Hidden Treasures

by Leigh Keno

  “Well, I don't know, Leigh,” Frank said after a short pause. “I'd have to ask Mother.”

  “Could you do that, Frank?” I asked gently. “Could you ask her?”

  Frank put the phone down. I listened to the sound of his receding footsteps. I pressed the receiver hard into my ear and tried unsuccessfully to catch a fragment of their muffled conversation. A few moments later, Frank returned to the phone.

  “Mother said that will be fine, Leigh. If you come tomorrow with a check, you can have the furniture.”

  I hung up the phone, completely drained.

  The next afternoon, I met my client's curator at the East Hampton airport and drove him to the Tillinghast house, where we completed the transaction. The following day, Morgan and I were back at the house, supervising the removal of the furniture with Frank. In an odd way, I felt sad watching the pieces go. Since they were heading straight to the home of the collector and his wife, I would never have the pleasure of seeing them sit, however briefly, in my shop. All the same, I was glad they would remain together. And it was right that they had found a place with people who would truly appreciate them. (In retrospect, they were a great investment. Today, the suite is worth more than four times what my client paid.)

  As the movers enveloped each piece in bubble wrap and blankets, Frank offered Morgan and me each a memento of the long roller-coaster ride we had all shared. He gave Morgan the large stoneware jug lamp with the incised blue bird that had rested on the dining table all those years. (Leslie and I had owned a similar jug when we were kids.) I received a narrow mahogany pipe box with a single drawer that had hung on the dining room wall, near the divided high chest. It was an unexpected and generous gesture on Frank's part, and we promised him that we would never sell the pieces he had given us.

  Moving day. Clockwise from far left: Leigh with Frank Tillinghast and Morgan MacWhinnie; two views of the high chest's base before the added top board was removed; Frank with the Newport pipe box that he gave to Leigh.

  The last time I visited Morgan, I noticed the jug sitting on an eighteenth-century tavern table next to the kitchen fireplace of his Southampton house. Meanwhile, the eighteenth-century pipe box hangs by the window in my second-floor Madison Avenue shop. Every so often, a visitor will comment on its beautiful form. When they do, I like to pull out the drawer to show the fineness and exquisite quality of the dovetails. And as I turn the drawer over to marvel at its construction, I like to think it might have been made by John Goddard, the master, himself. While I'm not completely sure, I can't help but smile to myself and think that my hunch just might be right.

  7

  All That Glitters…

  TO THIS DAY, I VIEW THE MORNING MAIL like a mountain stream at dawn, when the cool white mist covering the water is only just beginning to roll back and reveal the lapping surface to my expectant casts. What will the first catch be? As a specialist in Americana, I rarely receive queries from abroad, so on a warm summer day in 1988, I was quick to notice one sizable envelope on my desk at Sotheby's that bore airmail stamps from Milan. Inside was a handwritten letter written in imperfect English and a set of professional black-and-white photographs (all eight-by-ten glossies) of a spectacular-looking pier table with a long white marble top supported by a pair of gilded winged female figures.

  My pulse sped up immediately. It was one of those moments where I instantly knew I had hooked something big. Quickly, I scanned the brief letter for information. I learned that the sender was an Italian antiques dealer who was writing on behalf of the table's present owner, an elderly Frenchwoman. Although the table had been in her family for nearly two centuries, the woman was considering having it brought to auction. In closing, the dealer mentioned that the table was both stamped and labeled by Charles-Honoré Lannuier.

  I really had hooked a trophy! Charles-Honoré Lannuier (1779–1819) was a French-born cabinetmaker who immigrated to New York in 1803 and spent the better part of the next two decades producing some of the finest furniture ever made on American shores. As might be expected, Lannuier worked in America in the style he had learned in his native France, mainly the Classical Revival style of the French Directoire (1795–1799) and Consulate (1799–1804) periods. During the latter period in particular, contemporary French furniture had taken a turn toward the architectural and was beginning to showcase decorative motifs that were based upon classical antique models (a theme spurred in large part by recent archaeological excavations near Herculaneum and Pompeii). Early in the nineteenth century, Lannuier stayed up-to-date on the changes of style in France through design journals and pattern books (particularly Pierre de La Mésangère's Collection de Meubles et Objets de Goût) and was able to reinterpret the gilded monumentalism of the French Empire style to suit the more subdued taste of his American clientele. The Neoclassical taste practiced by Lannuier and his contemporaries met with great popularity in the United States and is usually assigned the blanket term, Classical style.

  As part of his business plan in New York, Lannuier seems to have developed a number of signature forms, pier tables being one of them. In fact, when one thinks of Lannuier's known body of work, a high number of marble-top pier tables like the one pictured before me that day come to mind. Usually found in a dining room or parlor, they were often designed in pairs and used to fill the space between two windows, which is architecturally known as a pier. Since one side of a pier; table always hugs a wall, its front view is most important, and this particular example, probably made around 1815, proved a perfect case in point.

  To begin with, there were the sculpted caryatids, whose torsos arched outward from the table's canted (or angled) ends like a pair of matched ship's figureheads. Each had a set of large gilded wings that swept magnificently back from her shoulders in place of arms and then curved upward to meet the table's apron, or skirt. Meanwhile, their twin faces were the very essence of classical beauty—almond-shaped eyes, aquiline noses, sensuous pursed lips, and full bosoms—they could have been cousins to the Venus de Milo. Working in direct response to the forward thrust of these figures were the lifelike and life-size lion's-paw feet (with acanthus leaves unfurling from their ankles) that extended from the table's base, or lower shelf. Their movement and coloration (the leaves were gold, the paws an onyx black) was the reverse of the gesture of the female figures above.

  According to leading Lannuier historian, Peter M. Kenny of New York's Metropolitan Museum, when the craftsman came to America, he almost certainly brought with him cases of assorted ornamental metalwork, including flat bands, or borders (like the tulip pattern that edged the table in the pictures), as well as gilded cast-brass ornaments, or ormolu mounts, as they are called today (like the lyres and medusa-headed central appliques that decorated the skirt). Even in his premier advertisement of July 1803, he announced the “newest and latest French fashion…gilt and brass frames [and] borders of ornaments.” As I examined the examples laid out before me, I recalled those words. Given his status as a newcomer, having that gilded metalwork at his disposal no doubt gave Lannuier an advantage over the competition. Kenny has even suggested that the craftsman was arguably the first cabinetmaker in America to have incorporated French-style ormolu mounts into his designs.

  As busy as I was admiring these details, I was concerned that the table was said to have descended in a French family. I knew that before he came to America, Lannuier had trained and worked in the Paris shop of his elder brother Nicolas, who produced furniture for various members of the French aristocracy. Pieces from the Paris Lannuier shop occasionally show up on the market today. If the table predated Lannuier's New York phase, then it was probably worth between forty and sixty thousand dollars, a fraction of what it could bring if it were American. Such is the peculiarity (and some might say absurdity) of the Americana market—that objects crafted by the same person but on different shores could vary so greatly in value.

  I was relieved, therefore, to see that among the assortment of photos were a number of clos
e-ups of the Lannuier markings that the Milanese dealer had mentioned in his letter. One shot, taken with the marble top removed, offered a bird's-eye view of the table's inner structure, or carcass. It showed the rectangular form of the table's framing rails, including the tight corner that formed directly above the heads of the two winged female figures—literally, the hidden area where their forms ceased to be decorative and melded into structure. Stamped in bold block letters across the length of this juncture on either side was the maker's mark: H. Lannuier New-York.

  Judging from the photographs, the two brands looked authentic. The letters were deep, the typeface was appropriate for the period, and, as expected, the oxidation within the indented areas matched the color of the wood around it. If the stamps had been later additions, then the indented areas around each character would have been lighter, because those areas would have been exposed to the air for a shorter period of time than the rest of the wood.

  I was also encouraged to see the words New-York—presumably the table's city of manufacture—paired with the cabinetmaker's name. Another photo of the table's engraved paper label (pasted on the back rail, which supported the top) featured a finely drawn image of a cheval looking glass with an American eagle in its pediment and a bilingual message that read:

  Hre. Lannuier,

  Cabinet Maker from Paris

  Kips is Whare house of

  new fashion fourniture, Broad Street No 60, New-York, Hre Lannuier,

  Ebúniste de Paris,

  Tient Fabrique &

  Magasin de Meubles

  les plus à la mode,

  New-York

  The Sotheby's table with its marble top, imported French ormolu mounts, and painted and gilded caryatids—an exuberant expression of classical taste in America.

  The label was familiar to me from books because it is considered by many furniture historians to be among the finest ever designed. Lannuier's penchant for marking and labeling his work (a large portion of his furniture is signed or branded in some way) can probably be traced to his training abroad. In Paris, trade labels were de rigueur because the competition among artisans was fierce and labels offered a convenient means of self-advertising. Peter Kenny has pointed out that Lannuier's use of a bilingual label was probably intentional, because it reminded his clientele of his foreign training and background.

  Because of the time difference between New York and Italy, I had to wait a full day before calling the antiques dealer in Milan directly. I arrived at the office early the next morning just to place that call. I had no trouble reaching the dealer, but by the time we had finished with our introductions, it was clear that his English was nearly as bad as both my French and Italian—in other words, it was practically nonexistent. With his school-aged daughter acting as translator, however, we were able to get by. I soon learned that the table was, in fact, part of a suite of furniture that had descended in the family of the present owner, including a pair of torchéres, or tall candle stands; a large square center table; and a pair of pier tables. According to the dealer, all featured elaborate caryatids incorporated into their design and all were signed by Charles-Honoré Lannuier.

  I was astounded. To begin with, I had never even heard of, let alone seen, a Lannuier torchère. Furthermore, I knew of only two other furniture suites that had ever been attributed to his hand. For a moment, I worried that some critical information was being lost in the translation and that we were perhaps discussing a related suite of European furniture. But the young girl assured me that what she was saying was true. Still, I couldn't allow my curiosity about these other pieces to get in the way of the matter at hand—the pier table. I told the dealer that, based upon the photographs (and pending a firsthand examination), I would value the tables in the range of $200,000 to $300,000. The dealer promised to convey that news to the table's owner, and with that, our conversation ended. Two weeks later, I heard back from the man: The owner was committed to selling the table. Arrangements were being made to have it sent to New York.

  Soon after Labor Day, the table arrived in New York. Immediately, I went down to my old stomping grounds—the Sotheby's loading dock—to see it uncrated. Would it satisfy my many expectations? During the preliminary stages of organizing an auction catalog, I always keep in mind the rhythm and pace of the sale. Once I have a star lot (as I expected this table to be), it helps create a buzz about an upcoming sale. A truly exceptional piece has the potential to draw in other strong consignments. People want their furniture sold in good company.

  By the time I reached the platform, the table and its marble top (the two had been packed separately) had been freed from their crates and reunited. The instant I saw them assembled, I knew I had a winner on my hands. The success of the table's design was vividly apparent when viewed in person. The reciprocal movement of the golden caryatids and the lion's-paw feet was breathtaking. I was at once lured closer by the intricacy of the design, but I forced myself to step back in order to continue appreciating the composition of the whole. Each and every part seemed in perfect balance with the others.

  Putting its best foot forward.

  When I moved in for a closer inspection, though, I noticed that the gilding on the women's torsos and on the acanthus leaves above the front feet seemed thicker in places. It was the type of buildup that indicates some restoration work had been done Likewise, the black-lacquered finish on the women's lower bodies and on the animal feet themselves was not the table's first coat. Underneath were traces of the original verdigris, or green painted surface, which was often used on classical furniture to simulate the look and patina of ancient bronze. Still, whoever had done the work had done so with a light touch, probably in the nineteenth century, and had not detracted from the value of the piece in any significant way.

  Now that the table was at Sotheby's, I set about contacting some of the top collectors in the realm of New York classical furniture. High on my list was Stuart Feld, the president of Hirschl & Adler, a New York-based art gallery specializing in nineteenth-century art. I knew Stuart would be interested in the piece because he already owned a round marble-top center table by Lannuier with four similar winged figures and a cut brass tulip-pattern border that was identical to one that ran along the edge of the pier table's skirt. I also alerted Peter Terian, a Manhattan-based Rolls-Royce dealer who lived in a palatial Upper West Side apartment with sweeping views of Central Park. I could easily picture the table—a new jewel for his collection—set between the windows of his living room.

  The October 22 sale fell on a Saturday. I had assigned the table lot 421, which was toward the end of the afternoon session. Bill Stahl was the auctioneer that day, and he opened the bidding on the piece at $100,000. From there, it briskly rose in twenty-thousand-dollar increments. As I suspected, Peter Terian was there, actively bidding from the rear center of the room. Early on, he had competition from New York dealer Dean Levy, but Dean dropped out when the numbers neared $200,000. After that, Peter found himself faced with a tenacious phone bidder. Soon, the numbers soared far beyond the range of the table's presale estimate of from $200,000 to $300,000. When the bidding reached $540,000, Bill and I and the rest of the entranced group in the salesroom looked to Peter one last time. He shook his head firmly—he was through. The table went to the phone bidder (who turned out to be Stuart Feld) for a total of $594,000, including the 10 percent buyer's premium. That figure was nearly twice the previous record for classical furniture ($303,000, paid in January 1987 at Sotheby's for a Lannuier-attributed secretary made in New York around 1815).

  But the story did not end here. Almost two years after that momentous sale, in December 1990, I heard rumors to the effect that a Lannuier table that exactly matched the one Stuart had purchased was coming up for sale at Christie's. Like the table I had handled, it had been found in Paris, a coincidence that I found too strong for it not to have come from the same source. The news surprised me because I couldn't imagine that after the brilliant success of the first pier tab
le at auction, the owner hadn't approached Sotheby's again. Since the sale of that table, there had been many a night that I had dreamed about handling the other pieces from that alleged suite. I called the dealer in Milan to investigate. As it turned out, the table at Christie's was indeed the mate to the one I had sold, but his clients had never owned it. Instead, the table had descended through another branch of the family.

  I was relieved. My connection to the family was still safe. And sure enough, within a year of the Christie's sale (where the second table ended up selling to a fiercely determined Peter Terian for $640,000), the agent in Milan contacted me again. The owner of the first table was interested in selling two more pieces from her Lannuier suite. This time, it was the matched set of pier tables that the dealer had mentioned years previously. The pair was now in his Milan shop. Was I interested?

  Five days later, I was on a plane to Italy.

  During our phone conversation, the dealer also said that he had some significant early French pieces in his shop that he also wanted to have evaluated, so I asked Thierry Millerand, the New York head of Sotheby's French Furniture Department to join me in Milan. Frankly, I was relieved to have Thierry on board, because I knew I could use his skills as a linguist. Furthermore, considering the quality level of the example I had sold, I thought Thierry would appreciate the pair we were about to see So often I have watched Thierry, a handsome and always dashingly dressed Frenchman, stride through the previews of my Americana sales with his nose held high. He is I think, continually astonished by the high prices this “brown furniture,” as he calls' it continues to command at auction. When the Cadwalader easy chair set a new world record for furniture in 1987, I'm sure he was aghast (the previous record holder was a Louis XVI secretaire that sold in October 1986 for $2,090,000 at Sotheby's London). In fact, the only time Thierry has made a positive comment to me regarding the content of my sales was when he spotted the earlier Lannuier table on the selling floor in 1988 “Now that's a table,” he said to me at the time, gesturing to its glistening gilded form, made by a fellow Frenchman on American shores.