stupid.
Not fifty-five million dollars stupid.
I knew the provenance of the mask by heart, but I wanted the comfort level again of seeing the written history that spelled out that the private ownership of the Semiramis went back over a hundred years, into the late nineteenth century. A critical time period, because most of the national laws prohibiting the exporting of antiquities from their countries of origin dated from the twentieth century. Anything in private ownership before 1900 was generally open game.
All vital documents concerning the collection were kept in the “Panic Room” in the executive office area. Officially, it was called the Document Storage Room. I gave it the nickname after seeing the Jodie Foster movie because it reminded me of the sealed, fireproof, vaultlike room she holed up in during a robbery.
“Good evening, Ms. Dupre.” The greeting came from hidden speakers as I walked through an exhibit area.
“Hi, Carlos,” I replied, waving my hand in the air.
My presence, picked up by hidden cameras, had been displayed on a monitor in the security center—which was also hidden.
“Hidden” was the key word for museum security. Prominent security measures didn’t seem to discourage people from stealing. Now everything from cameras to laser beams and radio transmission tags on individual items was being concealed.
I retrieved the file folder from the Panic Room and took it back to my assistant’s desk to review and copy it. Besides a copy for Hiram, Eric, and the lawyers, I wanted my own copy of it… more security blanket mentality.
The provenance report, made by a Swiss art appraiser named Viktor Milan, was the top document in the file.
The provenance said that the Semiramis had been acquired by a man named Rashid Kalb in 1883 in a marketplace in Beirut, Lebanon. No paperwork accompanied the sale, which was typical of both the time and the place. In those days Lebanon was a region under the rule of the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Istanbul, Turkey, was the capital. The empire collapsed after World War I.
No one would expect a receipt from a “marketplace” purchase, either. But again, that wasn’t unusual for the time or place. Credible oral histories could support a chain of ownership.
Various members of the Kalb family owned it until the last member died out in 1934. It was sold shortly before the death of Rana Kalb, the last surviving member of the family—who apparently was murdered for reasons that were not revealed—to a Panamanian company, which held it for fifty-five years. They sold it three years ago to Milan. He in turn sold it a few months ago to Henri Lipton, the London art dealer who had arranged the auction in New York.
Although I had never met Viktor Milan, I recalled seeing his name on the provenances of other pieces I’d bought from Lipton. Lipton I knew reasonably well, having met with him several times in New York and at his London gallery.
The fact that a priceless artifact had turned up in a Lebanese marketplace over 120 years ago was not unusual. Even today, antiquities were sold in third-world countries for a tiny fraction of their value. In the nineteenth century, the laws protecting antiquities in the region probably didn’t exist—and if they were on the books were easily avoided, as they were today.
A solid history of personal ownership going back an eon would have been nice, but that was the exception, not the rule, with antiquities. Records of sales get lost or destroyed or never were prepared. In this case, the most important document was the bill of sale from Rana Kalb to the Panamanian company in 1934. Two versions were present: one written in Arabic scrawl, the other typed in English. The document included a sworn narration of the original marketplace purchase of the piece decades before.
It wasn’t the most perfect provenance I had seen, but this was how art pieces were frequently sold back then—and even now. Little formality was
Not fifty-five million dollars stupid.
I knew the provenance of the mask by heart, but I wanted the comfort level again of seeing the written history that spelled out that the private ownership of the Semiramis went back over a hundred years, into the late nineteenth century. A critical time period, because most of the national laws prohibiting the exporting of antiquities from their countries of origin dated from the twentieth century. Anything in private ownership before 1900 was generally open game.
All vital documents concerning the collection were kept in the “Panic Room” in the executive office area. Officially, it was called the Document Storage Room. I gave it the nickname after seeing the Jodie Foster movie because it reminded me of the sealed, fireproof, vaultlike room she holed up in during a robbery.
“Good evening, Ms. Dupre.” The greeting came from hidden speakers as I walked through an exhibit area.
“Hi, Carlos,” I replied, waving my hand in the air.
My presence, picked up by hidden cameras, had been displayed on a monitor in the security center—which was also hidden.
“Hidden” was the key word for museum security. Prominent security measures didn’t seem to discourage people from stealing. Now everything from cameras to laser beams and radio transmission tags on individual items was being concealed.
I retrieved the file folder from the Panic Room and took it back to my assistant’s desk to review and copy it. Besides a copy for Hiram, Eric, and the lawyers, I wanted my own copy of it… more security blanket mentality.
The provenance report, made by a Swiss art appraiser named Viktor Milan, was the top document in the file.
The provenance said that the Semiramis had been acquired by a man named Rashid Kalb in 1883 in a marketplace in Beirut, Lebanon. No paperwork accompanied the sale, which was typical of both the time and the place. In those days Lebanon was a region under the rule of the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. Istanbul, Turkey, was the capital. The empire collapsed after World War I.
No one would expect a receipt from a “marketplace” purchase, either. But again, that wasn’t unusual for the time or place. Credible oral histories could support a chain of ownership.
Various members of the Kalb family owned it until the last member died out in 1934. It was sold shortly before the death of Rana Kalb, the last surviving member of the family—who apparently was murdered for reasons that were not revealed—to a Panamanian company, which held it for fifty-five years. They sold it three years ago to Milan. He in turn sold it a few months ago to Henri Lipton, the London art dealer who had arranged the auction in New York.
Although I had never met Viktor Milan, I recalled seeing his name on the provenances of other pieces I’d bought from Lipton. Lipton I knew reasonably well, having met with him several times in New York and at his London gallery.
The fact that a priceless artifact had turned up in a Lebanese marketplace over 120 years ago was not unusual. Even today, antiquities were sold in third-world countries for a tiny fraction of their value. In the nineteenth century, the laws protecting antiquities in the region probably didn’t exist—and if they were on the books were easily avoided, as they were today.
A solid history of personal ownership going back an eon would have been nice, but that was the exception, not the rule, with antiquities. Records of sales get lost or destroyed or never were prepared. In this case, the most important document was the bill of sale from Rana Kalb to the Panamanian company in 1934. Two versions were present: one written in Arabic scrawl, the other typed in English. The document included a sworn narration of the original marketplace purchase of the piece decades before.
It wasn’t the most perfect provenance I had seen, but this was how art pieces were frequently sold back then—and even now. Little formality was
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