by Nancy Moses
Stolen, Smuggled, Sold
Stolen, Smuggled, Sold
On the Hunt for Cultural Treasures
Nancy Moses
ROWMAN & LITTLEFIELD
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ISBN 978-0-7591-2192-8 (cloth : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-0-7591-2194-2 (electronic)
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To my beloved sisters, Ellen Sue Moses and Suzanne Garment
Acknowledgments
Many people generously gave their time and talent during the years I spent writing Stolen, Smuggled, Sold. A number are already cited in the text, and I wish to thank each one. In addition I would like to thank V. Chapman-Smith of the National Archives, Brent Glass, former director of the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History, and Stephen R. Phillips, research assistant, Egyptian Section, University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, who provided many useful insights. I thank Sandra Tatman, executive director, and Jill Lee, circulating librarian, of the Athenaeum of Philadelphia, who gave me a workplace, unlimited encouragement, and a wonderful book collection upon which to draw.
I am grateful to Maureen Ward who shared her insightful opinions, Randi Kamine who checked the facts, and Amy Castleberry who helped assemble the final text. The book benefitted from Bruce Bellingham’s sage legal advice and Lynda Barness, Andrea Kramer, and Suzanne Garment’s masterful editing. I appreciate the support and dedication of Charles Harmon, executive editor at Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, whose faith in my book has meant so much.
Finally, I wish to thank Myron Bloom, my first reader, best friend, and loving supporter throughout forty-one years of marriage.
Color Plates
Plate 1: Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer 1
Plate 2: Pearl Buck's Typewriter
Plate 3: Lakota Sioux Ghost Dance Shirt
Plate 4: Babe Ruth Audio Disc: Quail Hunt at Forked River, New Jersey
Plate 5: Ramesses I?
Plate 6: Bill Of Rights
Plate 7: Sumerian Vessel, 3rd Millennium BCE
Preface
In 2006, while searching for the topic for the final chapter of my book, Lost in the Museum: Hidden Treasures and the Stories They Tell, I came across a disturbing fact: art museums in the United States and around the world owned thousands of artworks that were likely taken from Jews living in Nazi-occupied Europe. As Jews fled their homes or were dragged to death camps, many had been forced to sell or abandon their paintings, rare books, and other treasures. Since I was writing about museum objects with a secret past, I was very intrigued and decided to check in with some colleagues in art museums.
I soon learned that there are mountains of paintings, sculpture, rare books, ceremonial objects, and other treasures with a provenance that ended around 1933 and picked up again after the end of World War II. Much of it surfaced in Europe around the late 1940s and early 1950s, and dealers lost little time in selling it to major museums around the world. Recently, the museum profession encouraged American museums to post lists of this Holocaust art on their websites, and many have complied. But, although museums had made this gesture towards transparency, they were not interested in discussing the matter. There’s reason for this reluctance, since harboring items stolen from helpless Jews on their way to their death is not exactly the type of subject that pushes a museum’s positive image.
I thought this matter over and tried to figure out how to convince a museum to allow me access to its Holocaust art. Then I hit on a plan: I would find a museum that had actually returned something to the original Jewish owners or their heirs and tell its story. A museum would certainly welcome the chance to showcase its act of generosity. I imagined being greeted with open arms by one of these courageous museums. I imagined a story in its local paper celebrating the museum’s generosity, its wisdom in righting a terrible wrong from decades past.
That was my plan: to tell the story of a museum that had repatriated an artwork stolen from Jews. I contacted the Association of Art Museum Directors and was directed to a section of its website with a list of about a dozen museums under the heading “Restitution of Claims for Nazi-Era Cultural Assets.” I then got busy. I called one museum, and then another, then another. At one, the director was on vacation; at another, the curator was installing an exhibition and was too busy to take my call; at a third, no one called back. I must have made twenty calls, and no one was available for an interview about the artwork a museum had actually returned. Two Ivy League universities were on the list, and I tried them both, naively thinking that academic freedom translated into institutional transparency. After calling seven or eight museums, I finally connected with a sympathetic staff member.
“These museums don’t want to be interviewed because they are embarrassed,” she told me, after I promised her anonymity. “Even though the museum did the right thing in returning the artwork to the Jewish family, it does call into question how the painting got to it in the first place. In the case of our museum, we’re in the process of negotiating the sale of a painting with a problematic provenance. Any publicity would threaten the negotiations.”
That was it. I was stonewalled. I quickly found another topic for the final chapter of Lost in the Museum and submitted the manuscript to my publisher.
This incident lay festering in the back of my mind for years. As generally happens when something’s on my mind, related information appears as if by magic. I began to see newspaper features about Holocaust art, then book reviews, magazine articles, television shows, and movies. There is a very large literature around Holocaust art; it’s a well-traveled road. And, as I traveled along it, I started to see how it fit into a larger picture.
I began to think about spoils of war, how through millennia of conflicts the victor claimed the treasures of the vanquished. Much of this war booty ended up filling the display halls of museums, great libraries, and archives, which are collectively known as collecting institutions.
Wars are one vehicle that transports cultural treasures from loser to the winner, but there are others as well. Explorers. Missionaries. Colonialists. Tourists. They see something on their travels and bring it home. These souvenirs can be as grand as the imposing Ishtar Gate of Babylon from the sixth century BCE in Berlin’s Pergamon Museum; as astonishing as the intricate bronze plaques that the British stole from the high court of Benin, now at the Art Institute of Chicago; and as memorable as the Parthenon’s marble figures, now in the British Museum. While subjugating the natives, Westerners also brought home shrunken heads from the Maori, Kachina figures from Hopi pueblos, and prehistoric pottery from Ban Chiang, Thailand, immediately recognizable by its jazzy, swirling patterns. War brings famine
and famine brings desperate people to steal their own cultural treasures from archaeological sites and museums, to sell them into the black market. I thought about this as I wandered through museums of art, archaeology, and anthropology. I began asking myself: are these objects better off here, where millions can see them, or should they be back in their home countries, reconnected to their cultures?
An idea for a book began to take shape, something about the removal and return of cultural treasures. Were there instances other than war and colonial expansion? What about true crime stories set in museums? I read about the 1911 heist of the Mona Lisa by three Italian handymen; the 1990 theft of thirteen artworks from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum by thieves disguised as Boston policeman; Jack (Murph the Surf) Murphy and his antic crew who, in 1964, entered through an open window and stole twenty-four gems, including the Star of India, from New York’s American Museum of Natural History. I watched classic heist movies: Topkapi, The Thomas Crown Affair, How to Steal a Million.
Finally, I boned up on theft by insiders. In his book Priceless, Robert K. Wittman,[1] founder of the FBI’s Art Crime Team, wrote about a case I actually knew, since it took place while I was a museum director in Philadelphia. A trusted janitor at the Historical Society of Pennsylvania spent years smuggling out items in dark, opaque garbage bags, selling them to an electrical contractor. By the time he was caught, the contractor had created his own miniature Historical Society of Pennsylvania in his home.
As my interests expanded from Nazis and war booty to stolen antiquities, and insider theft, so did my research. The New York Times, Art News, Great Britain’s The Art Newspaper, and Douglas McLennan’s weekly online compendium, [email protected], report on these matters regularly. There are books about different types of art crimes, thefts of a single object or category of objects, and institutions that may or may not have known they purchased purloined treasures. There are books about art detectives, art and antiquities dealers, and the international art cartel. For my purposes, the most useful of all was Jeanette Greenfield’s The Return of Cultural Treasure,[2] a comprehensive compendium of legal cases drawn from all over the world. Five years later, I had clipped and read, and read and clipped myself into this book.
On the pages that follow, you will find profiles of objects with institutional pedigrees that were removed in some way, legal or not. All of the objects have some connection to the United States and all made their way back to their original owner. This is not a detailed analysis of any single object; it is neither a legal treatise nor a comprehensive review of the state of cultural heritage. Rather, Stolen, Smuggled, Sold is a series of literary snapshots in which a treasure and its story come through in sharp relief.
Objects with problematic provenance are more common than many think: most older collecting institutions own some spoil of war, souvenir from conquered colonial nation, loot from an ancient archaeological site, or other treasure that was stolen, smuggled, and eventually sold by an unscrupulous dealer. Many problematic artifacts came to their institutional home years ago, when acquisition practices were more lenient and source countries less demanding. Happily, the rules governing acquisition now foster greater vigilance, so we should take care when applying current standards to past decisions. While ethics may be universal, their application to collecting institutions and cultural treasure continues to evolve.
One aspect that has certainly evolved has been the legal framework. The seminal document is the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property. Created in 1970 as a response to an increase in trafficking in cultural heritage, the Convention requires its partners to institute such preventive measures as export certificates and imposition of penal sanctions, to initiate restitution provisions to recover and return cultural property imported after this provision, and to strengthen cooperation among countries especially when cultural patrimony is in jeopardy from pillaging. Conventions set standards for countries to follow and are not legally binding. Nevertheless, they do provide moral persuasion and encourage countries to establish their own laws. As of today, 127 nations have accepted or ratified the Convention. UNESCO’s Database of National Cultural Heritage Laws contains 1,087 laws, 136 agreements, and 43 amendments covering everything from antiquities to vehicles.
The effect of this Convention was to draw a line in the sand: collecting institutions were obliged to assure the objects they acquired were legally obtained. Anything acquired before November 14, 1970, got a pass. This fact will come to mind as you read the chapters that follow.
The first is about Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer 1, a gorgeous painting of an Austrian Jewish society matron by the artist Gustav Klimt. Of the hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of artworks stolen from Jews during World War II, this one spoke to me. It is the quintessential Holocaust story, featuring a sensational artwork, a dramatic battle by the family to reclaim it, and two museum connections—one in Austria, which was reluctant to relinquish it, the other in the United States, where it resides today. Adele Bloch-Bauer’s story has received significant coverage. I include it here because it cuts to the quick of the question: why do so few Jewish treasures ever return to their families of origin?
The second chapter is about another remarkable woman, the exceptionally prolific author Pearl Buck, the recipient of the 1938 Nobel Prize for Literature, the Pulitzer Prize, and many other awards. The typescript for her best, most important, and most beloved book, The Good Earth, went missing for forty years until it turned up at a Philadelphia auction house and was recovered by the Pearl Buck Foundation, beneficiary of the Pearl Buck legacy. Who stole the typescript and why? This is a case where my initial hypothesis was dead wrong. The typescript itself told me its tale.
From Pearl Buck, we turn to the scarred landscape of South Dakota, where, on a frigid December night in 1890, the Seventh U.S. Cavalry gunned down three hundred men, women, and children of the Lakota Sioux nation. This, the massacre at Wounded Knee, came alive as I followed the ceremonial Ghost Dance shirt from the frigid body of a Lakota Sioux warrior, across the ocean to the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasgow, Scotland, and back home again. This is one of the saddest stories in the book, but it is also the most heartwarming because of the unlikely pairing of an unstoppable Sioux woman and an empathetic Scottish museum curator.
The fourth chapter is about the perennial subject of insider crime. Many say insider crime is the most common crime in collecting institutions. When I saw an article about the theft of some 4,800 historical audio discs by a top official at the National Archives, I decided to test this assumption. I expected to encounter some pretty strange characters along the way. What I didn’t expect to encounter was my visceral reaction to the criminal, whose motivations are all too familiar to institutional caretakers and private collectors who are drawn to the old and rare.
The next chapter is about an Egyptian mummy, but not your run-of-the-mill mummy, a royal mummy that many experts believe is Ramesses I, the founder of the glorious Nineteenth Dynasty. This is a case where suspicions and serendipity led to a major find. Egyptology attracts colorful characters, and Ramesses I’s story includes some especially colorful ones, including a family of grave robbers, a dealer in shrunken heads, and a celebrity archaeologist.
From 3,300 BCE, the book then jumps forward to the 1790s, continues to the Civil War, and moves up to a FBI sting in 2007. This chapter took me to Raleigh, North Carolina, to see its original copy of the Bill of Rights, sent by George Washington himself for ratification. North Carolina was the only colony that refused to ratify the Constitution without a Bill of Rights. That’s why they were especially angry when a Union soldier stole their copy. Even though the state was offered it for sale three times, North Carolina turned it down. The reason they did surprised me. Southern honor is real and alive even today.
The next chapter was the most emotionally wr
enching to write. It is about an antiquity stolen as a result of the United States invasion of Iraq after the bombing of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, and in writing it, I returned to those frightening times. It’s a somewhat complicated story, because it weaves together the theft of this ancient treasure in Iraq, its path across Asia and Europe courtesy of the international antiquities cartel, the bombing of the World Trade Center, and the recovery and eventual return of the antiquity to the Iraqi people. All wars, regardless of their origins, destroy more than people and places. They also threaten the integrity of a culture.
In the final chapter, called “Heroes,” I share my reflections, what I’ve learned over the course of writing this book. When I started it, I envisioned it as a series of mysteries with you, the reader, and me, the author, as the detectives. We would find an object, something memorable, perhaps even something iconic. We would dig deep for its story, its origins. We would follow the object from its source along a long and often convoluted journey back to its original owner. Along the way, we would meet unscrupulous grave robbers, enterprising art dealers, venal Nazis, canny lawyers, acquisitive collectors, unwitting curators—as well as the dedicated government officials whose record of recovery is nothing less than remarkable.
But as I wrote, another, deeper level emerged. Stolen, Smuggled, Sold became about law and ethics, a book about who owns—and who should own—the world’s cultural treasures. This debate is one of the most enduring, provocative, and problematic of all culture wars, and without a doubt one of the hottest in the museum world today. Every year there are conferences, professional panels, and a slew of new books on the subject. The disposition of cultural property is an issue of professional practice, international protocol, and national law. It’s a financial issue: the illicit trade in antiquities and cultural items totals as much as four billion dollars to six billion dollars a year.[3] It is also an issue of justice, of fairness. An ethical issue.
