by Leigh Keno
By the time the Johnsons left that day, I felt that they had connected to the piece in a deeper way. In parting, though, they said that they were leaving the country within a day or two and would not be back in time for the sale. That made me nervous. Out of sight, out of mind. I didn't want the couple to lose momentum and I didn't want the catalog photo, in which the case piece was pictured without the ball feet, to be the only image of this masterpiece emblazoned in their minds. As soon as they left the gallery, I called for an in–house photographer to take some pictures of the piece raised on its new ball feet. The next day, I had the photos sent by overnight mail to their London hotel and hoped the effort would make a difference.
I also called their adviser, Bill Samaha, just to make sure he was also thinking about the Appleton secretary. But when I reached him by phone, I was astounded by his nonchalance, which really seemed to match the initial blasé attitude of his clients.
“So what do you think of the secretary?” I asked eagerly.
“What secretary?” he replied.
“Bill, the secretary, the Appleton secretary. Lot 704. Solid mahogany, with silver mounts on the exterior stamped by the maker, Samuel Casey. That secretary.”
“Hmm,” said Bill. Through the receiver, I could hear him flipping the pages of his catalog. “Solid mahogany. You know, Leslie, you have to be careful with that. Mahogany secondaries show up a lot on those later nineteenth-century pieces.”
“Bill,” I said, “this is not a nineteenth-century piece. It's the real thing. You have to come in and see it.”
When Bill arrived at Sotheby's later in the week, I watched carefully as his initial and obvious skepticism gradually turned to awe. Without any help from me, the secretary was working its magic.
Other people who came to mind included the businessman Ted Alfond, who, along with his wife, Barbara, enjoys a real passion for the history of American craftsmanship (I see them at nearly every major furniture symposium). Also in the running was Tim Robertson, son of the evangelist Pat Robertson and a fairly new member of this high-level collectors club. (He later told me that as he was examining the piece, he just kept exclaiming to himself, “What a thing! What a thing!”) And then, of course, there were the unknowns: the cyberbarons, dot-com princes, and newly minted Wall Street zillionaires. Would the buzz generated by the sale entice an entirely new collector to the scene?
Finally, there was my brother Leigh, whose appreciation for the secretary, I never doubted. Though I was certainly aware that he was keeping his public opinion of the piece in check, I, being a twin, could not mistake the fervor in his eyes when the subject of the secretary came up. When I thought of what I knew of Leigh's client base, at least five possible candidates for the secretary came to mind: Two were from New York, but the rest were from out of state. Many of Leigh's clients enjoy maintaining a close relationship with Sotheby's. They like to examine the furniture during regular exhibition hours (as opposed to scheduling a private viewing) because it gives them a feel for the public perception of the piece that interests them. Others prefer to keep a distance. They feel any obvious signs of interest on their part will spur competitive bidding. (One major client of his has never even been in an auction salesroom.) Since Leigh was obviously keeping his distance from me during the preview week, I assumed that he was working with a client of the latter mind-set. Given the magnitude of the Appleton secretary, I was not surprised. This was the type of object that could inspire great levels of subterfuge.
On the evening of January 15, two days before the sale, there was a party at Israel Sack, Inc.'s sprawling Fifth Avenue gallery in celebration of Americana Week. Leigh and I were both there, in addition to the expected array of top-level collectors, curators, and auction house people. As things were winding down, Leigh and I looked for Albert to say good-bye, but we found his wife, Shirley, instead. We chatted for a few moments and then she graciously offered to take me to Albert. But as we rounded the corner toward the interior office, where he had been holding court, she suddenly halted. I saw past her shoulder that Albert was inside, quietly conversing with the man who bought the $12.1 million secretary.
“Perhaps this isn't the best time,” Shirley said to me apologetically.
“That's quite all right,” I replied. “Just give him my regards.” I think that was the first time I had ever seen the tall, distinguished-looking collector in person, let alone in town during Americana Week.
At a minute before one o'clock on January 17, 1999, I took my place on the dais, which overlooked the standing-room-only crowd in attendance for the sale. There were just over one hundred lots to go before the secretary came to the block, which gave me ample time to survey the scene. At the front of the room, Albert Sack was positioned, as always, within sight of Al Bristol. A few rows behind him and to the left were Ted and Barbara Alfond. Behind them and all the way to the rear was the silver-haired dealer Bill Samaha. I assumed he was there on behalf of the Johnsons, and I made a mental note of his dark purple button-down shirt (it would be easy to spot should he choose to bid). Suddenly, the unmistakable happy chortle of a child floated above the chatter of the auction room. It was my daughter Ashley, not yet two, waving a bag of Cheerios at me as she stood on a chair in the second-to-last row. Steadying her in her eagerness was my wife, Emily, there to lend me support on what she knew was an important day.
By now, Bill Stahl had taken his place behind the auctioneer's lectern, bringing my attention back to the front of the room. Not six feet away from me, Leigh was just settling into a chair on the auctioneer's left, along with our father and Mitchell. It felt good to have so many members of my family close at this career-defining moment.
The afternoon whirled by as a steady stream of highboys and tables, mirrors and chairs had their moment on the dais. Finally, it came down to the maple bedstead preceding the secretary; it sold, seemingly in a flash, for $5,500. Then there was a pause. The lights suddenly dimmed and a slide of the infrared photos of Christopher Townsend's signature was flashed onto a large screen mounted behind the stage.
The audience shifted nervously as Bill Stahl prepared to read what is called a “gold card,” meaning an addendum to the text published in the sale's catalog. “Please note an addition to lot 704, the Nathaniel Appleton secretary-bookcase,” he began, then proceeded to describe the change in attribution from Job to Christopher Townsend.
When he was through, the overhead lights returned to their normal wattage and the image of Townsend's signature vanished from the stage. I glanced over at the phone bank set up along the right side of the podium. John Nye, Geraldine Nager, and Roberta Louckx (the latter two are both vice presidents in Sotheby's Client Services Division) all stood with phones to their ears, their eyes trained intently on Bill Stahl. Each was connected to a potential bidder, who for reasons of convenience or privacy chose not to be in the room that day. Sometimes, top-level buyers who do not want their collecting habits known to the auction community at large will place their bids through Sotheby's Client Services Division. To maintain their anonymity, they may be known simply by a code name or number, which shields their identity from practically everyone connected with the auction process. In other words, it is possible for a masterpiece of American furniture to sell at Sotheby's for millions of dollars and for neither Bill Stahl nor myself ever to know the name of the buyer.
Sometimes during a pause in the lots, Bill may find reason to turn off his microphone momentarily (perhaps to answer a question from a colleague or to receive some last-minute information). Just after he finished with the gold card and the overhead lights were regaining their brilliance, this happened (though I honestly can't remember why). But right before he turned the microphone on, he said to me in a low, encouraging tone, “Here we go.”
As a result, I had a genuine smile on my face as the bidding began. “So, lot number 704,” Bill announced to the crowd. “I have $350,000 to start it.” He turned to the phones. “$400,000 with Geraldine now. $400,000…I have $
400,000…$450,000…$500,000…I have $500,000 on my left now…$500,000…”
Slowly, the numbers began to climb.
Bill's practiced eyes roamed the crowd, picking out bidders as the pace and tension grew. Quickly, the numbers were at $600,000 and then $700,000 and then $800,000. Suddenly there was a long pause. “$850,000?” Bill questioned the crowd.
Not a hand moved. Was the secretary of my dreams about to sell within its original estimate? I held my breath and looked into the crowd. Faces, faces filled with questioning. Just then, a paddle flashed from the left-center aisle. It was Ed Lacey, a Richmond, Virginia, collector who looks like Rhett Butler about twenty years after he left Scarlett. This was the first time I had ever seen Ed bid on a piece of case furniture that hadn't been made in Philadelphia or the South. Silently, I applauded the gesture as the pace of the sale resumed.
“I have $850,000 on the center aisle now…at $850,000…I have $850,000 gentleman's bid on the left-corner aisle now…at $850,000…” Then he said, “Your bid now it's $900,000…I have $900,000 near me…$950,000…at $950,000…$1 million.”
Now the numbers were rising in increments of $100,000.
“$1 million one.” Ed's paddle flashed.
“$1 million two.” Geraldine nodded.
“$1 million three.” Ed's paddle stayed up.
“$1 million four.” Geraldine nodded. “$1 million five…$1 million six…$1 million seven…” Bill's voice remained soft and steady as he pitted the southern collector against Geraldine's client on the phone. “$1 million eight…$1 million nine…$2 million.” Now I detected a flash of movement from the left-rear corner of the room. It was the dealer Bill Samaha, stepping into the game, probably on behalf of Ned and Lillie Johnson.
“$2 million one.” Ed Lacey was holding firm.
“$2 million two.” Samaha looked determined. “$2 million three…$2 million four…$2 million five…”
At $2.6 million, Ed Lacey was out. At least he could say he had bid on the Appleton secretary. Still, the numbers continued to climb, for now Samaha was facing his own challenge from the phones. Roberta Louckx had just signaled the entrance of another bidder with a flick of her pen.
Front, back, front, back: Bill Stahl was beginning to shift his head from side to side in his characteristic fashion—first toward Roberta on the phone and then toward Bill Samaha in the rear. I was probably moving my head in a similar fashion, though I continued to scan the crowd for other bidders, including my brother. His hands remained still, his paddle down. He was clearly not bidding. The same was true of Albert Sack. Could I have been wrong about his billionaire client? I wondered.
“$3 million three…$3 million four…$3 million five…$3 million six…”
Bill Samaha was the only person bidding in the room.
“$4 million one…$ 4 million two…$4 million three…$4 million four…”
He held on tenaciously against the anonymous phone bidder.
“$4 million six…$4 million seven…$4 million eight…”
By now, the Appleton secretary had supplanted the Sarah Slocum chest of drawers (which had sold at auction in June 1998 for $4.7 million) as the second-most-expensive piece of American furniture.
Roberta's pen continued to flash, but Bill Samaha answered every gesture. When the numbers passed the $5 million mark, the increments jumped by a quarter-of-a-million a bid.
“$5,250,000…$5,500,000…$5,750,000…$6 million…$6,250,000…$6,500,000…”
The audience was now holding its collective breath.
“$7 million…” said Bill Stahl.
“$7,250,000…” came the quarter-million counteroffer.
“$7,500,000…I have $7,500,000…at the phones…Roberta now at $7,500,000…” Bill Stahl stretched out the bid and looked one last time at Bill Samaha. The dealer shook his head. He had reached his limit. I anxiously scanned the crowd one last time. It is not unheard of for a dark-horse bidder to enter literally in the closing seconds of a sale, when the momentum of the bidding is slowing down. I looked toward Albert and then toward my brother. Both had their eyes trained on Bill Stahl as he announced, “At $7,500,000, then, my bid is on the telephone with Roberta and I'm selling it for $7,500,000 All done Sold for $7,500,000 with Roberta.” And then to the audience at large, he added, “Thank you all.”
With the buyer's premium, the final price for the Appleton secretary was $8,252,500. It was only when I felt my body flood with relief that I realized how much tension I had been holding in. I saw my brother's face break into a smile as the packed room burst into applause. I grinned back. We were all clapping for the success of the sale, of course, but also, I believe, in tribute to the secretary itself. When the auction was over, I found Leigh in the exiting crowd and thought I detected a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. I knew better than to ask him, Was it you? And he just smiled, reached out his hand, and said, “Congratulations.”
For months after the sale, rumors swirled in the industry as to the winner of the Appleton secretary. The official word from Sotheby's was “Anonymous,” and that person really does remain anonymous within the house. In May 1999, a short item in Maine Antique Digest announced that Deanne Levison, a respected Atlanta-based dealer who has purchased major items in the past, was the buyer of record for the piece, although on whose behest she was bidding remains secret to the public to this day. One secret that has been exposed: the masterful beauty of an American secretary locked away in a Parisian flat for more than 150 years.
To this day, the Appleton secretary remains the most exceptional piece of American furniture that either Leigh or I have ever encountered. In its gleaming mahogany facade and dashing silver hardware, and in its meticulous construction and curious design details, lie all the majesty and mystery of America's past. Ironically, only modern technology has allowed us to read the faint signatures that its craftsman, Christopher Townsend, left behind as a symbol of his pride across the bottom boards of the drawers. But knowing his name does not satisfy the many questions that the secretary as an object continues to provoke. What were the motivations behind its construction? Why were the design and quality of this piece pushed to such an unheard–of level of excellence? Did the impetus lie with the cabinetmaker, Christopher Townsend, or with his presumed, however strangely matched, client, the Reverend Nathaniel Appleton of Massachusetts? The search for such answers is really a search for the key to America's past. The objects that Leigh and I have pursued with such vigor—from those handwrought rat-tail hinges unearthed in the woods behind our childhood home to those masterpieces that we've been privileged to handle in recent years, such as the Appleton secretary—served as a backdrop to the nation's unfolding domestic life. What's more, they're tangible documents of a truly American character, with their ingenious designs, clever use of local (and imported) materials, and clear evidence of their makers' tireless labors.
Leigh's and my lifelong hunt for American antiques is really an ongoing conversation with these remarkable men, who were not only trying to make their way in a new world but who were intent on leaving their mark for future generations—all the while pursuing a craft they clearly loved.
Glossary
acanthus: Carving modeled after the leaves of the acanthus plant, which is native to the Mediterranean region.
apron: A horizontal cross member or framing element used below a chair seat, table-top, or the understructure of a case piece; it is often shaped along the lower edge for decorative effect. Also known as a skirt.
back splat: The central upright support of a chair back, often shaped or pierced, which rises from the rear of the seat to the crest rail.
baluster: An upright vertical support found on a table or chair; it has a vase-shaped outline.
birdcage: A trade term used to describe a small open-air boxlike structure with four miniature balusters, or columns, at each corner. It attaches to the center shaft of a pedestal-type table and is configured to allow the top to turn or tilt from a horizontal to a vertical
position.
blocking: The decorative division that separates the front of a case piece into three vertical sections: two convex outer sections separated by a concave inner one. Occasionally, each section is capped with a carved shell ornament.
bonnet top: A trade term for a broken-arch pediment with dust boards at the back.
bracket foot: A support formed by two pieces of wood that join at a corner, with the open side cut to follow a simple pattern (such as an S-shaped outline).
broken-arch pediment: A roughly triangular-shaped case-piece top patterned by opposing S-shaped or swan's-neck arches that remain open at the apex. Typically found on American tall case furniture of the 1730s through the 1780s.
bureau: A low desk or writing table with drawers.
cabriole leg: An S-shaped furniture leg on which the knee curves out and the ankle curves in, ending in an ornamental foot.
canted: Angled or flattened, as with the slanted corner of a tabletop or case piece.
cartouche: A decorative scroll- or shield-shaped ornamental panel.
caryatid: A supporting column in the form of a stylized female figure.
case furniture: Boxlike furniture, often containing drawers, such as a chest.
cheval glass: A full-length mirror fitted on a four-legged frame with crossbars and flanking uprights, which allows it to tilt.
claw-and-ball foot: A foot carved in the form of an animal or bird claw grasping a ball.
compass inlay: A form of inlay pattern laid out using a series of arches; it is produced with a compass tool.
