The Medici Conspiracy (25 page)

This acquisition aroused concern among archaeologists for two reasons. First, as various studies have shown, 92 percent of the collection had no provenance, with the remaining 8 percent having been in other recent collections; in other words, they probably had no real provenance either. Second, the Getty Museum itself, in the form of Marion True and a colleague, published the Fleischman Collection, in a catalog for an exhibition in 1994 and then, immediately following its purchase of the collection, announced a new acquisitions policy—that objects would now not be purchased unless they were shown to be in established, published collections. Because the Fleischman Collection was now published (by Marion True, no less), this maneuver enabled the Getty to acquire its 300 objects “legitimately.”

This was disingenuous, if not downright cynical. Being in a “published collection” does not somehow, as if by magic, make illicit objects licit. Such a maneuver may put a name between the museum and the soil of whatever country the antiquities have been looted from, but that is all. Moreover, where records exist and are available, and despite the Fleischmans' undoubted distinguished background, their antiquities collection was almost entirely made up of loot, and they and the Getty knew it.

Between the fall of 1994 and the spring of 1995, A Passion for Antiquities: Ancient Art from the Collection of Barbara and Lawrence Fleischman was on exhibit, first at the Getty in Malibu, and then in Cleveland. In the foreword to the catalog, John Walsh, director of the Getty, and Robert P. Bergman, director of the Cleveland Museum of Art, had this to
say, among other things: “Unlike museum collections that generally try to provide the public with as complete and representative a view of an artistic period or medium as possible, the private collection knows no such restrictions. The only consideration for the collectors are, Do I like it? Can I afford it? Can I live with it? . . . The guiding factor in the selection of these pieces has been their exceptional artistic quality, not their archaeological interest.” These words are as interesting for what is not said as for what is. Surely, being aware of the widespread looting taking place in many countries that are home to ancient civilizations, one question
any
private collector should ask (as should a museum curator) is this: Is it ethical to acquire the objects I am intending to buy? These sentiments of Walsh and Bergman (particularly the comment about acquisition for reasons of artistic excellence, not archaeological interest) were reinforced, to an extent, in the body text of the catalog where Lawrence Fleischman was quoted as follows: “When you are collecting for an institution, you are always influenced by what the collection needs; in commerce, you are motivated by what sells; but in forming a personal collection, you know that you will have to live with the object twenty-four hours a day, so you buy only what you react to most positively.” In other words, there was a sense here that the Fleischman Collection was an entity personal to the Fleischmans rather than a collection more suited to a museum.

This is of interest here because the documents that Pellegrini found in Medici's warehouse in Geneva caused Paolo Ferri, the prosecutor, to ask several searching questions of the Getty. In turn, this produced a number of internal Getty documents to be made available. Though these were partially “redacted”—edited, because the Getty said certain parts were not relevant—the picture they reveal is clear enough.

In a note Marion True wrote to John Walsh, dated January 30, 1992, that is, two years
before
the exhibition of the Fleischman Collection, she wrote:

True said that Fleischman's reason for selling was “apparently” personal
financial difficulties due to the weak market in property and American paintings.

The terms of purchase were straightforward: The group would cost $5,500,000 to be paid by February 15, 1992 and the price and the choice of objects were not negotiable.

The list was redacted at this point, save for one object, a red-figured calyx krater signed by Syriskos. Then the memorandum continues: “As several of these pieces were offered to me at times when we were unable to buy and one was sold at auction, I can confirm that their prices are basically original cost.”

She goes on:

As other Getty documents make clear, Deborah Gribbon, associate director and chief curator, wrote to Fleischman on February 4, 1992, confirming that the purchase of the nine pieces for $5.5 million had been approved and that payment would be made on February 15, the deadline Fleischman had stipulated.

On the basis of this exchange, therefore, there would appear to be little difference between the Fleischmans' collection and that of a museum. Each of the objects was “of exceptional quality and importance.” We may seem to be splitting hairs here, but the point will become clearer—and sharper—later on.

In the Dossier section we give full details of the eleven objects for which Pellegrini established a paper trail from Medici to the Fleischmans. Here, we concentrate on four, which between them underline the sheer quality of objects Medici and the cordata handled, and which pose awkward questions about the Fleischmans, and for Getty staff, most especially Marion True: Just where did they think this material was coming from?

We begin with a marble statue of Tyche that was acquired in this instance, according to the documentation, from Robin Symes. The heavily draped female figure is identified as Tyche by her turreted crown, which probably also identified the city she was meant to protect. Once again, this statue is depicted in the photographs seized in Geneva, where it is shown before it had been cleaned of the dirt that was encrusted on it. It was an important object, being purchased by the museum from the Fleischmans for $2 million. In antiquity the Greek word
tyche
, meaning chance or fortune, with its inherent mutability, applied to both men and cities. The great centers of Antioch and Alexandria both established cults to the goddess Tyche, but smaller towns would have worshipped her, too.

Had a statue this important been excavated legally, articles would have
been written about it and published in scholarly journals. The fact that so little was known about the statue should, in itself, have been a tell-tale sign that the object's provenance was suspicious.

More damning still was a Roman fresco, a lunette showing a mask of Hercules and valued at $95,000, which was acquired by the Fleischmans from Bürki. On this occasion, however, the fresco was associated with Medici not because of any photographs but because, in dimensions, subject matter, and condition, in Ferri's words, it “would appear to be a twin to another fresco” seized in Geneva from Medici. In the photographs taken in Corridor 17 by the Swiss police, in the raid on September 13, 1995, the “twin” is shown just lying on the floor.
^f

No less revealing was a black-figure amphora attributed by Dietrich von Bothmer to the Three Lines Group (a group where the distinguishing characteristic was a motif of three short lines). This amphora can be seen in numerous regular photographs and Polaroids seized from Medici in Geneva. It was offered to the Getty by the Fleischmans, having been sold to them by Fritz Bürki in June 1989. From other documentation, we find that “RG” (Robert Guy, an archaeologist from Princeton and Oxford who advised several members of the cordata) said that this object had been “found together with” another object with gigantomachia (the revolt of the Giants against the gods, and their consequent slaughter, a favorite theme in the Classical and Hellenistic periods) that was still in the possession of “REH” (Robert
Emmanuel Hecht), and a third vase, a hydria of the Würzburg Painter, “still in the possession of” Robin Symes. How did Guy know that these objects had been found together? This is a clear sighting of the cordata.

Now we turn to one final object, in relation to the Fleischmans. Among the documents seized in Geneva, Pellegrini found photographs of a red-figure chalice (calyx) krater, which was part of the 1992 sale from Fleischman to the Getty. This was a vase by Syriskos. The Geneva photographs showed the krater “during different stages of restoration.” The Getty's acquisition notes, compiled by Richard Neer, emphasize that the vase was “one of the most exciting and important to come on the market in recent years.” It was valued at $800,000 and had been acquired from Robin Symes in London in 1988. One reason for the high value was that the iconography on this vase was exceedingly unusual. It showed Ge, the goddess of the earth, sitting on a chair, wearing a petal crown. She is flanked by her son, the beardless Titan named Okeanos (the Titans were the mythical race of giants, predecessors of humankind), and the bearded Dionysus, god of wine. On the back of the vessel, a goddess is again flanked by two males, but this time it is Themis, Ge's daughter. Themis is flanked by Balos and Epaphos. Epaphos was the son of Zeus and Io, born on the banks of the Nile. Marrying Memphis, he had a daughter named Libya. As a result of a union with Poseidon, Libya gave birth to Balos, who was in turn the father of Aegyptos and Damno, and also father of Danaos, the ancestor of Homer's Danaans. This highly unusual arrangement therefore seems to be about the birth—or at least the early days—of the gods and the nations they gave rise to.

But the vase was more important than even this might indicate, for the graffito under the foot showed that the vessel in antiquity cost one
stater
, the equivalent of two days' pay for an Athenian soldier. As the Getty report notes, “Prices are very rare on Greek vases.... The cost of quality vases in the ancient market is a critical issue, especially for studies concerning the relationship of this medium to society as a whole. Furthermore, this graffito is the first to use the
stater
, a large denomination, for pricing.” (Usually it was the smaller-denomination
obol
.) The signature on the vase, Syriskos, means the “Little Syrian,” and he was certainly, at one point, a slave. Other vases in the same hand are signed “Pistoxenos Syriskos” and still others, dated later, just “Pistoxenos.” The Getty report
continues, “It has been concluded that the slave Syriskos changed his name at some point to Pistoxenos, probably on gaining his freedom; the vases with the double signature are transitional pieces, marking the change.” Nor is that all. “The style of the drawing is unquestionably that of the artist previously identified as the Copenhagen Painter.... This krater identifies the Copenhagen Painter as Syriskos himself.... It therefore provides a valuable clue to the interrelationships of this important group of artists.”