by Mark Forgy
It may be a perfectly natural impulse to revisit any tried and proven formula for success. In this instance, his alacrity to offer too much too soon risked turning a good thing into something bad. One fundamental factor governing the price of art or any commodity is “scarcity value.” In other words, the rarer an item is, the more likely it will have a higher price attached to it. Paintings by, say, Giorgione, Vermeer, or Leonardo, whose recognized oeuvres are relatively small, command staggeringly vast sums because the supply is minuscule compared to the demand. The sudden availability of Elmyr’s drawings offered to the Fogg, and without sound pedigrees, could only have raised a huge red flag, not just there but most anywhere. The exception to this would be where the eagerness of others to acquire desirable works trumps all other considerations—and this occurred with other equally august institutions.
Ms. Mongan, referring to the two drawings she found questionable, allegedly stated, “They were not of any significance.” Clifford Irving interpreted that quote to mean, “They were out-and-out fakes.” Her doubts, in any event, started an investigation that continued for years. According to Irving, they contacted “hundreds of collectors and dealers about the situation.” The museum began compiling photographs of Matisse’s drawings from both public and private collections. It would not be surprising to find Elmyr’s work á la Matisse on the “questionable” list when compared to those with an established history. The Fogg’s Elmyr/Matisse decidedly came down on the questionable side. For a long time, they were uncertain if L. E. Raynal was deliberately attempting to sell them dubious artworks or if he was an unwitting recipient of them himself. The museum was not yet prepared to make any potentially libelous claims against him until they were certain, so they politely declined to buy anything else from his collection. By the time the assistant director’s mounting evidence corroborated her doubts about their authenticity, they had long since returned the drawings. A few people now took on the challenge of untying this Gordian knot and finding the source of these spurious works of art. Fortunately for him, his multiple identities helped confound their search.
It was still unlikely that he knew the posse had unleashed the bloodhounds on his trail. Besides, they weren’t sure who they were looking for. In the meantime, he moved to Miami Beach with Jimmy Damion. There, Elmyr met George Alberts, the owner of a P. T. Barnum emporium of sorts and a dealer that preyed on the tourist trade, selling everything that looked like what it was not: ersatz antiques, electroplated Georgian silver candelabras, fake Persian rugs etc. He found the merchant likable and entertaining, but probably saw no connection between himself and Alberts in any professional sense. Alberts deliberately took advantage of people’s innocence and gullibility. Elmyr, on the other hand would never dream of doing that. The dealer liked Jimmy, too, with his honest face and genuine charm. He offered him a job, helping reel in the suckers, or rather, customers. Elmyr was pleased for his friend and had little inkling that it would signal an end to their relationship.
For the first time in the last ten years since he began generously contributing his works to the oeuvres of many of the great impressionist and postimpressionist artists, he was not constantly migrating from city to city, state to state. This unusual stability allowed him to focus on his craft, perfecting his techniques with the consummate dedication of a professional.
When I lived with Elmyr and became familiar with his temperament and idiosyncrasies, I often thought of the duality of his career. There was probably never a moment that he was unaware that every bit of skill devoted to creating art in other’s styles went into creating his own art as well. If it caused me heartache to see how his sensibilities bruised so easily, I cannot begin to fathom the depth of frustration and pain he must have felt when almost unfailingly his efforts to establish himself as an artist in his own right failed. His family never provided the emotional support he desired, and now only his fakes earned critical and commercial acclaim.
By the time he moved to Florida, Elmyr had accrued significant tricks of the trade of professional restorers. His stint in New Orleans furthered his familiarity with practices he would employ throughout his stay in the US and later on in Europe. He knew, for example, how the Chinese cooked ivory in tea to give it an artificially aged appearance. By lightly rubbing cotton dipped in his day-old breakfast tea onto sheets of paper, they immediately assumed the brownish yellow tint mimicking the look they acquire over time from their acid content. Oil paintings still were his greatest challenge. They required authentic period French canvases. When he could not find them, he had to improvise. At one point, he brought an old European painting to a perplexed but accommodating Miami carpenter to make a few dozen copies of the proper style stretcher with its corner wedges to keep it taut and square. He then gave the new wood an old look by applying a mixture of turpentine, dirty linseed oil, and brown paint. To affect a splattered or speckled appearance he used a Flit gun or a more diluted mixture of his concoction in an atomizer. He repeated the process to the new French canvas he special ordered.
Elmyr’s mail-order business was still thriving even as his bubble of peace and prosperity developed into an aneurism from the mishap with the Fogg Museum in Boston. He had more money now than he ever had before—about $40,000, by his estimate. In this blush of solvency, he decided to get rid of the old Lincoln and buy a new ’56 Cadillac. Soon, he would need a reliable source of transportation.
On one of his meandering journeys through the Midwest two years earlier, he encountered respected art dealer Joseph W. Faulkner, owner of Main Street Galleries on North Michigan Avenue. Elmyr recalled, “They sold small Picassos and Braques, and some other postimpressionists. He bought a Picasso from me. I think it was a gouache. I later wrote him from Miami Beach, telling him I was willing to sell a Matisse drawing from my collection and asked if he was interested.” Then, reenacting the dealer’s excitement at his inquiry, Elmyr’s eyes sparkled. He grinned broadly and exclaimed with joy, “Yes! Of course, I’m interested!” Anyway, this was how he interpreted Faulkner’s response from his correspondence. He went on, suggesting that he was then under a lot of pressure from the dealer to part with other works as well. Elmyr feigned reluctance but predictably acceded to Faulkner’s insistence, sending not only the proposed Matisse, but also some Modigliani drawings. Since he did not immediately need money to eat or pay his rent, he could afford the luxury of patience, giving his client several days to make up his mind. When he called the Chicago gallery, he discovered the dealer wanted all the drawings. Haggling over their prices was predictable, and even after years of practice he still wasn’t any good at this hateful custom. They settled on $7,000 for the lot. It was $3,000 less than he wanted, but shortly afterward he received a cashier’s check that made his concession less painful.
When Elmyr received word that Faulkner was coming to Miami for a vacation and wanted to meet with him personally to view his collection and discuss other possible acquisitions, he “spent a small fortune getting a number of paintings and drawings expertly framed.” He went on to say, “A friend of mine, a dealer in Paris, once told me that you should never show art unframed. Proper presentation is everything. That’s why I never felt good when I just pulled them out of some cheap portfolio.”
Faulkner took a suite at the Fountainbleau Hotel. Later that day he and a friend paid Elmyr a visit at his apartment. One of the freshly framed Matisse oils captured the dealer’s interest. It was a favorite theme of the French master, a woman seated next to a table with a predominantly red background. He had a specific client in mind but instead of buying it on the spot, he asked if Elmyr would allow him to take it back to Chicago to show him. Along with the Matisse, he carried away three more drawings. A little more time elapsed before they consummated the transaction. Elmyr settled for the original price he wanted for the painting alone—$10,000. The drawings were included.
It was interesting to observe years later a reprise of this scenario when eager customers flocked to Elmyr’s home on Ibiza.
People still attempted to bargain over price, although rather than reducing it, Elmyr would simply say, “No, that’s still a fair price, but I tell you what…I’ll include that drawing if you pay that price.” It was a ploy that most often worked. His client felt he was getting a deal, and Elmyr didn’t have to make a concession he didn’t want to make. Besides, “the drawing may have taken me twenty minutes to do.”
Clifford Irving reputedly interviewed Faulkner in 1968. The art dealer’s account of his business transactions differed somewhat from that of Elmyr’s. Faulkner claims Elmyr would not have duped him if he had not already received the imprimatur of Mr. Karl Schneidwind, curator of drawings at the Chicago Institute of Art. Schneidwind had bought two Matisse drawings from Elmyr and told Faulkner his reputation was good. Some of the works purchased by the Chicago dealer allegedly ended up in other museums.
In the early ’70s, I accompanied Elmyr to a high-class cocktail party given by a Palm Beach society painter at the Ritz Hotel in London. Channing Hare was his name, but he preferred the cheerily Disney-esque moniker Uncle Bunny. At his suite, white-gloved, silver-tray-bearing staff offered hors d’oeuvres and fine French wine. Channing immediately led us to an enormous man sipping champagne. It looked like the man snatched his glass from a child’s playroom; its thin stem pinched between his wurst-size thumb and forefinger. His family name was Block, which suited his physique. He was smartly dressed in everything that one could weave from silk—his suit, shirt, and tie. Channing introduced us, and we shook hands. My right hand disappeared in his clasp. He then folded his arms across his chest, standing like a well-attired sentinel. In case we had not caught it the first time, he repeated in an orotund voice and apparent enchantment with the sound of his own name, “I am Mr. Block from Chicago.” Elmyr quickly pointed out, “I’m sure that even in Chicago there is more than one Mr. Block.” Again, he stated matter-of-factly, “I am with the Chicago Institute of Art and I’m sure we never bought anything by you.” Elmyr demurred, “Well, Mr. Block, you’re doing the talking.” Looking increasingly imperious, Block inquired, “Did you know anyone on the staff?” “Yes,” Elmyr responded, “I knew Mr. Schneidwind.” “He was a good man,” was Block’s final remark on the subject. He then looked past the tops of our heads, hoping perhaps for the arrival of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, who might improve his mood and party spirit. We slowly parted company like separating polar ice sheets. Elmyr turned toward me, indicating with both hands, something thick, like the Chicago phone directory. Then, in a stage whisper, he admitted that Schneidwind bought a pile of his artwork that would fit nicely between his hands. Mr. Block had difficulty overcoming his professional esprit de corps, preferring not to acknowledge any fallibility or imperfection. This entrenched denial appeared to reflect a tacit don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy among many in the art community.
Schneidwind’s expertise as the Institute’s curator of drawings understandably lent a weighty seal of approval of Elmyr’s work and convinced Faulkner he had no reason to worry. When the picture dealer later sent some of the drawings and a Matisse painting for exhibition at the Delius Gallery in New York, two Renoir drawings were supposedly not by Renoir—or even by Elmyr. According to Irving, they were Renoir facsimiles from a portfolio, reproductions from the Paul von Majowsky collection. The originals were in the Budapest Museum. It is a common practice of museums to periodically reissue or restrike editions of engravings or reproductions from their permanent collections. They usually bear some marking to distinguish them from originals. The embossed printer’s stamp was absent from the Renoirs. Why Elmyr did this and risked exposing himself, I can’t answer, because I never challenged him on the subject, nor did he ever satisfactorily explain himself to Irving on the matter. What we do know is that an angry Faulkner had sufficient reason to believe all the works from Elmyr may have been fraudulent and that he had been conned—totally. Elmyr recalled that when he last spoke to Faulkner, the dealer wanted him to furnish an expertise and provenance for each of his purchases. He euphemistically characterized the upset in his voice as “vaguely unpleasant.” Elmyr told him he definitely had no papers of authentication but would send on any other documentation he could find. The next day, attempting to quell the rising unrest, he sent Faulkner a telegram. Somewhat defensively, he stated that he never pressed Faulkner for a decision on any purchases and allowed all the time the dealer needed to make up his mind. If necessary, he would come to Chicago but had to spend some time with a friend who had just arrived from Europe. Elmyr must have sensed disaster looming when he walked out of the Western Union office, got into his fully packed car, and left. He aligned the long hood of the Cadillac with the highway heading north. The setting sun warmed the car’s interior. Palm trees’ shadows like those of giant fence pickets lapped over his disconsolate face, marking his flight from Miami and the threat of trouble.
Things cascaded downhill rapidly after that. Delius sent a photo of the Matisse oil painting from the defunct exhibition to Matisse’s former secretary in the south of France. Its authenticity now was no longer in doubt. The former secretary pronounced it a fake. Faulkner informed his clients that he would refund their monies for the works that came from Raynal, despite the fact that some art experts testified before FBI investigators that the paintings and drawings sold to him were authentic.
seated nude in the style of Matisse – oil
Matisse-style odalisque – oil
By the time Elmyr reached Atlanta, he called Jimmy Damion, who had stayed behind, electing to keep his job at the curio shop. “Two FBI agents came around,” Jimmy told him. “They were looking for you and wanted to know when you’d be back. I said I have no idea.” Elmyr was glad to be in another state and knew he made his escape just in time. He thanked Jimmy again for his kindness and told him he would miss him but thought it best to omit his next destination from their last conversation.
Since Elmyr never liked driving fast, he never worried about speeding tickets—or maybe it was a sensible way to avoid the police. For whatever reason, he took his time crossing the country. In Little Rock, Arkansas, the Cadillac broke down. While it was in a garage for repair, he stayed at a hotel. In some strange karmic twist of events, he made the acquaintance of the hotel’s owner, who just happened to also own an art gallery. “It turned out to be perhaps the city’s most serious gallery,” is how Elmyr phrased it. Before the hydraulic lift lowered his car, Elmyr sold him two Matisse drawings for $1,800. “The art business wouldn’t seem so difficult if all sales were this easy,” he quipped.
One week later, he drove his Cadillac down Hollywood Boulevard. Happily, he still had his rumple-edged black address book whose familiar names sent a rush of nostalgia through his body when he opened it. He couldn’t wait to once more visit his friends and not hide from them as he had when living in his dingy little apartment on Pershing Square. For a short time, he rented a fashionable apartment in the Hollywood Hills, then decided on Bel Air, the upscale neighborhood of doctors, lawyers, and those in the entertainment industry. He met a young actor and shared his house with him. It was here that he met the British actor Peter Lawford, who became better known as President Kennedy’s brother-in-law and a member of Frank Sinatra’s rat pack. Elmyr had learned as a young man that even if people were wealthy, that did not imply that they were also connoisseurs of art. Many of his Hollywood friends “weren’t the least bit interested in art,” he acknowledged. One exception was actor Vincent Price.
I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Price one morning in Chelsea as Elmyr and I walked down the King’s Road. He passed by, and I turned to Elmyr and asked if he recognized who just went by. He said no. When I told him, he abruptly turned around and shouted, “price!” The actor returned. Each seemed pleased to see the other; Elmyr asked if he could join us for lunch. Unfortunately, he was leaving London later that day. I saw him once again in 1983, when he came to Minneapolis for a retrospective of his films at the Walker Art Center. We chatted briefly, and he later wrote
me, mentioning that “Elmyr painted a lovely portrait of my wife.” Curiously, I don’t recall Elmyr ever telling me this, although I’d grown comfortable with Elmyr’s A-list friends threading through his life and his being on a first-name basis with them. In any case, his friendship with Vincent Price conformed to the aura of glamour I took for granted.
Back in the land of movie stars and sunshine, the ripple effect from the Fogg Museum’s investigation and misadventure with Faulkner began alerting the art community. The New York dealer Klaus Perls, who had purchased a number of Elmyr’s works, had a brother, Frank, also a gallery owner in Beverly Hills. Irving claimed that Elmyr showed some of his Matisse, Modigliani, and Renoir drawings to Frank Perls in the late ’40s. After careful examination, the drawings allegedly prompted the dealer’s doubts. He then accused Elmyr of selling fakes, threw him out of his gallery, and chased him down the street. Elmyr told me that it never happened and that the story was an invention of Irving’s. It is entirely plausible, however, that word of possible fakes circulating within the art establishment was gaining currency, given the propensity of dealers to buy and sell among themselves, and deleterious news of this kind would spread like brushfire.
It is likely that Elmyr was unable to gauge the jeopardy in which he placed himself. America was, after all, a big country, and he probably deluded himself into thinking his troubles were localized even after his near-encounter with the FBI in Miami. Despite having enough money to live comfortably and quietly for a while, his disregard of being caught allowed him to continue his business-as-usual approach to creating and selling his fakes. He resumed his clandestine manufacture of the finest examples of art from the School of Paris and was seriously thinking of paying another visit to Hatfield at his gallery in the Ambassador Hotel, where he had sold the Modigliani self-portrait. Before mustering the incautious bravura bred by success but imprudent in the face of recent events, he paused to reflect on his strategy. He thought it best to enlist the help of a friend, a young Canadian, to approach the dealer. He still may have wanted to exact revenge on him for making so much money from the drawing that earned him so little. “I’m just not on very good terms with him,” he told his friend. Not since his partnership with Jacques Chamberlin did Elmyr let someone else attempt to sell his work.