Hidden Treasures

by Leigh Keno

  The ad in the paper also provided a tidy provenance for this trio of pieces, one that claimed the furniture and the painting had remained in the family of the original owner until the present day. It stated:

  Dr. Mqffatt, a Newport, Rhode Island resident was a “Tory-Loyalist.” His house was burned to the ground in 1765. He and his family moved to Halifax, Nova Scqtia, via ship, with above heirlooms. Ownership has transferred to first horn son for 230 years. [All]…are now in Victoria, British Columbia, and will be delivered to Auction House 48 hrs. prior to sale.

  Provenance doesn't get much better than that—a pure line of decent in the family of the original owner. It gave the furniture and the painting just the right aura of fresh-on-the-market appeal, which was sure to attract both top-level collectors and dealers like me.

  Of the three objects for sale, I was of course most interested in the block-and-shell bureau, or kneehole desk, because it was the rarest item in the bunch. Up until then, I knew of only four documented (meaning signed or labeled) Newport bureau tables, and of that group, only one was labeled by John Townsend. In addition, I couldn't think of a single John Townsend kneehole desk that had come on the market during my professional career. That's not to say great examples of the form haven't turned up. Remember the four-shell desk Leslie found back in 1982 up near Fort Ticonderoga, New York, the one that had descended in the Gibbs family of Newport and was attributed to Edmund Townsend (first cousin to John)? When that piece sold to Harold Sack for $687,500 in early 1983, it set what was then a world record for the form.

  Since then, the market has evolved considerably. The current world record for a shell-carved block-front bureau was reached in January 1996, when I paid $3.6 million on behalf of a client for another unlabeled desk by Edmund Townsend, one that was once owned by a prosperous Newport merchant, Capt. Samuel Whitehorne, Jr.

  The $3.6 million Samuel Whitehorne desk by Edmund Townsend, in the Birmingham, Michigan, home of its former owners, Adolph and Ginger Meyer.

  When the Whitehorne desk first came up for sale at Sotheby's (it was one of the two pieces that Leslie described to Aida Moreno of the Antiques Roadshow), part of my argument for convincing my client to fight so vigorously for the piece was that I believed another like it—with a wonderful grungy finish and an ironclad provenance—might never again appear on the market. Now all of a sudden, another example, this one by John Townsend, Edmund's illustrious cousin, had suddenly come to light bearing a maker's label and a great provenance. More astonishing still was the fact that it was being offered with a labeled dining table by Townsend, along with a period portrait of the original owner. I was getting ready to eat crow. My mind went into overdrive thinking about the ultimate price this trio of prizes could bring.

  I continued to take in the contents of the ad, noticing, for example, that it also included a brief analytical sidebar describing the desk as being identical to one by Edmund Townsend in the M. and M. Karolik Collection at the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. The text implied that perhaps the two desks were from the same shop. Immediately, I disagreed with this observation, because, to my mind, the block-and-shell bureaus of Edmund and John Townsend are markedly different. I assumed that whoever had placed the ad in the paper had a limited familiarity with eighteenth-century Newport furniture.

  Next, I saw that the preview inspection for the pieces had been inconveniently restricted to a single day—the following Friday. Considering the important nature of the pieces and the potential interest they could generate (I was quite certain that across the country, other dealers like me were poring over the ad with equal fascination), I thought the lack of lead time really astonishing. When great objects come to auction, the general rule of thumb is that the longer and more thorough the preauction exposure, the stronger the final sale. Furthermore, a one-day preview was certainly not long enough. I could just imagine the scene at this small Washington State auction house when a slew of jet-lagged East Coast dealers came traipsing in on the appointed day, all demanding individual time with the furniture.

  More unusual still was the fact that the ad also included a rather elaborate list of the conditions of sale. It stated that there were to be no phone bids or absentee bids and that buyers should be prepared to issue two checks: one to the auction house and another to the consignor. This, too, I chalked up to what I assumed was the inexperience of a local auction house that had unexpectedly pulled in a lot potentially worth millions. They probably didn't have the staff or even the phone lines necessary to orchestrate such a major operation.

  The advertisement also included individual photographs of the furniture and painting, but they were all so dark and of such exceptionally poor quality that it was all but impossible to read any of the objects' details. The kneehole desk, for example, had been shot at an angle, which substantially diminished the impact of its design. Traditionally, a kneehole desk is photographed head-on to highlight the wonderful push and pull of the blocked facade and the bold contours of the carved shells. In the muddy photo in the paper, I could barely distinguish the rise and fall of the lobes rippling across the backs of the shells.

  The advertisement in Antiques and the Arts Weekly The notes were added during the telephone call.

  The photo of the dining table was just as badly staged. It had been shot from the side, with both of its hinged rectangular drop leaves turned down on either end, which left the legs barely discernible against the dark (presumably mahogany) boards. As for the portrait of Dr. Moffatt (which was of the least interest to me), it had been reproduced with the most clarity. Still, in order to learn anything about the age of the painting, I would need, among other things, to study the back of the canvas, including the stretchers (assuming they were original), for any signs of oxidation or period writing.

  As soon as I was through scanning the ad, I picked up the phone to call Sanford & Son to obtain some more information. Alan Gorsuch, the owner and principal auctioneer, answered the call himself. After giving him my name and explaining my interest in the ad (Gorsuch immediately realized that I had been the buyer of record for the $3.6 million desk), I asked him if he would please send me some more detailed photos of the furniture. Astonishingly, he turned me down.

  I was shocked. It was such a commonplace industry request.

  When I asked Gorsuch to explain his refusal, the auctioneer said that the restriction had been placed at the seller's request.

  I had never heard of such a peculiar provision. “May I just ask the logic of that?” I said. “Is there something that I am missing?”

  “Those were my instructions,” he replied somewhat apologetically.

  I tapped my desk in annoyance. “But isn't your goal to promote the furniture as much as possible before the sale so that the pieces get seen and ultimately bring more and then you get more and the consignor gets more and everybody is happy?”

  “I wish I could tell you otherwise,” said Gorsuch. “The seller is an older man and he says he's very familiar with the market. He is certain that the pieces will sell. He wants people to fly out and see the furniture firsthand. He fears that if the pieces are too broadly publicized, there may be collusion.”

  Collusion? This fellow, whoever he was, sounded truly odd. What did he think would happen? In the old days, dealers were sometimes known to strike preauction deals among themselves, whereby the one person who was willing, theoretically, to bid the highest on a piece would pay off his cohorts so that they wouldn't bid against him. When Leslie and I were teenagers and just beginning to make a name for ourselves in the field of stoneware, we were once approached by a middle-aged collector at a country auction and asked to go in with him and a larger pool of people.

  “There's only one collection up for sale here, and we can't all get what we want,” the man said, referring to the day's offerings. “Might as well benefit somehow.” Naturally, Leslie and I declined the offer, and the man walked away. But a few minutes later, after the auction had begun, the man returned. Having had tim
e to muse over our firm rejection, he was now livid. “You little sons of bitches, I'll break your arms!” he started to scream, seemingly oblivious to the sale going on around him and to our mother, who was sitting in silent outrage beside us.

  Needless to say, that man never did follow through on his threat, and today, pooling is illegal. I can't think of a single dealer today who would be willing to risk his or her reputation and enter a pool. From what I could tell, though, Alan Gorsuch didn't think collusion was much of an issue, either. Instead, it sounded as if he didn't want to offend his consignor and risk losing what was clearly a potentially career-defining sale.

  But despite this strange obstacle that the seller had effectively thrown in my way, the obvious promise of this furniture group was far too great to overlook. I had no option but to fly out to Tacoma to see the pieces in person prior to the sale. Unfortunately, I already had an unbreakable engagement on the scheduled preview date the following Friday. I had to be at a racetrack in the Poconos because it was the only day left in the year that I could qualify for my racing license and membership in the Vintage Sports Car Club of America. Without that license, I wouldn't be able to race competitively for an entire year. Leslie and I already mapped out a summer of track meets across the country and I was really looking forward to putting our newly purchased 1957 Lotus Eleven to the test. I simply wasn't going to miss the opportunity.

  But when I explained my conflict to Alan Gorsuch and asked if I could fly out a few days earlier than the scheduled preview to see the piece-once again, a fairly standard industry request-he said no. After a few futile attempts at persuading him otherwise, I finally said to him in complete exasperation, “Well then, I guess I just won't be bidding on those pieces.”

  My words were met with a moment of silence and then the auctioneer said slowly, “Look, Leigh, I know that you bought the desk last January for three point six million….” His voice trailed off and then he said, “I think I need to make a phone call.”

  A few hours later, Gorsuch called to say that he had convinced his client that it would be in his best interest to allow me to view the pieces early. So the following Tuesday, I flew out to Tacoma and checked into the local Sheraton. Right away, I liked the feel of the city, from the constant awe-inspiring backdrop of the snowcapped peak of Mount Rainier to the salty Pacific coast winds that rolled across the city.

  Sanford & Son was located about an eight-minute walk from my hotel, along a two-block strip of art galleries and antique and consignment shops locally known as Antiques Row. Prominently displayed in the plate-glass windows fronting the white warehouse-style building was a set of late-nineteenth-century leaded windows in the style of Louis Comfort Tiffany. The windows were vibrantly colored and pretty enough, but for a moment I wondered why anyone would choose to divest himself of an important group of Colonial furniture—potentially worth millions—in such an out-of-the-way setting. Clearly, Sanford & Son was profitable, but it could never compete with the well-oiled machinery of Sotheby's and Christie's.

  Seconds after I entered the place, I was greeted by Cheryl Gorsuch, the pretty dark-haired wife of the owner. She had been awaiting my arrival and quickly ushered me toward the back through columns of predominantly late-nineteenth-century furniture and decorative objects, including some heavily carved, large Renaissance Revival sideboards, brass chandeliers, and even an old red-and-white barbershop pole. As we made our way through the merchandise, Cheryl explained that she and her husband had been running the business as a joint auction house and antiques gallery for about twenty-five years. This was the first time in her memory that they had handled such a rare group of Early American furniture. In keeping with the seller's wishes that the pieces remain out of sight until the day before the sale, they were storing them at the back of the gallery in a small office-cum-apartment that they occasionally used as a pied-à-terre.

  Alan Gorsuch, a clean-cut, pleasant-faced man dressed in khakis and a well-pressed oxford shirt, was filling out some paperwork on a large table just outside the entrance to the office. After a quick handshake and a few words, he invited me into the room behind him, with Cheryl taking up the rear. At the center of the room, against a decidedly homey setting that included a well-padded couch and a broad-backed easy chair, was the kneehole desk that I had traveled across the country to see.

  On a real Edmund Townsend desk, every detail adds up to one perfect whole.

  As I looked at the piece from the doorway, any anticipatory excitement that I had allowed myself to feel up until that time died instantly. Right away, the desk looked problematic. The overall proportions were stocky and heavy, the wood lacked the rich, dense reddish plum color of the expensive, exotic mahogany that I am accustomed to seeing on eighteenth-century Newport furniture, and the surface showed no sign of age-earned darkening or wear. The closer I moved toward the piece, the more certain I became that I was looking at a faked piece. One by one, the various missteps of the forger jumped out at me.

  For example, as Leslie previously pointed out in his description of the Gibbs bureau, the vertical blocking on a Newport kneehole bureau begins with the shells, continues through the drawers, and ends with a scrolled curlicue near the bottom of the ogee bracket feet. In order for the blocking to succeed, every element must be in perfect sync with the next. But whoever had designed the piece before me had obviously met with some difficulty resolving the blocking in the feet. Ordinarily, the contour of the projected surface forms a serpentine line that mimics the outer edge of the foot, which means the two fines appear to run parallel. But on the feet of the faked bureau, these two lines diverged, which gave the negative space between them the flared look of bell-bottom pants. It was a significant blunder, throwing off the symmetry of the entire facade.

  Note the poor design of the foot on the fake desk. The S curves of the feet are not in sync.

  Prior to my arrival, someone had pulled out the top drawer of the bureau and placed it on a nearby table. Next to it lay an open copy of Michael Moses's book, Master Craftsmen of Newport: The Townsends and Goddards, which is the field's most thorough compilation to date of their work. I stepped in front of the removed drawer and stared down at the trio of decorative drawer shells spread in an even row across its front. All were stiff and ungainly and completely lacking in any of the renowned sensitivity of the Newport school of cabinetmaking. I was utterly disgusted by the sight and yet I was unable to look away. It was a curiosity born, no doubt, by the same impulse that causes drivers to slow down to view the scene of a highway accident.

  Within a few seconds, I had noticed numerous discrepancies in the details of the shells. To begin with, the shells appeared to have more in common with the known work of Edmund Townsend than that of John. They looked like a poor man's rendition of the shells on the Whitehorne desk, which I had purchased for $3.6 million. For example, typical of Edmund's work, each of the shells featured a small raised arch at the center that swept across the gathering point of the lobes from end to end. By contrast, John Townsend's shells routinely display a central arch that loops inward on itself before curving back and terminating in small volutes at either end. In other words, in Edmund's hands, the energy of the gesture radiates out through the shell's lobes, whereas John's versions provide a more strident, visual separation between the central arch and the lobes above. Now at least I knew why the advertisement in the paper had used the famous labeled Edmund Townsend bureau in the Karolik Collection as a reference. Whoever had made this fraudulent piece had clearly used his work as a model.

  The real thing.

  Having seen enough of the shells, I moved on to do a quick once-over of the dovetails used to join the drawer sides (which, incidentally, were made of thick, cheap machine-cut pine) to the decorative front. All were crude, uneven, and completely inconsistent with the known perfectionism of John Townsend. Had I really been looking at an example of Townsend's work, the triangle-shaped joints that held the drawer front to the sides would have been perfectly spac
ed and shaped and identically rendered.

  The pretender.

  The fake label on the bureau.

  The most audacious element of the entire charade, however, had to be the alleged paper label of John Townsend, which was glued to the inside of the open drawer before me. I stared at it, positively dumbfounded. It was a blatant photocopy, freshly cut from a sheet of copy paper and then dipped in a staining agent, such as tea, to simulate age. I stared at this monstrosity with a blend of outrage and mild amusement, reminded of the first time I had ever seen an authentic John Townsend label. It was around 1989, not long after I had started my own business, during a house call at the home of a lifelong collector of Americana named Dr. William Serri. Dr. Serri owned a wonderful four-drawer chest of drawers that had descended in the family of the Newport heiress Sarah Slocum, which he had purchased back in the early 1950s. Since then, its picture and history had been published more than once, which meant that I knew I would find the maker's label when I pulled open the upper drawer for the first time. But that foresight did not in any way lessen the sense of awe I felt at the sight of its boldfaced message—MADE BY/JOHN TOWNSEND/NEWPORT—accompanied by the handwritten date of 1792.