Hidden Treasures

by Leigh Keno

  The morning of the sale, Claire and I were invited to do a segment with the table on Good Morning America Upon our return to Sotheby's with the piece, we were faced with another camera crew from the Roadshow there to record the end of the story, so to speak. When the sale began, Claire opted not to sit in one of the private sky boxes that overlook the selling floor, but in the first row on the auctioneer's right (some clients prefer to watch the proceedings from a discreet distance, out of the public eye). Seated just a few chairs away was Albert Sack, one of the main contenders for the piece. Also in the front row, directly in front of the auctioneer's podium, was Leigh, flanked by our father and older brother, Mitchell.

  “I have a $100,000 bid to start it. Now bidding at $100,000,” Bill Stahl began, then quickly began ticking through the rising bids. “$120,000, $130,000, $140,000, $150,000 … in the back now…$200,000, $210,000…”

  I could see the Connecticut-based dealer Wayne Pratt in the far left of the room, nodding his bids to Bill. Within seconds, the bidding surged past the estimate Leigh and I had given to Claire on the Roadshow. From my position on the dais, I could see her excitedly clutching the hand of a friend seated next to her. The numbers continued to rise.

  “$290,000, $300,000, $310,000, $320,000, $330,000…”

  At $350,000, Wayne dropped out of the bidding.

  “$360,000, $370,000, $380,000 …”

  Now, Leigh raised his paddle and jumped in. Having taken careful note of the stir caused by the table during the exhibition preview, he had already warned the client for whom he was bidding that it was sure to go for a record price.

  “$390,000, $400,000, $410,000…”

  The room had grown noticeably more quiet. Suddenly, the contest for the Seymour table seemed to be a duel between my brother and Albert Sack.

  “$420,000, $430,000, $440,000…”

  As was his custom, Albert was signaling his bids with a flick of the wrist at Al Bristol, Sotheby's beloved octogenarian exhibition coordinator, who for decades has stood at a lectern to the right of the auctioneer's podium, helping to spot bids. My wife, Emily, who used to work at Sotheby's, calls Al “a real morale booster” because he is never without a few kind words and a butterscotch candy to hand to a weary staffer or loyal client.

  “$450,000, $460,000, $470,000…” The last number hovered above the crowd and then Leigh called out to Bill from the front row that he wanted to go up a half increment of five thousand dollars.

  “Why not?” Bill said playfully. “$475,000 … do I hear $480,000?”

  Albert gestured with his hand in Al Bristol's direction. “$480,000,” Al called.

  “The bid is right front at $480,000,” said Bill, acknowledging the offer “At $480,000, then …”

  Leigh lifted his paddle again.

  “I have $485,000,” said Bill, but then Albert quickly countered at $490,000. Bill shot Leigh a questioning look. Was he still in the game? Leigh shook his head. He was through.

  “At $490,000, still on the right side at $490,000,” Bill warned the room before—smack—he brought his gavel down on the podium. “Sold for $490,000.”

  Claire with Leslie after the auction.

  Clair congratulates Albert Sack.

  There were some happy shrieks from Claire's corner as the entire room erupted in applause. (With the buyer's premium included, the sale figure would be $540,000.)

  The Seymour gaming table had a new owner. As it turned out, Albert Sack had been bidding on behalf of Peter M. Brant, the polo-playing businessman, who bought the table as a present for his wife, the supermodel Stephanie Seymour. (No, she is not a descendant of the Boston cabinetmakers, but, yes, their common name was a partial motivating factor in the purchase.)

  After the sale, Leigh and I invited Claire to join us for a celebratory bottle of champagne at Petaluma, an Italian restaurant just two blocks from Sotheby's. I guess she was feeling pretty cheeky by then, because when she arrived at the restaurant, she walked straight up to our father and said, “Young man, I've just sold a table for five hundred and forty thousand dollars. How would you like to take a trip around the world with me?”

  Leigh, Mitch, and I, who overheard the exchange, were standing nearby, wearing looks of mock horror. “Claire, that's our father,” I warned. “Stay away. He's a happily married man!”

  10

  Hidden in Plain Sight

  WITH ITS CRENELLATED REDBRICK FACADE and fortress like solidity, the Seventh Regiment Armory, which takes up a full city block on Park Avenue between Sixty-sixth and Sixty-seventh streets in New York, stands as an anachronism amid the proper limestone apartment buildings that rise around it. But as we have already seen with the case of the Federal secretary found in Argentina, the Armory is very much a part of the social fabric of this posh neighborhood, because every January its cavernous interior drill space is transformed into the giant collector's carousel known as the Winter Antiques Show.

  At around two o'clock in the afternoon of January 16, 1998, nearly two and a half hours before the start of the show that year, a furniture conservator named Robert Fileti climbed the twenty or so well-worn stone steps leading to the entrance of the Armory. In his pocket was a one-thousand-dollar ticket to the earliest of the numerous gala preview parties that were to occur throughout the night. Bob is a slight man with a wiry frame, whose face bears the quiet intensity of someone who has spent a lifetime studying things close at hand. He is, by his own admission, the type of person who is always early. So when a client of mine asked him to stand on line for him to purchase a particular piece of furniture that I was taking to the show, he wasn't about to alter his track record. As a matter of course, Bob intended to be first on line for the gala—and he was.

  For nearly an hour, Bob sat alone in the huge entrance corridor preceding the show space, watching the steady stream of caterers and dealers scurrying back and forth in last-minute preparation for the opening. In time, a small line of other early ticket holders began to grow behind him. When there was less than half an hour to go, the line numbered close to one hundred people. In the front were the hard-core collectors and museum people who, like Bob, had come to the Armory in pursuit of big-ticket items. Behind them snaked a crowd of people—many bedecked in black tie and diamonds—who were there simply to enjoy the glamorous scene. From behind the pages of his copy of The New York Times Bob quietly assessed the group. Most of the faces were unknown to him. Could any in this crew be after the same object as he?

  Dealers like to keep the content of their booths somewhat cloaked in mystery until the start of the show, to enhance the buyers' sense of expectation. But as soon as the vetting phase of the show is completed—when every piece must be shown to a committee of industry experts for preevaluation—the metaphorical sheet begins to lift. That means there is always the possibility that more than one of the early ticket holders will arrive with their sights set on the same object. Then, too, sharp-eyed collectors have been known to spend large sums on impulse because they feel confident knowing the objects have all passed muster with the various vetting committees. (A few years ago, a prominent Midwest collector dropped $115,000 on a gate-leg table in my booth within a few minutes of seeing it for the first time at the opening.) But nothing is ever a certainty in the world of antiques, which is why Bob Fileti carefully guarded his place at the head of the line.

  It must have been late October of the previous year that I received a phone call from Daniel Putnam Brown, Jr., a furniture scholar and occasional collector, whom everyone calls “Put.” Put called because he wanted my advice about an important Newport tea table that was then on loan to the Yale University Art Gallery in New Haven, Connecticut—at least Put thought it was important, for lately the table's authenticity had come under some dispute. The table, he explained, had been bequeathed to some friends of his—two brothers and a sister—by their mother, who died in 1992.

  When the three had initially inherited the piece, it had been evaluated for estate purposes at $250
,000. Presently, Put explained, the trio was exploring the possibility of permanently transferring the table to Yale as a combined gift and purchase. (A below-market sale would accomplish a number of objectives: It would allow the three to recoup the original estate taxes, incorporate a modest appreciation, and still have the table count as a charitable gift.) Peter, the youngest of the three siblings, had gone to Yale, and he felt good about sending the tea table to his alma mater, particularly since the museum's magnificent Mabel Brady Garvan Collection is already such a draw to Americana groupies. Furthermore, the heirs wanted the table to stay in New Haven, where it had resided for so many years (they felt it would be in keeping with their mother's bequest). With all this in mind, the three owners had given Yale the right of first refusal on the table, should it ever be offered for sale.

  The stylized carving on the knees of the John Goddard tea table exemplifies his work.

  Put thought the table was worth more than the $250,000, considering the obvious good looks of the piece and the fact that the table was attributed to the Newport master craftsman John Goddard. On the other hand, the museum's staff had told his friends rather recently that there was a possibility that the table's top was a replacement. In light of those issues, Put had advised the three that before they forever relinquished the piece, it would be wise to get a second opinion, as well as an appraisal for presentation to the university, and he suggested me for the job. He called that day to ask me to schedule an appointment with Peter, who was the designated point person with regard to the table, since he lived closest to the museum in New Haven.

  Appraisal work is something that I do maybe five or six times a year. It is a good way for me to meet and nurture new clients and broaden my knowledge of what is out in the market in terms of objects and taste. You may remember that well before I purchased the Cadwalader easy chair on behalf of Richard Dietrich, I had thoroughly assessed a large portion of his private collection, as well as the holdings of the Dietrich American Foundation, which loans furniture and other objects to many institutions, including the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the State Department, and the White House. My firsthand knowledge of those objects meant that Richard's name had been first in my mind as a possible buyer for the Cadwalader easy chair. Only weeks prior to Leslie's receiving the chair, I had meticulously examined two Cadwalader side tables and a fire screen that Richard owned. That said, when Put Brown, a man whose taste I eminently respected, asked me to do an appraisal on his friends' table—particularly one that was considered strong enough to be on display at the Yale University Art Gallery—I didn't think twice about making the call.

  Over the phone, Peter and I quickly made arrangements to meet up at Yale by week's end, and he was easy to spot a few days later when we met at the museum. An elegant man in his late fifties, with his tweed jacket and pleated cords, he well suited the kindly voice I had heard on the phone. Also present at our first meeting were two people from the museum's staff, Patricia Kane, the well-published head of the American Decorative Arts Department, and David Barquist, a lanky, professorial-looking man in his early forties, who is the associate curator. Together, the four of us walked to the third-floor exhibition space, where the table I was to evaluate was on display.

  When I first caught a glimpse of its sculptural form against the whitewashed walls of the gallery, I was truly moved by its beauty. The spring of the table's four delicate cabriole legs, the dramatic tension of the claw-and-ball feet, and the glossy allure of its rectangular tray top were a powerful combination. The table was crafted completely of highly figured mahogany, and right off I could see that the wood used for the legs was deeper in tone than that of the sides or the top. This sort of interplay between the inherent color values in the wood was a device I had seen on other Newport furniture by the Goddards and Townsends. It gave a subtle sense of vertical lift to the piece. I glanced over at the exhibition card on the wall and noticed that the owners' three names were clearly displayed on a museum placard beneath the table. Immediately, the dealer in me wondered why someone hadn't tried to contact the family directly. The wording of the placard made it clear that the table—an obvious masterpiece—was there on loan but was not a promised gift. lift to the piece. I glanced over at the exhibition card on the wall and noticed that the owners' three names were clearly displayed on a museum placard beneath the table. Immediately, the dealer in me wondered why someone hadn't tried to contact the family directly. The wording of the placard made it clear that the table—an obvious masterpiece—was there on loan but was not a promised gift.

  In the most general terms, the tea table was similar to the one by John Goddard that I had seen in the East Hampton home of the Tillinghasts. But with the present object, the craftsman—who I never even doubted was anyone other than Goddard—had pushed the envelope of his ability many degrees further. To begin with, there was the astoundingly sculptural treatment of the table's apron, or sides. Unlike the Tillinghast piece, which had straight sides all around, this table actually featured an apron that swelled outward and inward, like waves breaking against the sand. The effect seemed to defy the very property of the wood itself. The movement was so carefully choreographed that even the brilliant striations in the mahogany grain had been selected to enhance this visual effect. The craftsman even went one step further by carrying the contours of the rolled sides through to the top and its molding. Dished (or hewn) from a single one-inch-thick board of mahogany, the top's fluid edge was the table's ultimate declaration of restrained opulence. The graphic simplicity of the molded edge itself brought the entire movement to vivid conclusion. This was the only Newport tea table that I had ever seen with such a simple edge. Usually, the rim is devised with a series of subrims, or steps, that descend from the uppermost part of the edge down into the table's flat top.

  As I stood marveling at these details, Pat Kane interrupted my thoughts to offer the use of a well—equipped studio next to the gallery to examine the piece more carefully. Within minutes, the table was lying upended on a blanket—draped table (looking somewhat like a beetle trapped on its back), with a couple of high-beam spotlights trained on its frame. Even in this unflattering position, with the swirled reddish surface of the dense mahogany top now buried against the blanket, the table continued to dazzle. Now I was literally on an eye level with the overturned claw feet, and their animalistic beauty electrified me. Goddard had not only left space at the bend of the talons at the bottom of each ball (as he had on the Tillinghast tea table) but also opened the space at the top of each ball. You could actually see daylight between them.

  The rich grain of the solid mahogany skirt enhances the table's undulant form.

  The remarkable foot carving includes open talons and—most incredibly—a space above the ball.

  I had seen the cabinetmaker attempt such a scheme only a few times before—on, for example, a wonderful card table at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and on a marble-top slab table that had been used as an altar at the Cathedral of St. John in Providence before it sold at Sotheby's in June 1986 to the heiress Doris Duke. (It was the only visit that Leslie had ever been on where the consignor was a man of the cloth. And before he could offer the table at auction, it had to be deconsecrated by the Bishop of Rhode Island.)

  I turned to my client and the two curators and remarked that out of the six other tea tables of this type that I knew of in either private or public hands (five by Goddard and one by John Townsend that was owned by George and Linda Kaufman), I couldn't name one that attempted this ambitious feature. Pat mentioned that she knew of one other table, which she had never seen firsthand (to her knowledge, its picture had never been published), owned by the Rhode Island Historical Society. Apparently, the table had been willed to that society's John Brown House by a local family, but ever since its arrival in the early 1980s, there had been issues as to its authenticity. I was amazed by her news of another Goddard tea table, and I immediately made a mental note to follow up on the object.

  Pat p
aused for a moment, glanced kindly at the owner of the present table, and then mentioned the fact that, recently, issues had been raised about its authenticity, as well. A large part of that confusion, she said, was rooted in the fact that there simply wasn't another known table by Goddard that was quite like it. There was, for example, the clean, uncomplicated rendering of the table's edge (which I had already noticed and, in fact, admired). And there was also the fact that the craftsman had left space above the ball of each foot (again a characteristic that I had viewed positively). A third issue that she mentioned was a faint reddish stain that appeared to cover the underside of the top. I had noticed the stain as soon as we had overturned the table in the small studio, but because furniture analysis is a methodical process (and so many other aspects of the table on first sight rang true), I had decided to hold off assessing the stain until I had carefully gone over the rest of the piece.

  Now it was my turn to glance kindly at Peter. He appeared unfazed by Pat Kane's words, but at that moment, I was struck by the fact that, to him, the whole evaluation process must feel very much like a doctor's exam. He just wanted some expert to tell him the truth about the table. I moved forward with my examination with even greater vigor. Although I always temper my analysis of any object with a hefty dose of caution, I wanted the beautiful object before me to be proven authentic because, quite frankly, it had already struck a chord. I took note of the fact that the bottoms of the feet were slightly hollowed at the center, as if to receive a caster. All four displayed a hole configuration (with three screw holes centering the central caster post), as well as tool marks and an even wood tone that suggested wheels had been original to the design. This was not surprising, given the fact that tea tables were designed to facilitate entertaining with grace and efficiency. Raised on small metal casters, the piece could easily be drawn before a couch for tea, or pushed to the side when not in use.