Hidden Treasures

by Leigh Keno

  Whoever had cut the marble on the table in the Sotheby's warehouse had done a perfect job of matching the serpentine contours of the base (which curved in at the sides and swelled out at the front) to the top. The overall movement also worked in perfect concert with the profiled series of S curves marking the lower edge of the table's front rail. I had seen that same scalloped pattern on the skirts of many Boston tea tables and it was the reason that, when I had initially eyeballed the piece, I thought it was made in Boston. The treatment of the claw-and-ball feet—with ovoid balls that were wider than they were tall, clutched by talons that raked back slightly—was also typical of Boston furniture of that period. A quick glance beneath the top revealed some more Boston features, including the choice of secondary woods. There were two white-pine corner blocks at the top of each leg (used to brace the sides), while the rear rail was made of maple, rather than of expensive mahogany (since it was meant to remain out of sight, against a wall).

  Not long after my visit to the warehouse, John received a phone call from Robert Backlund. “You were right,” he said. “The folks at Christie's did get back to me. They told me that my table was an exact mate to one that they'd sold in the Joynt sale in 1990.”

  “The Joynt sale, really?” John said, immediately turning in his chair to grab a copy of the catalog off a nearby bookshelf. Howard and May Joynt were two well-known Americana collectors, and they had spent nearly fifty years filling their historic Alexandria, Virginia, town house with unique examples of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century furniture and decorative arts. Not long after Mr. Joynt's death in 1989, his wife and children sold the collection in a milestone sale at Christie's. John skimmed the catalog until he came to the image of their slab table. Its resemblance to the table stored in the Sotheby's warehouse was astounding. From the flitch (or cut) of wood displayed on the skirt to the veining in the marble, they looked to be nearly identical. It crossed his mind that the likelihood of reuniting a pair of long-separated tables of this quality was almost—though perhaps not completely—unimaginable.

  When John shared this latest twist in the tale of the pier table—that there might be an exact mate—I immediately thought back to the spring of 1983, weeks after I had been made head of Sotheby's American Furniture Department. I had just decided to make a project out of combing the department's old client files for property. Very often, people query us on the value of an item but never follow up on the appraisal letter they are sent. Those letters are kept in boxed files that literally stretch back for decades. From my perspective, that meant that each file contained valuable leads to hidden treasures around the country. Perhaps a gentle, friendly follow-up call would result in a fresh consignment, I thought. Sometimes, I'd stay at my desk late into the night, elbows deep in the files, hoping that a great piece of Americana was just moments away from being rediscovered.

  The shape of the table's skirt, with a central rounded pendant drop flanked by cyma curves, can be found on other Boston furniture. The raked back side talons on the feet are also typical of eastern Massachusetts.

  One day, fairly early in this methodical process (the boxes were arranged alphabetically by owner's name, and I was no further than C), I opened up a folder and found a faded Polaroid of a brilliant Federal card table (probably circa 1805) sitting on the crumbling sidewalk outside of a Baltimore-area home. The table featured a folded oblong top that opened to a square baize-covered playing surface. Beneath the top was a magnificent pedestal, carved in the shape of a sharp-eyed eagle with its wings spread, crouched above a smooth half-sphere, or orb, that merged into a hairy lion's mask. Four down-curved legs with acanthus carving sprang out beneath this sculpted form, each ending in carved animal-paw feet raised on brass casters.

  I loved the dramatically patriotic sentiment of the American eagle perched in dominance above that sad-faced symbol of the British monarchy. I scanned the appraisal letter, dated 1976, and saw that we had estimated the table's value at $15,000 to $25,000. But the market had grown stronger in the ensuing seven years, so I knew I could give the owner (who, according to the letter, was a minister) a stronger quote. I immediately turned to the phone, hoping that the table was still in the minister's possession.

  I reached him right away and, after briefly explaining the purpose of my call, asked him, “Do you still own the table?”

  The minister answered in a voice that was clearly accustomed to public speaking. “Yes. In fact, I am looking at it right now,” he said.

  My heart began to race, but I was determined that my voice not betray my excitement. I began my measured pitch by saying, “Sir, do you realize that the market for Americana has changed dramatically since you first wrote to us in 1976? Back then, we estimated your table in the range of twenty-five thousand dollars. Today, it could be worth somewhere in the range of eighty thousand to one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, maybe more.”

  No, he wasn't aware of that, he told me. Then he told me what he did know. “The table has been in my family for many generations,” he said. “We're originally from New York, and we always assumed that the piece was from there, too.”

  “I'm thrilled to hear you say that,” I told the minister, “because I'm almost certain the table was made by Duncan Phyfe, a Scottish-born cabinetmaker who worked independently in New York from around 1792 to 1847. The intricacy of the design and the quality of the carving both seem characteristic of his style. Your family history only supports that notion.”

  The minister and I talked for some time about the shifting market for Americana and the details of sending furniture to auction. After agreeing to give the matter some careful thought, he hung up. He called back within a few days to say that he had decided to consign the table to Sotheby's. I was ecstatic. We would sell the piece the following June.

  The eagle has landed.

  In late April, right before the catalog deadline, I gave the table's owner a quick courtesy call to discuss the reserve and let him know how things were progressing. As the conversation wound to a close, the consignor suddenly said, “By the way, I heard you were an identical twin.”

  “Yes,” I said politely, although I wasn't really in the mood for yet another twin conversation.

  “Well, I'm an identical twin, too,” he said, jolting me out of my cynicism.

  We spent a few twin-bonding moments, and then he said, “You know, Leslie, my twin owns the mate to the card table you're selling, and when the two pieces are together, the eagles appear to be looking at each other.”

  The adrenaline surge was instantaneous. The idea of two eagle-based card tables by Duncan Phyfe staring each other down across a doorway or window was fantastic. It would be incredible to offer the pair at auction. I asked the minister if he thought his brother might be interested in putting his table up for auction, as well.

  From his response, I sensed they were not close. “We don't see a lot of each other because he lives out west,” he said. Knowing they were twins, I was saddened to hear that. (I could never imagine living on the other side of the country from Leigh—we see each other nearly every day.) Still, the minister said he would call his brother and explain the situation.

  By the time the minister reached his brother, the final galleys for the June sale catalog were literally hours away from being shipped. I hate to pressure clients, but in order to capitalize upon the twin beauty of the tables—I was certain that as a pair, the value of the two would be far greater than the value of each piece separately—I needed an immediate answer. Fortunately, the brother was able to give me one.

  Identical twins—long separated, at last happily reunited.

  Minutes before the page proofs left my desk, I was able to alter the boldface description of the lot to reflect the change from one table to a pair.

  On the day of the sale, the minister showed up, with his entire family in tow. As expected, there was a frenzy of bidding, and when the dust settled, Berry Tracy, a Goshen, New York, dealer who was bidding on behalf of the New Yor
k collectors Richard and Gloria Manney, had won the tables for $275,000. It was a record price for Federal furniture at the time, which gave the market for furniture of that era a significant boost. (Remember that in 1983, the record price for any form of American furniture was $360,000, set in 1980 for the Newport three-shell chest of drawers once owned by Mr. and Mrs. Walter B. Robb.) I remember glancing over at the minister when the hammer fell and seeing that he had tears in his eyes. Although his brother was not by his side, their identical tables had been reunited.

  As John Nye compared the contours of the Joynt table to the one he had seen in San Francisco, he was beginning to rethink the strategy for selling the slab table. We started bouncing ideas off of each other. Perhaps the buyer of the Joynt table would be interested in owning a pair. Or better yet, considering the recent surge in the art market, perhaps that person would be interested in selling his or her table (which had brought, in 1990, a hammer price of $170,000). We agreed that offering the two as a pair could only enhance their desirability to top-level collectors and dealers.

  To set either of these schemes in motion, we needed to track down the present owner of the Joynt table. Obviously, we couldn't call our chief competitor, Christie's, for such confidential information, so instead, I placed a call to Martin Wunsch, a savvy, eminently well-connected collector of Americana (among other things). I was pretty sure that Martin would be intrigued by the idea of helping reunite a long-separated pair of rare rococo tables.

  “Give me a few days and I'll get back to you,” he said once he had heard my story.

  True to his word, Martin called within forty-eight hours, with this to report: “Leslie, you don't have the mate to the Joynt table in your warehouse—you have the Joynt table.”

  “What?” I replied, completely astonished.

  “The Joynt table sold to a buyer from the West Coast,” he said. “You told me the table that you have in your warehouse was found in a California consignment shop. The coincidence of finding two identical marble-top tables on the West Coast is next to impossible. It's the same piece.”

  Martin was right, of course. The chances of finding two identical versions of the same circa 1755 Boston slab table in California was infinitesimal (I could think of only one other pair of comparable high-style examples in existence, and that pair was now split between two separate museum collections).

  But if the table in the Sotheby's warehouse was the Joynt piece, how had it ended up in a consignment shop? Could it have been stolen? A table with a two-hundred-pound top didn't sound like the obvious choice for a robber, just as a consignment shop didn't sound like the most discreet way to launder it. Still, to play it safe, John and I alerted the legal department at Sotheby's. We didn't want the auction house to be accused of trafficking in stolen property. John was the only department member who had met the consignor, but he felt quite strongly that the man was innocent of any nefarious doings. “If that piece is stolen, this guy is not the thief,” he told the lawyers firmly. “It's my gut reaction, but there was no artifice in his manner. Besides, he's the one who initially sent me on the track of the Joynt table.”

  Nevertheless, a red flag had been raised, so the following week, when John and I ran into Christie's John Hays at the opening of the Ellis Memorial Antiques Show in Boston, it occurred to us that he might be able to help.

  “Congratulations on the table,” he said in greeting, unintentionally providing me with the perfect segue.

  “John, it seems there's a possibility that the piece was stolen,” I said to him carefully. “Without betraying your client, is there any way you could contact him or her and get the real story?”

  John agreed to try. A day or so later, when we were back in New York, he called me with good news. “Les, you are free and clear to sell the table,” he said. “It wasn't stolen. The former owner knows it's gone.”

  “But how did it end up in the consignment shop?” I asked, amazed that someone would choose to dispose of such a valuable object in so blasé a manner.

  John was cautious in his reply. Understandably, he needed to protect his client's privacy. The little he did say, however, was astonishing. In the past year, he explained, the client had hired an interior decorator to refurbish some rooms, including the one in which the table had been placed. In order to start fresh, the decorator had cleaned out the rooms and shipped the contents to a local consignment shop.

  I couldn't help myself—I asked John what kind of person could so casually give away such a costly prize (in addition to whatever else had furnished those rooms). John hinted that the client's lifestyle was lavish and complicated enough that the whole operation might have taken place without his or her knowledge. The implication was that a household manager or private secretary had been the one who gave the decorator the final okay.

  So through the oversight of a busy man's (or woman's) busy employee, a table bought for $170,000 at a major New York auction house was sold at a consignment shop for $1,500 and eventually came to sit in the Sotheby's showroom (with an estimate of from $150,000 to $250,000) as one of the stars of the January sale. The table was well received by scholars, collectors, and dealers alike, although a few were curious about a faint yellow stain that was visible along the perimeter of the marble slab. Forgers have been known to mimic the effects of oxidation on marble-top tables by applying a coloring agent to the underside, so these people wanted to be assured that the stain was not created by a scam artist.

  “When the old coat of shellac was originally applied to the mahogany frame, the re-finisher didn't bother to remove the top because it's so heavy,” John and I explained. Then we would point out the line of demarcation (visible when the top was removed) where the stone met the frame and demonstrate how the brushed-on color stopped there. More proof as to the authenticity of the top lay in the small abrasions and wear patterns visible in the stone. The entire length of the scalloped and molded edge was covered with fine lines and small abrasions that could only have been centuries in the making. Random wear is difficult enough to fake on mahogany, but it's five times harder to produce on tough, durable marble.

  Top-level buyers like Peter Brant and Albert Sack, on the other hand, had no concern whatsoever about the top's authenticity. In fact, they ended up engaging in a fierce bidding war for the piece—with Albert the eventual victor. He spent $882,500 (including buyer's premium)—and set the world auction record for both the marble-top form and for a Massachusetts table.

  A few months after the sale, I was visiting a private collection out in the Bay Area. During dinner one night with a local appraiser, the conversation turned to the marble-top pier table. “You wouldn't happen to know where that consignment shop is, would you?” I asked.

  “I don't know the name, but I think I can find it,” the appraiser said. “It's down in Palo Alto.”

  I was curious to see the place, so the next morning, he and I drove out to the sunny peninsula town that is home to Stanford University. After driving around for a bit, we finally stopped at a small strip mall with a hairdresser's, a watch store, a deli, and the shop we were seeking—Judith A. Frost & Company. True to the description of the table's former owner, the shop really did have some nice antiques amid the bric-a-brac. As I quickly toured the cluttered space, I pictured him wandering toward the good English pieces in the corner, peering at the few strong examples of nineteenth-century Chinese porcelain in the glass case by the window, and chuckling at the large assortment of playful ceramic Fiesta dinnerware from the 1950s that was stacked on a table. As he turned away, still grinning, he would have seen the magnificent pier table standing quietly in an opposite corner, perhaps smarting from its past owner's careless and sudden rejection. I let out a small chuckle, too, at the thought of his good luck, then headed toward the door. Suddenly, I noticed a lonely pamphlet lying on a small table. Its perfectly fitting title? How to Find Antique Bargains in California.

  12

  The Tacoma Come-On

  EVERY WEEK, I SCAN
THE AUCTION ADVERTISEMENTS in Antiques and the Arts Weekly, one of the mainstay publications of the trade, to see what's coming up for sale. Although I receive dozens of furniture catalogs a month at my shop from auction houses across the country, many of the smaller companies don't have the budget to produce catalogs and instead use illustrated ads to generate interest in their sales. On a bright mid-April afternoon in 1997, one such notice caught my eye. It announced a sale to be held in one week's time at a Tacoma, Washington, auction house called Sanford & Son. Other than the title of an early 1970s sitcom that Leslie and I had watched as kids, the name meant nothing to me; however, the content of the ad was far too compelling to ignore. It began:

  To Be Sold: One Lot. The Dr. Thomas Mqffatt Newport kneehole, 4 shell, desk w/John Townsend label, (c.1760); the Dr. Thomas Mqffatt Newport drop leaf dining table with John Townsend label, (c. 1760); O/C, Portrait of Dr. Moffatt, (c. 1760).

  Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined a more tantalizing collection of objects grouped as a single lot: a four-shell block-front kneehole bureau table and a dining table, both by the Newport craftsman John Townsend, accompanied by an original oil-on-canvas portrait of their first owner. It sounded too good to be true. Throughout this book, Leslie and I have stressed, probably ad nauseum, the importance of the Goddards and Townsends within the realm of eighteenth-century American furniture, but of all the furniture produced by that illustrious group, the work of John Townsend (1732–1809) is probably the most revered. Invariably, his particular brand of perfectionism seems to have extended one step beyond the rigorous standards of his kinsmen (for example, the interiors of his pieces were always finished with the same attention to detail given his exterior work). He had an unerring eye for wood selection and was an exceptionally gifted carver (his deeply hewn versions of the classic large-lobed Newport shell are always breathtakingly sensuous and graceful). When my friend Morrison Heckscher, of New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art, speaks of John Townsend's work, his voice will deepen with emotion. That's the sort of effect Townsend's handicraft has on a man who is intimately familiar with great American furniture.