Clinton Howell Antiques

The interesting thing about the two hundred and fifty million dollars spent on the Cezanne the other day is not that two hundred fifty million is a huge sum, but that it only buys one little Cezanne. What could you buy for such a sum? You could probably buy every piece of English furniture on the market, just as the Chinese are trying to vacuum America of every Chinese work of art, but once you started buying, the market would open up and you might not get it all for that amount. Wishful thinking, I guess.

You could buy some buildings in New York City. But you could not buy the most expensive home in the world located in Mumbai, because it is valued at one billion. The second most expensive home is on the Cote d'Azur but that is half a billion, five hundred and six million to be exact. You could have bought all of Liz Taylor's jewels and probably even the Hope diamond if you could get the Smithsonian to give it up. Again, wishful thinking.

If I were to buy a two hundred and fifty million dollar painting, I would want to do it on the sly. The publicity could only be negative once the word was out that I had spent that dough and it could only be deemed frivolous by my creditors. If I had no creditors, I might worry about security and I am dead certain that I would become a target for con men and swindlers. I mean if you are willing to blow that much on one painting, how much might you pay for the Brooklyn Bridge?

Furthermore, the reputation that art has is not good. It gets stolen, there are ownership issues, there are academics who at one point love what you own and the next minute treat the painting like a bad smell. And there is restoration and security that you would be required to think about. And then there is the artist himself. I mean, how long could that painting have taken him--an afternoon or two at the most? No one is worth that kind of money.

I have some advice for people that want to pay that much for a work of art. Stick to bricks and mortar. Buy the NJ Turnpike and live on the dividends. The Mackinac Bridge connecting the two Michigan peninsulas is another possibility with a great view to boot. Really, two hundred and fifty million could get you lots of things that you may not be able to get your arms around but which your accountant will certainly be able to get his head around.

Antique show organizers, as I mentioned in my most recent blog, are looking for ways to attract new people. The Pavilion of Art and Design (PAD), a French based show that is in both Paris and London, opened last November in the Seventh Regiment Armory. Allegedly, the show was not about antiques. In fact, there were antiques, but there were also new things. The concept, I believe, was to eliminate the word antique from the title of the show and replace it with design.

What is meant by the word, "design"? On its own, without a qualifier, the word, as a noun, has no meaning. Design has to be something. A good example of well thought out design is "Cabinet of Curiosities", created by Thierry Despont in conjunction with Marlborough Gallery showing in Tribeca at 6 Harrison St. The exhibition is of art, sculpture, and antique furniture in a back drop of French boiserie. People who want "design" should see this installation. It is wonderful and shows the value of, dare I say it, good design.

I think the point is that words alone are not going to change the way people see things. Omitting the word "antique" and substituting the word "design" is just a shell game. "Cabinet of Curiosities" makes it very clear that it is how things are used, not what they are, that makes them work or not. This is what the public that comes to antique or design shows needs to understand more than anything else. And that is a problem that show and fair organizers have to overcome. Whoever thought that semantics would be more important than the items that we sell?

As it is the 58th year of the Winter Antiques Show, I thought it might be interesting to try and understand just what it is that people want from shows, particularly shows in the Seventh Regiment Armory on Park Ave. It is the premiere venue for art and antique shows in New York City and it is also the home of several other prestigious fairs during the year. But at the moment, people, dealers and organizers alike, are wondering just what the buying public wants.

Antique shows are seemingly up against a reality that precludes young people from liking antiques, that what they like is design. If I were to ask my son or daughter whether or not they would like to live with antiques, I know that they would immediately understand that antiques are all about design. The minor inconveniences that are associated with antiques, be they water marks, veneer mishaps or whatever, are worth the beauty that comes with a good to great piece of furniture. But they are the choir and I am the preacher so perhaps this sample is a tad unfair.

The larger world, those people that might fear being old fashioned by owning antiques, often derisively called brown furniture, is another story. I specialize in mirrors and can say that they generally elicit awe from people, particularly when they are dry stripped and show a lovely old surface. They are as close to a work of art that a piece of furniture can be. Are they possibly too sophisticated? I can't answer that question either, but if you want to brag about them, you are going to have to learn a little about them as well. Perhaps that is off putting?

The question is what people want to see in a show? Do they perhaps want a mix so they can make a choice between a Chippendale chair or something from the 1950's? Such questions are endless and pointless, silly even. I think what any fair wants to provide are beautiful things. In my mind, a dealer that focuses on the aesthetic and authentic is what anyone should want to see in a show, the period of what is being sold notwithstanding. This is the crux of the situation. For people with the fear of being old fashioned, I have no answers save for the fact that they are missing out by not looking at everything.

How many mistakes does it take to to understand that a solution is, more often than not, a process of trial and error. The word failure is freighted with negativity, but it should not be. In fact, it is the first step in the discovery of  a way to make things work. Watching babies begin to crawl and then walk mirrors this and it continues throughout the physical developmental process. Why then is the failure to achieve something quickly seen as negative? It is, in fact, the essence of humanity.

You can see this in furniture design. It is very clear in the transition of one style to the next (at least in the 18th century) where craftsmen and designers were forced to change their modus operandi. As creatures of habit, we like to do things consistently but when demand alters, our methods must change. Transitional furniture echoes this uneasy moment. The designs seldom have more than one iteration as they are neither the new or the old. But they are a clear indication of trial and error.

The American political system demands immediate success. Clearly, that isn't possible on any level of government. What is possible is enthusiasm. Obama certainly rode a wave of that but has not delivered unless you are a fan of his health care. George W. Bush was handed a mandate after 9/11 but squandered it. Both of these moments were, however, only the first steps to trial and error. The signers of the Constitution knew about trial and error. We don't seem to. Unfortunately, it only seems to make for a much longer trial.

It is instructive for the antiques trade to see how auction houses market themselves. Their techniques are great for a host of reasons, but the foremost is that they are consistent in branding their expertise. This is not to say they crow about how great they are, but that they allow the assumption of their expertise to be reaffirmed when high prices are realized. It is akin to Tom Sawyer taking credit for his white washed fence. Yes he can, but no, he didn't.

This branding is necessariily independent of the merchandise itself, since the goods to be sold are essentially filler. This is the weakest link for the auction houses if only because mediocre items can produce mediocre sales. Of course, good marketing can make even mediocre sales seem great. But it is the great items which sell spectacularly that prime the publicity pump and that is where the brand truly gets its luster.

There is irony here, however. Selling something for a big price means very little when the shouting is all over. But what happens when a heavily touted piece fails to sell or sells for very little? Curiously, no one ever seems to want to know much about the items that failed, it is the high points that are talked about and there is no culpability, save for the economy's fits and starts. It is a great position to be in.

The question is how can dealers learn from the auction houses? Can they actually join in on the upside of the equation as most of the goods that are sold most likely went through dealer hands at one point or another. Furthermore, it is also likely that dealers are as responsible for the high prices in sale rooms as either as successful or under bidders. I remember seeing Richard Feigen, the old master dealer, on TV after his unsuccessful quest for Kenneth Clark's JMW Turner. He turned the situation in to great publicity for his business.

For dealers, however, it remains that the auction houses have branded themselves as experts when it is only partially true. Yes, they have some great people working for them, but the dealer world is almost solely about expertise and not about PR. Dealers want to sell the best of the best because it is their product which sustains them, nothing else. That they buy at auction would seem a coup for the auction houses, but in truth, if they didn't, would the auction houses be nearly so successful?

"I know what I like when i see it." Truer words were never spoken. It is our gut level response to things that pushes to like or the absence of like or worse. This phrase occurred to me when I was reading a review in the NY Times about the Oscars on Lars von Trier's new film, "Melancolia". The reviewer, an expert on film, spotted many references to other films in the first eight minutes, references that I would never have spotted unless I watched a great many more films. Does his informed opinion mean more than my uninformed opinion? (I haven't yet seen the film.)

It is a dilemma that like and the absence of like can seem so arbitrary. After all, wouldn't people want to know as much about something to deepen both their knowledge and enjoyment of a book, a play, an antique, a work of art, etc.? Gut reactions, however, have enormous sway with us and can negate the power of knowledge in a trice, particularly if they are proffered by someone whose knowledge is suspect but whose charisma is striking. The gut reaction is cavalier when seen in this light.

But what exactly is it that a deeper knowledge gives us to help us appreciate what we are looking at, listening to or otherwise experiencing? Does it matter that a composer's wife may have died before he completed his symphony? Does it matter if George Washington actually slept in one particular bed? The list of such questions is endless and, at a certain point, one is desirous of cutting through the superfluity and return to the essence of the moment, to wit the gut reaction. Do you like what is being presented to you simply on its merits? It is a simple question with far too many answers.  

Everyone knows that Christmas is a holiday that has been wedded to pagan rituals. Our appreciation for the Christmas tree, the Yule log, the singing of carols and some of the carols themselves, all hark to a non-Christian tradition. As far as I am concerned, it makes for a great holiday with song and revelry and, of course, an appreciation for what we have and what we are.

Adaptation is what we, as a species, are all about. That we robustly defend tradition does not mean that change is not inexorable. This is most certainly true for fashion be it clothes or architecture or anything else, and if it is true there, it is true in all aspects of our lives. Eighteenth century English furniture evolved tremendously between 1700 and 1800, from who it was made for, to the materials it was made of, to how it was made and to who made it. That is just how things change.

The pagan rituals were, I believe, a celebration to mark the end of waning daylight. The longest night, particularly in Northern Europe, makes for a very short day, and without electric light, it must have been extremely depressing. If I had lived then, I would have been ecstatic that the days were getting longer, winter notwithstanding, and I would celebrate the fact heartily. Even now, I have to admit to being glad that the shortest day will soon be over. Time for a New Year.

The trajectory of the Republican debates, none of which I have watched, is towards complete irrelevance. There is good reason for Newt Gingrich's ascendancy in the polls as Mitt Romney comes across as a complete mercenary. Newt, at least, seems to want to stand up and be counted, whether or not you agree with his position. The debates are a zero sum game for most of us and for those that wish their candidates not to be flawed or to be word perfect, these dances are for them.

Charles James Fox (1747-1806) was a British politician who seriously aggravated George III, calling him an aspiring tyrant and stoutly defending the cause of the American Revolution in Parliament. Fox's private life was more than a little scandalous with gambling debts and rumored affairs with notable society ladies. His life style was louche, but it mattered not as he remained in politics throughout his life and died in not inconsiderable debt.

The start of the 21st century is no less tumultuous than the end of the 18th. Revolution, to borrow a phrase from Bob Dylan, was in the air. Fox, not unlike Newt, said many things that needed to be said in declamatory fashion, a vein that Newt has mined and one which is often not appreciated by either friend or foe. Having said that, Fox was a notable figure in the British Parliament, a force to be reckoned with, for nearly forty years. History will judge Newt and with luck he might just live up to the Fox.

Years ago, when I was first in England and longing for a tomato sandwich, I was told that if I wanted to peel the tomato skin from the tomato, I should put it into boiling water for twenty to thirty seconds. I was scandalized and decided that it was better to eat the sandwich with the skin on, rather than to partially cook the tomato. My memory of ripe tomatoes, an August delight, where the skins virtually slid off when you touched them with a knife, were gone. England just didn't have that kind of tomato.

The antiques business is still a surprise to me. At a small sale that I viewed with another dealer, we noted a side board with a top that was refinished so poorly that the piece repulsed rather than attracted interest. There was a second piece in the sale, made of rosewood, whose top was similarly afflicted. Both pieces have intrinsic value, but the bad finishing had destroyed it and the pieces were game for someone who could reclaim the inherent beauty of the wood underneath the muck that some finisher had applied.

There are certainly more ways than one to peel a tomato and some ways will be quicker than others. Some will require more care and those methods should be used when you have higher purpose than just making tomato sauce. In a siimilar vein, antiques need proper looking after. I would say that even pieces that have sentimental value need proper looking after. This is just the right thing to do. For my part, I have decided that I rather like having the skins on when I make a tomato sandwich, so now I just have to find ripe tomatoes. Wait until August, I guess.

I look down on a street of Bradford pear trees and the color of the leaves, scarlet and yellow, is uplifting. The Bradford pear, an Asian species, was thought to be the answer for New York City's streets as it has beautiful flowers in the spring and great foliage in the fall. Alas, the manner in which new branches form creates weak crotches, so weak that a good wind or snow storm can split off mature branches quite easily. Indeed, the snow storm of Oct. 29 proved just how much damage a mature Bradford limb can do to a parked car as the damage on my street was substantial.

When I talk about English furniture that doesn't have much quality, I suspect that it is a difficult concept to understand. English furniture, after all, has a reputation for being well made. Quality is not just the craftsmanship of cutting and gluing. Anyone can cut a dovetail or make a mortise and tenon. The skill lies in understanding how timber expands and contracts and, first of all using properly dried timber and secondly, using timber so that the stresses are minimized. Further, a great craftsman uses timbers so that they are never dull. A chest, for example, might have its drawers veneered so that the crotch mahoganies engage and move the eye. Finally, proportion is hugely important, but today, we seem more focused on function than anything else.

John Dos Passos' trilogy, "U.S.A.", has snap shots of lives that, for some reason or other, never quite get on track. Virtually every character has some kind of urge to make something of themselves, to go somewhere and to be someone, and they all seem to be waylaid by moment. It is frustrating to see the existentialism play out as the dreams get swept aside and they fall into the predicament of predictability. The promise of something is tanatalizing, but the reality of the moment is a far more powerful force than a dream. Like the Bradford pear or even the best made piece of English furniture, existentialism is inescapable after a certain point. And if there are flaws, you are bound to accept them.

A lot has been written about the demise of the popularity of English antique furniture. From my perspective, which spans about forty years in the business, I see a number of things happening, but they are less about the popularity of English furniture and more about the way people spend thier money. English furniture can be extraordinarily interesting and deadly dull. The shades between these extremes, like it or not, are the English antique furniture market. Quality, which touches on proportion, materials, craftsmanship and condition coupled with rarity and provenance, are the parameters that determine value within that sphere.

The driving force behind the popularity of English antiques in the 1980's and 90's were the auction houses. To start, there was lots of it to sell and they could have sales all the time. The English "look" became the rage helped not a little by exhibitions such as "The Country Houses of Britain" at the National Gallery in 1985. The enormous boost given to the English decorative arts by all these events created a monster. English furniture became less about what made it good and more about the fact that it was English. This was a certain recipe for disaster.

English furniture is about its greatness and about how interesting and beautiful it can be. Collectors and dealers have not forgotten this. There is, however, a diminished supply and the large auction houses amalgamate English furniture into catalogues touting "500 Years of European Decorative Arts". English antique furniture dealers benefit from this, but today's buyer is sophisticated and does not wish to yield profits to the dealers on things they could have purchased at auction. The cross currents of these various events make for a market that appears both weak and strong. One thing is for certain, however, and it is that any epitaph written for English antique furniture is based on imagination, not reality.

The pleasure of art is, in part, in its ambiguity. Ambiguity allows us to insert our own narrative into a painting. For example, when I look at a Rembrandt self-portrait, I feel I am looking at the artist. Rembrandt, for me, somehow inserts character in his portraits. This is personal, of course, and may not be valid for others looking at his work. That is precisely the point. Art, in the form of painting and sculpture, encourages broad interpretation.

We know that the brain processes words differently from images. To leave something ill defined in writing is somehow unsettling. Visual non-definition is not as the viewer will fill in the blanks. If they are unable to, they simply move on. But with writing, ambiguity is more difficult to inject as it impacts narrative, something that readers need to stay connected to in a book. Joyce and Kafka are two eminent writers who struggled with this, successfuly of course, but that success was hard won.

Ambiguity in furniture clashes with function. A chair with too few legs is no longer a chair. However, I see ambiguity when isolating pieces that are parts of design schemes. Take, for example, the Austrian secessionist furniture, there are some good period rooms in the Neue Museum in NYC, and isolate one piece of furniture. It has far less impact, it almost becomes ambiguous by missing the supporting cast of furniture. There is an air of mystery to it, but there is also a loneliness and lack of meaning in one piece on its own.

Ambiguity at its best, be it in painting, writing or furniture offers a sense of mystery that is enhanced by lack of definition. At its worst, it feels like a con game that no matter how hard you try, does not come into focus. Notwithstanding this, exterior forces such as the market for example, will exalt fine art through its ambiguity. Sometimes, particularly when I read the results of a comtemporary art sale, I want to know just what I am missing.

The cause of the First World War seems infinitely byzantine, ninety seven years after the fact. The senselessness of the slaughter does not seem in the slightest way justified. You would think that humanity had greater compassion than to determine ways of killing itself, sending men into no man's land to be gunned or gased. It defies comprehension, in fact.

The Viet Nam War seems equally senseless. Political theory was that the Southeast Asian countries were dominoes that would fall into the grips of Communism if just one country fell. Of course, the Korean conflict emboldened that thinking. Indeed, the Second World War and Korea seemed just in their defense of freedom and bolstered the belief in war as a means to an end.

Essentially, war is always easier to wage than peace. For a rich country, war seems less consequential since its cost in dollars and cents is quantifiable. But what country is rich enough to send young men out to die for a political cause that may change in a decade or two? War may be an option, but it is never an answer. There has to be a better way. 

Antiques are essentiallty about history. You cannot separate history from the decorative arts. Even the most original designers owe a debt to the era they are in, whether they are aware of it or not. The history of the decorative arts is a continuum and virtually every dealer I know sees that continuum differently. It is the reason why the antiques business is fueled by dealers buying from dealers. People see what they want to see in a piece of furniture, porcelain, silver, etc.

There are a number of lots that I have not bought over the years. One was a chair in a New York City auction designed by William Kent that I happened to miss. It is an enormously interesting chair historically and is from one of England's greatest families, the Burlingtons. The chair has a pedimented top, wooden seat and scalar legs and is designed to be in a hallway. I am glad that the person who bought it still owns it and has resisted the pleas for repatriation. I might not have, but I have to say that owning it for a short while would have been a great pleasure.

The quality that bespeaks history in the decorative arts is one that truly speaks to me. I love great timber with beautiful color or really good design or distinctive craftsmanship, but history trumps them all when it is proven without a shadow of doubt. England in the 18th century was a unique place with history being written large in many, many ways and when it is in a piece of furniture, as it is in the Burlington chair, it is like having a piece of the continuum in your hallway. Not many people can say that.

London is a much more lively place than it was when I lived there forty years ago. My son celebrated his thirtieth birthday on one of the Thames River boats and the huge crowds that were around Westminster where the dock is located surprised me. Apart from the London Eye, there is not much in the area so the crowds were unexpected as far as I was concerned.

When I lived in London from 1971-76, there was a stretch in the heart of the town of close to three miles without a traffic light. Now, there are about fifteen in the same route. In other words, the quantity of people and cars is exponentially so much greater that steps were necessary to maintain order and safety, i.e. traffic lights and walkways, etc. This was bound to happen.

I don't miss the London of the 1970's although the small town feel of the place is gone for me. The chain stores, be they coffee or clothing or furniture shops, have altered the landscape away from the inefficiency of the local shops. Indeed, chains uplift some neighborhoods and are often a sign of urban renewal. No city can possibly object to that.

The same has happened to New York City, particularly on Madison Avenue as well as 57th St. Where once people strolled on Saturdays to look at shops, now there are clothing stores that are more an advertisement of a brand than selling shops. This, too, was inevitable. What is so interesting to me is that one day these shops will also disappear and that there will be people missing them as well.