Stealing With Style

by Emyl Jenkins

  Sol got up and crossed the room. He pulled out his watch chain and with the smaller of the three keys he unlocked a file cabinet drawer. He took out a white box freckled with dark brown stains and laid it on his desk. He opened the box and brought out what looked like a thick wad of cotton. Wrapped inside, like a babe in swaddling cloths was a figure-her face, arms, and legs all of ivory. I recognized her face immediately. Her features and expression were, if not identical to, at least the sister of the figurine I'd seen in Richie's office. While Richie had described the figure over the phone to Alicia, I'd studied her, following Richie's every word.

  "Coy," Richie had called the figure. "Flirtatious, but at the same time sophisticated. Reminds me of you, Alicia."

  "I'm very proud of this little figure," Sol said, turning her over and over in his palm. "I carved it all to practice how to make the ivory parts. I wasn't as promising as my grandfather as an artist, but I had talent. I might have made something of myself had I been born at a different time or in a different place, but that was not so." There was no hint of remorse in his voice. Rather, his face shone in pride. "Of late, I have so much time, that I began trying my hand so I would have all the right parts for the figures. See? Not bad," he said, lovingly gazing at his creation.

  "May I?"

  Sol handed the figure to me, face down. Not face up, as I was expecting.

  "See," he repeated, this time excitedly. "Here, at the nape of her neck, where her short bob curls around. See. I have put my signature. S. S." He pointed. "The H wouldn't work, so I used S. S. for Sol Stein. That works beautifully, like little extra curls or waves." Sol beamed. "Just unfortunate that it happens to be the infamous SS, but . . ." He shrugged the coincidence off.

  "You're a master," I exclaimed. "She's exquisite. How many like this have you carved?"

  I studied the figurine carefully, noting every detail I could. It would be important to recognize those that Sol had carved in order to tell them from those he had assembled from the preexisting parts.

  "This is my first. I kept her. For the others I just carved the parts I needed. I've carved the parts for four others. I've carved five figures altogether; the other ones were better. I gave three away. Joey sold the other one."

  "Tell me something. Did you copy this face exactly? Would there be another one just like it? An old one?"

  "Well ... yes, and no. Many of the faces tend to resemble one another. They were done in the style of the day. The poses and costumes make them look very much alike-very Deco. Still there are little subtleties. Differences. Those show the individual touches, the-" Sol paused. "The preferences each artist had." He smiled. "Some carved noses better. Some liked high cheekbones. I like mouths. You have a pretty mouth, Sterling." The old man stopped to muffle a cough. "Especially when you smile. You don't hold back. Your whole face smiles."

  I was concentrating so hard on the figure, it took a moment for his words to sink in. When I didn't immediately respond, Sol frowned worriedly, as if afraid that I might have taken offense at his comment.

  There are three things you must learn to say, Sterling, Mother had drilled into me. Say, "I was wrong," when you've made a mistake. "I'm sorry," when you're remorseful. "Thank you," when you receive a compliment. Most important, you Hoot mean those words when you say them.

  "Why, thank you, Sol. That was the nicest compliment I've ever had." I had never meant words more sincerely in my whole life. "And I can't say enough about your carving, your talent. I'm, well, speechless."

  My mind was racing round and round. Could it he possible that the figure I had just seen in Richie's office was actually one of Sol's creations?

  Provenance.

  Richie had told me that it had come from Argentina. But, thinking back, he'd also begun saying something about a German or Austrian family. There was only one way to be sure.

  "You did sign them all, the ones you carved the parts for," I said for confirmation. "All five. This one and the other four."

  "Oh yes. Remember, I have no children, Sterling. These are my progeny in my old age. I gave them my name. Well, almost."

  "Sol, tell me something. Could the same face be used with different bodies to make a figure?" I asked.

  "Of course."

  He made it sound so simple.

  "When you're assembling the figures-" I was doing my thinking aloud.

  Sol finished my thought. "How do I know what parts go together? Sometimes I do it from memory. I remember the figures I worked on long ago, even ones my parents and grandparents worked on. For some I use pictures from the old catalogs ... the few pages I still have. Others are trial and error." He chuckled to himself.

  "That's why I haven't done more," he said. "It's a long procedure. Fitting this head with that body, getting two arms that match up. I make many mistakes along the way. And once the parts are right, then there is still the process of putting them together with the bolts to hold them in place. It is very tedious. But then! But then!" His hands and arms danced through the air like a conductor's. "But then!" His exertion brought on his cough. He stopped and wheezed. "It was because I was having trouble fitting parts together and I grew impatient. That is why I began to carve the ivory parts."

  I turned the little ivory figure over again, taking in every detail. "All this work. How long did it take you to carve her?"

  "Too long. Weeks. Oh ... don't be mistaken, Sterling. That's not the way it was done back home. That wouldn't have worked. Figures had to be turned out. Money had to come in. Back then the ivory already was partly carved."

  Sol stopped. He rubbed his head. "Not carved with the features. The ivory was, well, shaped." Again he paused as he sometimes did when searching for the right word. He started again. "It was formed by machine first. The carver was given pieces of ivory that already had been formed to he the right shape and size. Round for a head. Long, thin to make an arm. A larger, thicker piece from which to shape a torso. Whatever."

  As he talked, Sol's hands outlined each different shape for me. In the light of day, I saw that he had the graceful, expressive hands of an artist.

  "Then the artists finished the parts off," he continued, his hands still moving in the air. "They carved them down from an outline they had to follow. A template. But they added the details on their own. That's what made the figures come alive. The details. It was the carvers, the masters. They made the little figures perfect."

  I nodded. "The finishing touch. I understand. That's how they used to carve furniture legs and feet, too, from a block of wood and an outline. Then a carver would turn it into a plain, padded foot, or a masterful hall-and-claw foot."

  Sol clearly wasn't interested in what I was saying, but I knew furniture much better than sculpture. My explanation helped me to understand the process.

  "So tell me, Sterling. What do we do now? I must work hard to assemble the ones I have. Perhaps not spend time carving."

  "No. You must carve." To deny Sol his craft was wrong. "You must continue to carve. Just don't mix the figures up." I spoke slowly. Emphatically. "Sol, don't put the figures that you are carving the faces and parts for in with the figures that you are putting together, assembling-the ones you already have all the parts for. Keep the two separate. Understand? You see, there are two stories here. The story about how you are assembling the old figures and then how you are carving lost parts for these masterpieces from scratch. It's a lost art reborn."

  "I shall. I will keep them separate," he said, tapping his chest to keep his cough down. Then, with renewed vigor he said, "I know. I'll do both! Both processes are tedious. When I grow tired of assembling, I will turn to carving. And when my eyes grow dim from carving, I will turn to assembling. I like that."

  "And don't give Joey any more figures to sell," I said. "At least not right now."

  "No. I didn't think I would. If he doesn't have the figures to sell, then he can't get hurt again, can he? But I have two almost finished," he said. There was a tinge of disappointment in his voice. "You see
, putting them together ... carving the new parts ... well, it gives me something to do. What's an old man to do with his life when the world and time have passed him by?"

  "Oh, you can keep working," I said. "You should. You must. You're doing something wonderful. No one else could do what you're doing." I had no trouble sounding persuasive. What I was saying was true.

  "Just save all your figures now, the ones you assemble and the ones you create," I told him. "I still have research, and thinking, to do. I've spoken to someone who may be able to get a great deal of money for the ones that are already put together. You don't want to sell-" I started to say a fifty-thousanddollar piece for a few hundred dollars, but changed my mind. "You don't want to sell one of your treasures for less than it is worth."

  Sol opened his mouth as if to protest.

  "You must promise me that," I pleaded. "Let's just wait."

  Sol's eyes met mine. "There's that pretty smile again," he said. "I'll do what you say, Sterling."

  Chapter 11

  Dear Antiques Expert: I just learned that my Windsor chair is American. Doesn't the name Windsor denote an English origin? If my chair is American, is it less valuable than an English one?

  Yes, Windsor chairs originated in England during the Middle Ages when the chair symbolized authority-so much so, it could only be sat in by its owner, or with permission, a distinguished guest. By the later 18th century, though, things had improved, and comfortable spindle-back "Windsor" chairs became popular on both sides of the Atlantic among the emerging middle class. American Windsors are actually rarer than their English counterparts. Today a really good single Pennsylvania Windsor chair can easily cost $3,000-5,000. A pair can bring $10,000-15,000-on up to $65,000 or $75,000 for the best of the best.

  BEFORE I LEFT Sol I got his work and home numbers. I had to explain that I probably would not see him again on this trip but would call him from Leemont. If he had had his way, I would have moved to New York right then to help him match up his molds and assemble figures.

  Realizing that he knew his time was running out made it doubly hard to leave Sol, but I had to move on, to decide what to do next. I could go back to Layton's and look at Richie's figure one more time, which is what I really wanted to do, or I could begin scouring the galleries and shops for more information on Art Deco figurines, old and new, which is what I felt I really should do. But my growling stomach was voting for something else entirely.

  A light came on in my head. Lunchtime. No New Yorker ever passed up a lunch hour except under the most dire circumstances. What were the chances Richie would he at lunch? Pretty good, I decided. Or, if not at lunch, at the gym. It was worth risking a try. Anyway, there was a deli near Layton's that served a great Reuben with slaw and extra pickles. I would drop by there after checking out the figure in Richie's office. Myself, I never skipped lunch, or any other meal, unless it was absolutely necessary, and I avoided all gyms like the plague.

  But how to get back to Richie's office? I thought. I'd visit the French Decorative Arts exhibit on display in the public gallery for just long enough to be able to comment on a couple of the pieces and act like I'd been there for hours. If Richie was in, he would never know I'd left the building.

  For the second time in ten minutes, I approached the front desk. "Great exhibit." I smiled. "Oh, I have a question for Mr. Daniel. If he isn't in, I'll speak to his secretary, ah-" I fished for her name-"Anna."

  How could I forget it? When Richie had pronounced Anna with a broad "ah," Anna sounded as long as she looked. I crossed my fingers for good luck that Richie would be out and Anna would let me come up.

  "No. He's there. He just hung up from another call, " the receptionist said, punching in his extension number and cooing into the phone.

  Drat.

  "He said you know the way." She pointed toward the elevators.

  Some contrast to this morning's zealous greeting.

  I walked past tall, silent Anna who was busily doing whoknows-what, other than looking fabulous, and stuck my head in Richie's door.

  "Sorry, Sterling," Richie said, looking up from the book on the desk in front of him only long enough to give me a cursory glance. "Had an important call. Looking for a reference. Expecting another call. Any minute." He spoke in shorthand while turning the pages.

  I fidgeted about. It was a little past 1 P.M. Going against traffic, the ride out to Brooklyn had been a breeze, and my visit with Sol had been short. I wondered what Richie had been doing during that time. For starters, he had moved the figure in question from his desk onto a table underneath a window. It looked out on to Madison Avenue and suddenly I saw my way over to the figure. Small-city girl watches big-city traffic.

  Richie, his head still buried in the book, muttered something indistinguishable, and pointed to the chair.

  "I'm okay," I motioned back to him. "Take your time. I love looking at the city. Especially in the winter when you can see all the coats. I'm a fur watcher," I half-sang, giving him a flirtatious shrug.

  "Un-huh," Richie snickered.

  I went to the window, fur watching. After a few minutes, I knelt over and began inspecting the figurine's neck. S. S. No doubt about it.

  "Ah. There it is." Richie marked his place, then turned my way. His blue eyes were as large as a wild cat stalking her prey. Looking into the sunlight behind me, he blinked quickly. Then his eyelids slowly returned to their usual sleepy, half-opened state. Either way, half-closed or fully opened, Richie's eyes could conceal more than I, in my small-town ways, could decipher.

  "Sorry about that," he said. "You're back so soon?"

  "Been looking at the French-"

  His phone rang. "Sorry." He threw me yet another apologetic look and picked up the receiver.

  "Yes, Anna? A what? Have you called Tracey to go down and take a look at it?" he asked impatiently. "She's where? Oh, I forgot. No, I can't take the time right now. You go down and look at it. Huh? What's the condition? Okay. Unsigned? Probably isn't anything. If you have any questions, get the information. Ask them to leave it and I'll look at it later. My bet is that you can make a judgment call."

  Richie hung up, rolled his eyes, and said, "Just somebody who thinks he has something. How do you stand it? Don't you get calls day and night wanting to know what something is worth? Tracey Hollins, my assistant, usually handles these walk-ins, but she's out in the Hamptons chasing down some really old Lalique pieces. Anna says she wants to learn, so I'm throwing her to the lions. Just hope she doesn't"-he paused, clearly rethinking his choice of words-"mess up. Now where were we?"

  "I was on my way out, when I realized I have another question," I said. "Where did the artists sign their pieces? I thought I'd read that signatures were on the bases. May I?" I let Richie see that I was closely examining the figure on the table and wanted to pick it up.

  "Of course. Go ahead." He nodded agreeably. "That's right. Usually the artists signed the base of the mold before the figure was cast. Then again, many molds were never signed. Believe me, I wish they'd all been signed." Richie laughed. "The absence of signatures has led to a lot of confusion," he said, shaking his head regretfully. "It can be hard, even impossible, to know exactly who made some of the unsigned sculptureseven the best ones. I don't have to tell you that knowing who the artist was can mean big bucks."

  "So what do you do when you find a great figure with no signature?"

  "The same thing Liam Wellington down the hall does when he finds a great unsigned painting: I call in people who have spent their whole lives studying nothing else. It's those experts who decide if the sculpture is-" he laughed-"well, hopefully, the real thing and sculpted by the right artist. There's always the outside chance it can be a fake, or a copy, of course, but we usually catch those right off." Richie rolled his eyes. "Bottom line, when it comes to identification, we identify an unsigned sculpture the same way the art experts identify a Rembrandt or Renoir."

  "But surely the artists knew that the base with their signature or mark c
ould be broken or possibly replaced." I hesitated, gave the figure a quarter-turn, then asked, "Did any artists ever sign the figures themselves?"

  "Not that I know of." Richie stopped. "Of course, having said that, new discoveries are being made every day. You know that. That's what makes antiques so much fun. When your friend Nancy Evans wrote her book listing the names of the Lancaster, Pennsylvania, Windsor chair makers, prices skyrocketed. Now everyone's looking for a Windsor chair signed by D. Danforth or Calvin Stetson."

  I bowed in Richie's direction. "Now it's my turn to be impressed. How do you know so much about Windsor chairs?"

  "I keep my ears open."

  Richie grinned that maddening grin. "Who knows? I'm always snooping around used furniture stores. I might find one! Ears and eyes. That's what it takes in our business. Luck comes to those in the know."

  I smiled back. "To the prepared mind," I said, intentionally flattering him. I turned my full attention back to the figure I was holding. "The reason I was asking about the signatures is," I began tentatively, "well, what do you make of this?" I held the fetching figurine toward him.

  "What?" His curious look told me what I wanted to know; he hadn't noticed anything unusual.

  "Oh, I don't know if it's anything," I said innocently, "but see where her hair waves. Right there. If you look real hard, those first two waves look a lot like two Ss. And is that a period? I just thought maybe those were initials. Or a signature."

  Richie frowned. "No. I don't think so."

  "Oh good. That's all I was wondering. Well, see you tonight?"

  "Nope. Next week's going to be a bear. I'm clearing out as soon as I can today. Good luck to you, though. Bidding?"

  "Yes. For a client. We'll see how it goes."

  Richie said nothing else. As I turned to go, I saw him rotating the figure, carefully examining her.