by Young
Our entourage — Sheik Fahrib, Jabril, Count Mario Conti, Aziz, Monsieur Alain Dubois, Andy, Zac, together with Albert and me – arrived at a huge country home on the outskirts of Amsterdam.
In the spring of 1968, this was the country estate of a recently deceased Graaff – a descendant of Johannes de Graaff, a Dutch military commander and Governor of Sint Eustatine, Saba and Sint Maarten in the Netherlands Antilles back in the seventeen hundreds.
We were ushered into a sophisticated ballroom, now transformed into a private auction room. Representatives from the Sotheby’s Auction House were busy socializing with their potential buyers by serving them luscious caviar and top-of-the line champagne. As we browsed the auction catalogues and wandered around the mansion to view the displayed exhibits, melancholy befell me. I wondered what it would be like to part with these intrinsically valuable objects that were so much a part of the original collector’s life. I was staring at a contemporary painting of the two ‘Marys’ when a voice spoke from behind.
“Are you interested in this painting? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” the voice said and paused. “Are you bidding for this masterpiece?”
Caught off guard, I found a gentleman next to me. I fumbled for a response. “Uh… no… I’m here with Sheik Fahrib and his private secretary, Jabril.” I gazed in their direction. They were immersed in conversation with a finely dressed Arab gentleman and his three-person entourage. It was someone I’d never met before.
“I see!” the voice exclaimed. “You’re part of the Arabian delegation.”
I nodded. Just then, my teacher joined us. He extended his hand to greet the man. “Hello, I’m Alain Dubois. This is Young, my student.”
“Nice to meet you, Young,” the man said, extending a hand. “And you, Mr. Dubois. I am Bram. Bram Morsink. Are you here to educate the young man in art history?”
My professor answered genially, “It is a part of my duty to educate my students in the history of Art. Are you a bidder, or a browser like me?”
Mr. Morsink gave a hearty laugh. “A bit of both.” He paused to look at the boldly coloured image of the Marys. “I’m fascinated by contemporary art. I want to be a specialist in this area and have my own gallery.” He added, “You see, penetrating the world of modern art requires patience and an open mind. Only then will the art reveal its spiritual power to enrich my life.”
“You collect modern art, sir?” Dubois inquired.
His response came as no surprise to neither of us: “I do.”
Before Bram could say anything else, my teacher asked, “What’s the secret to collecting contemporary art? How do you assess the worth of a piece of work?”
“I look, observe, and look again. To acquire a trained ‘eye for modernism’ and to develop a feeling for quality, I visit museums, attend exhibitions, visit galleries and go to auctions on a regular basis.
“I learn a great deal just by looking at the paintings. They speak for themselves, as no one image is identical to another. Although at first glance, they may appear similar, I am sensitive to their appeal, and I linger for closer inspection.” He paused. “It’s a prerequisite for penetrating their secrets. Gradually, I become aware of the great diversity of themes. I also notice the variations in style, discovering the individual manner of depiction and expression with each piece of work. Simultaneously, I expand my knowledge by gathering literature about the artists I’m interested in. There are many finely illustrated books on every specialized topic which I use as references when making a purchase.” He went on to explain, “I also visit commercial galleries that deal in contemporary art and ask questions. I learn a great deal from their staff, since they know the works they are selling. Even if I don’t make a purchase, I’m enriched by the experience. The truth is - buying and ultimately living with modernist art is a lifetime of education, and looking at images is only the gateway in to the process.”
Enlivened by his wholeheartedness, I queried, “How do you determine which piece to buy?”
For some reason, he laughed. “Young man, when I intend to purchase a painting or an established collection of paintings, my most important consideration is to buy what I truly love. You see, living with modernism is not a static event; it is a learning process. I buy paintings that appeal to me on a profound level. I look for images that move me.”
He continued with unreserved enthusiasm: “The second rule of buying modern art is to establish contact with reputable galleries or well-respected experts in the field of contemporary art. They’ll advise me about what I should or shouldn’t purchase. Throughout the purchasing process, whether for a single painting or an entire collection, they can guide me. I always work with reputable art dealers who rouse me with their confidence. A serious dealer can advise me on the quality, condition and provenance of art he or she sells and can almost always guarantee its authenticity. There is a famous saying in the art world: ‘Every dealer gets the clients he/she deserves.’”
An Unspoken Rivalry
Jabril, witnessing our conversation, came over to join us with the sheik and the elegantly attired Middle Easterner in tow. The Levantine extended his hand to shake Mr. Morsink’s before introducing Dr. Fahrib and Munsor Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani, a cousin of the then reigning Emir of Qatar.
Bram spoke, “Nice to meet you, gentlemen, and good to see you again, Meneer Jabril Zev Saliba. I believe the last time we met was at the Postmodernist exhibition in Hague. Your heterodoxy reputation precedes you, Meneer Saliba,” he smirked haughtily.
Alain, Fahrib and I gave each other glances as if we were about to witness another sprightly parley.
“I see you are giving my friends a lesson in contemporary art,” the art historian sniggered.
“Oh, I was just relating my experiences in modern art purchases,” came the contemporary art specialist’s reply.
Before the Sheik, the Munsor or Dubois could comment, Jabril chimed precipitously, “Are you aware that the infamous ‘Mary’ was not the prostitute the creed portrays her to be? On the contrary, she was a proficient businesswoman who owned her own fishery along the Galilean shores.”
This declaration caught us by surprise. He resumed, “She was the first apostle – not Peter, as is generally believed by many.”
Sheik Fahrib added quickly before his assistant could resume, “We should take our places. The auction is about to start.” Our patriarch firmly but subtly dispersed an otherwise volatile contretemps between the hot-headed art historian and the contemporary art expert.
The Auction
Each attendee’s name was elegantly inscribed behind a gold chair. Although attendees were not obliged to bid, flashcards with individualized numbers were placed on each seat. Like a casino employee, an excellent auctioneer could talk up a storm for each lot, rousing a bidder’s adrenaline rush to heights of overwhelming exertion to outbid an opponent. This was precisely what was happening to the impetuous Levantine, the emblematic contemporary art collector, and the Qatari Munsor.
At once, when the auctioneer commenced the bidding, a flurry of activities began in the hall’s periphery. Bidding could also be conducted via telephone if a bidder chose to remain anonymous. As if a flurry of chirping birds had suddenly descended on the hall’s interior, the consistent ringing of telephones filled the auction hall as soon as the first lot was announced.
Sotheby’s administrators recorded each bidder’s number when the auctioneer “knocked down” the hammer price, declaring each item sold to the winning attendee or telephone bidder. The items would then be delivered to the respective buyers through Sotheby’s private delivery service. After a successful bid, an auction representative calculated and summed the hammer price, the buyer’s premium, and the local taxes, and the winning bidder could then choose to pay by cash, cheque, money order or wire transfer.
Sellers, on the other hand, were required to fill out a Sotheby’s Auction Estimate Form, thereby providing genuine and authentic information on the auction item. Once authenticate
d by Sotheby’s, the seller and the auction house signed a contract to set the reserve price and the seller’s commission. If bidding on a seller’s lot did not reach the reserve price, Sotheby’s would exercise the right not to sell the item at the auction.
War Zone
The auction went as smoothly as one could expect – until the contemporary ‘Marys’ came on the block. A dozen bidders vied for this extraordinary piece of work. Before long, the show of hands went from twelve to three: those belonged to Munsor Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani, Meneer Jabril Saliba, who was bidding on behalf of Sheik Fahrib, and Mr. Bram Morsink. Bids rose by the second, and so did the attendees’ anticipation. We all held our breath to see how high the offers would reach while the auctioneer vociferated in rapid succession, announcing the bidders’ numbers and the swiftly rising dollar amount.
Never one to lose face, especially in the company of his ultra-wealthy peers, Jabril continued to outbid his opponents, driving the otherwise reasonably priced ‘Marys’ to an insurmountable amount that no collector would have assigned to it.
The equally impetuous Munsor Al Thani upped his bid to counter his Levantine opponent. The otherwise pragmatic Mr. Morsink, who was having second thoughts as to whether he was missing out on a priceless asset, decided to push his offer higher. While the three bidders were busy, a private telephone conversation was also being administered between an anonymous bidder and an auction representative at the room’s periphery.
Seconds before the auctioneer’s final knockdown, the representative held up the anonymous caller’s number and hollered, “One million, five hundred thousand dollars.” Everyone gasped within the hall. No one had paid such an amount for a lesser-known work by this contentious Pop Art artist until that very moment. The hall seemed frozen in time. No sound was heard except the piercing vibration of the auctioneer’s hammer. The three opposing bidders sat speechless, wondering who in the world had outbid them in this art war.
None of us knew the identity of the mystery pre-emptor until a year and half later, when the infamous Count Mario Conti was assigned by “Interview” magazine to catechize his Eminency, Mansoor Jassim bin Abdul Al Thani, a contender to the Qatari throne. Only then did the contemporary art world realize the identity behind the image of the two ‘Marys,’ etched side by side in colourful blocks within a single canvas by none other than the now deceased homosexual painter Andy Warhol.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Our Wistful Melancholy
“It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure.“
Marquis de Sade
2012
Andy’s Correspondence
Young, Young, Young, you do have a way with words. Your seductive writing is temptation for me to lust after you, not to mention your romantic description of our lovemaking. You’ve charmed me to irresistible covetousness. LOL!
None of my other charges had the magnetism that you did. I’m sure you knew that during our time together. As much as I adored Albert, I was not smitten by him as with you. It would be cynical of me to say I don’t feel the connection you and I shared even to this day. Love never dissipates but grows with each passing day. This emotion lies dormant and buried within our subconscious until the right moment triggers its resurgence. I believe you already know my sentiment. Need I say more? ☺
The poppy-field experience was just one of many soul connections we shared in our journey through oneness and unity. As Laozi wrote in the opening lines of the Tao Te Ching, the Tao that can be named is not the eternal Tao; as soon as it is named, a dichotomy is created, and it is lost. Oneness means just that: only one. The instant we label or name it, it’s something else — it’s no longer unity…
1968
In The Dining Hall
The evening after the Sotheby’s auction, Sheik Fahrib organized a lavish private dinner soiree at the Falcon’s Den. The purpose - to showcase the grandiose purchases he had acquired from the estate sale. No expense was spared to entertain his guests, the who’s who of Amsterdam. The Guest of Honour was none other than Munsor Fayaad bin Fazil Al Thani, his Islamic school chum and political ally by marriage. The munsor was a second cousin to Fahrib’s first wife, Shahria. It was he who had spearheaded their union to advance their family ties. In more ways than in the acquisition of fine art, Fahrib and Fayaad were competitors – and the deeper I journeyed into my harem services, the greater their rivalry appeared to me. Beneath the surface of congeniality and respect, their relationship portrayed a very different milieu: that of haughty indifference and thirst for self-assertion.
During our formal dinner, I was assigned to sit next to an understated gentleman by the name of Ernest Heinrich. Zac sat to my left while Ernest occupied the seat to my right.
Mr. Ernest remarked, “Instead of the customary visitants, it is nice to see some fresh faces.”
I responded jestingly, not knowing who the man was, “Are you, then, a jaded veteran of these humdrum events, sir?”
He burst into laughter. Thankfully the guests were busy chatting and paid little attention to his outburst.
“Young man, you are a keen observer,” he remarked. “What’s your motive at this regal affair?”
Zac replied satirically before I could respond: “Like you, we are here to see and be seen.”
I said sincerely, “We are here to experience life at an Arabian household.”
“Ahh! So, you boys are part of the sheik’s harem.”
Surprised by his comment, my Valet and I looked at each other, wondering what to make of this man. He resumed before either of us spoke. “Don’t look so alarmed. I have several wealthy Arabian friends and have stayed at their princely mansions. I’m no novice to their worldly vices.”
Zac asked, “Are you an avid art collector, sir?”
“I’m a curator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. My field of expertise is in Chinese painting and Indian sculpture,” he effused.
A thought flashed through my mind. I asked, “Do you know Count Guy Phillippe Henri Lannes de Montebello? He is a curatorial assistant at the same museum. We met him at his aunt Vicomtesse Marie-Laure de Noailles’ Parisian residence. He is extremely knowledgeable in European art and offered to show Andy and me some art nouveau architectural marvels when we visited New York, Brussels or Prague.” I gazed momentarily at my BB, seated some distance away. He saw me looking and winked.
Heinrich declared mischievously, “Of course I know Guy. We worked together on a couple of projects for the museum. He is a cognoscente in Orientalist art, especially paintings of Middle Eastern harems.”
My Valet disclosed, “We are leaving the day after tomorrow for Madhya Pradesh, to The Khajuraho Monuments.”
“India is a fascinating country. I know The Khajuraho Monuments well. They are one of the best specimens of Indian erotic carvings the world has ever seen,” the curator opined. “Who are you travelling with?”
“Count Mario Conti and Habiibi Aziz are leading the expedition,” I chirped.
Just then, the sheik announced, “Let’s proceed to the parlor for some after-dinner disport.”
As we filed out of the dining chamber, Ricard, the sheik’s butler, handed me a note. I stuffed it into my pocket and proceeded into the parlor with the male invitees while the women sojourned to the drawing room for their female tittle-tattle.
In the Parlour
Several older gentlemen had gathered around Munsor Al Thani, including Ernest Heinrich. Albert was busy chatting with the charismatic Count Mario, who was obviously tantalizing the twink with his social gossip. Like me, the E.R.O.S. recruit was also falling head-over-heels in love with the Italian Casanova. As I was savouring the déjà vu, I suddenly noticed Andy standing back and allowing Count Mario to continue seducing his charge. “Shouldn’t you be hovering over Albert, making sure he’s not devoured?” I teased.
Andy gave me an alluring smile, answered, “I detect jealousy. Am I incorrect?”
I did not answer. This big brother, my bel
oved Andy, always saw through me. I turned a shade of red. I dared not look him in the eye, in case I burst into tears.
He continued, “I must confess something to you. I made a mistake.”
His pronouncement startled me. In my eyes, Andy could do no wrong. His sound judgement was his asset. What mistake could he make? I probed, “What are you talking about?”
Just then, Jabril joined us. He uttered, “What did the prince say to you?”
Not knowing who he was referring to, I questioned, “Which prince?”
“Boy, don’t play games with me. You know who I’m referring to.”
I scratched my head in puzzlement. He stared at me as if I was an imbecile. “Prince Aschwin of Lippe-Biesterfeld!” he proclaimed.
“Who?” now, I was truly befuddled.
“Are you dumb? Do I have to repeat myself?” he twittered irritatingly. I gazed at him in silence. “You mean to tell me that you’ve no idea Ernst Aschwin Georg Carol Heinrich Ignatz, Prinz of Lippe-Biesterfeld, the younger brother of Prince Bernhard of Lippe-Biesterfeld – the husband of Queen Juliana, our reigning monarch, was talking to you?” he declared.
I was dumbfounded. When I came to my senses, I muttered, “He told me and Zac that he is an Asian art curator for the New York Metropolitan Museum. He never mentioned being a prince.”
“Boy, oh boy! You have a lot to learn about the House of Orange-Nassau,” the art historian exclaimed.
Andy, intrigued by this piece of information, questioned sarcastically, “Do enlighten us, Mr. Jabril Saliba. I’m piqued.”
“I’m getting a drink. I’ll be back,” he trotted off to procure another refreshment.
My BB and I found a quiet corner to rest our feet. As I fumbled for my handkerchief, the note from Ricard fell to the floor. Andy picked it up and handed it to me expectantly. I was left with little choice but to read it in his presence. The elegantly engraved note read: