu Museum of Art, for instance, had long had as a perk for the director use during their tenure of a marvelous Ossipoff designed home. That house has now been sold to support operations, and the director, with no increase in pay, now obligated to pay for their own housing.

Then, too, not all acquisitions, and certainly not all donations, are of, shall we say, museum quality. For every work in any given museum’s galleries, there can be many fold that number languishing in the vaults. Tate Britain and Tate Modern rotate works in and out of their galleries, but mostly, what’s in the vaults are generally subpar that in their occupation serve no purpose other than to gather dust. We’ve been treated to several TV shows in recent years featuring the likes of celebrity dealer Philip Mould and aristocratic art historian Bendor Grosvenor, sussing out treasures amongst these, but for every treasure, there are thousands, indeed tens of thousands that no one would now or ever consider as in any way important.

Other than, possibly, to the museum that now possesses them and could, in these times, use them as a source of revenue to keep the lights burning- or rather, to be able to turn them back on at some time in the hoped-for and not too distant future.

Frankly, I would consider this as an oppotrune time for some general weeding of museum’s collections, including works by artists- including Jackson Pollock- well established in the canon. One needs to bear in mind that not all artists, even those in what might be considered the first rank, generally produced masterworks. Then, too, there are works whose time has passed. I doubt too many museums could stay open even in good times if their holdings ran to Victorian era pictures with a moral message, in the manner of Luke Fildes, arguably the most famously popular painter at the turn of the last century.

But is the sale of a single painting, or any group of paintings or other works of art, selling its soul as the Wall Street Journal headline has it? I shouldn’t think so, as beyond the ability to stay open the soul of a public museum is its dynamism and the lively relationship it maintains with its constituency. The time when any museum could operate in a near vacuum, providing access only to connoisseurs or the great and good who perhaps fancied themselves as connoisseurs has long passed. The subheading in the Wall Street Journal article characterizes the sale of the Pollock painting as a betrayal of the public trust. It seems to me the forced closure of the museum when the sale of one of its artworks could have forestalled it is much more a betrayal.

We’ve just concluded a sale-less dialog with a prospective buyer who seemed genuinely interested in part of our stock, who then purchased something similar from someone else. This happens, of course, and the prospective punter was, I hasten to add, not part of our regular clientele. A spot buyer, he did however, point out what he ultimately purchased and from whom. While we offered something of what I would term collector quality, what was purchased was a revivalist piece of much later period and, not surprising, a whole lot cheaper. Decorative, but not collector quality, or what an old dealer colleague of ours would have termed ‘cheap and cheerful’.

Mind you, not everyone who darkens our real and/or virtual door is stamped ‘connoisseur’ and as I’ve written before, my partner Keith McCullar has often over the years interceded when my own dialog waxed a bit loquacious. Not everyone wants to know about fire gilding, or the trading history of 18th century Yorkshire cabinet maker Wright & Elwick. It is perhaps that I am obtuse in my manner, that I don’t always notice the glazing over of eyes when I’m on a roll. Keith does, and can quickly say something to lighten the mood, like ‘Isn’t it pretty?’

Still, whether or not it enters the sales banter, we nevertheless bring a collector’s eye to what it is we stock, and what is now repeated by me aphoristically, everything we’ve got has some compelling reason for being here, and we try to offer a combination of quality, condition, and rarity. Of course we price our stock to sell, and witness our annual sale soon to be concluded, we are still a commercial enterprise and must make room for fresh stock. Even our loyal-est of loyal clients will give us the go by if, after several browses on our website it is the same inventory.

A commercial enterprise, yes, and after a cumulative 60 years in finance, Keith and I can’t just shrug this off. But at bottom, we’re collectors and that’s what we bring to every acquisition we make. I’ve written before that what disappoints me, well beyond the buyer as noted above who makes a less good purchase from another dealer, is selling a piece in our stock too quickly- before I’ve had a chance to enjoy it myself.

In the midst of all we’re going through, Netflix and Amazon must see their internal servers heated to white hot, with all the binge watching. Include us in that number, to be honest. Mind you, I’d like to be ameliorating the effects of my own binge watching, with my mid-section these days becoming form-fitting with the easy armchair in front of the television, but alas, the gyms are now closed- for the second time.

What though has become a favorite, or a renewed favorite, amongst binge-ophiles, is ‘Downton Abbey’. As I have written so often before, there is nothing in the series not to like. The beautiful settings at Highclere, as well as those specially designed and highly atmospheric sets, to say nothing of the wonderful performances from actors whose characterizations they have made entirely their own, and an enthralling storyline packed with incident- what more can I say?

I know that the binge watchers for this particular series are out in force, as we’ve received another wave of queries from my gentle readers and others about any increase in interest in period furniture and artwork. As before, I would repeat my former answer- well, maybe. Always assuming that my readers and our cadre of frequent punters are interested in the financial health and survival of Chappell & McCullar, my answer is generally poised to address sales of the period furniture and artwork we have on offer, and that, so far, has been pretty good this year. Not a banner year, but we’ve had worse. Is this related to ‘Downton…’ though? My guess has been that it might have more to do with folks sheltering in place, and taking the time to browse our website. Interestingly, the number of visits to our website is not up significantly over this time last year. The time each site visitor remains on our website, though, is up over ten fold. And, I say with some modesty, the time spent in reading my blog page has increased, too. An entertaining voice of reason? Or just a lack of something else to do? You be the judge.

The site browser who follows through with a purchase has seen a gratifying uptick, with a number of new clients added to the fold. We had thought that this might be limited to purchases of smaller, easier to ship items, but frankly, no sooner do we sell a pair of candlesticks than we field an enquiry for a bookcase.

All this though continues to beg the question ‘What of “Downton Abbey”?’ and for the moment I have no real answer beyond what I’ve said earlier, that the questions posed to me about the series have lately ticked upward. Perhaps it is that, with our own period material, ‘Downton Abbey’ is representative of an historic period that, while not free of challenging incident, is nevertheless certain and unchanging, and a welcome relief from the unpleasant uncertainty and never-ending changes in our own time. Perhaps it is too that purchases from us of period material provides the buyer with a touchstone in literal terms, a soothing reminder of the certainty of an earlier time.

June has been the keystone of the London season for nearly a century. At the tail end of the months preceding it with a series of balls, at homes, levees, and ultimately presentations of the young ladies of quality at court, the ultimate has always been antiques and fine art fairs, providing the great and the good the opportunity to purchase some exquisite piece of furniture or silver or bibelots, before decamping for the summer to whatever country estate one occupied.

I’ve written often over the last few years, decrying the change in fortunes of the established fairs, with the venerable Grosvenor House fair the grandest, and now for many years existing only as a blessed memory. The Olympia Fair has carried on, changing itself, and its ownership, frequently over the last decade, in order to survive.

Now, though, in this age of COVID-19 and all it’s wrought the fairs will be virtually virtual, with tours of the exhibitors’ stands virtual, and all auxiliary events where traditionally the flesh is pressed whilst holding a champagne flute, social distancing will only allow one to enjoy any of this from the safety of one’s own home via one’s computer screen.

And what of this for the exhibitor dealers? Of course, virtual is cheaper, but in a business inherently tactile, to name just one of the senses that influence the decision to make a purchase, how is it to consider purchasing a lacquered bureau cabinet in the mid 6 figures without, pardon the expression, kicking the tyres?

Mind you, sales platforms have existed for quite some time, and nearly every exhibitor either at Olympia, or Masterpiece London- Grosvenor House’s surviving progeny- are reasonably represented on the commercial sales platforms and those maintained by accrediting bodies, like BADA and LAPADA, that exist only for the accredited trade in art and antiques.

But what of the opportunity for those who really want to become serious collectors, who want to develop an eye, to discern what’s very, very good, as distinct from an item less good? In short, how does ‘virtual’ contribute to connoisseurship? The short answer is, it doesn’t, or at least not much. Using the same lacquer cabinet as my trope, what is it that can be seen virtually- the craftsmanship, quality of decoration, indeed the patina that can be wrought only over time- and then find that it is nearly indistinguishable, in a virtual environment, to a similar piece made in the last year. ‘Virtual environment’? Hardly. Nothing substitutes for personal inspection- pulling out the drawers of an 18th century bureau, say, and giving the inside a good, old whiff, taking in the very distinctive musty pong. Yes, indeed, kicking the tyres, that’s what’s missing and cannot be duplicated in a virtual environment. ‘Kicking the tyres’- am I excused for using this expression as a euphemism for connoisseurship?