Morally considered, the art collector is tainted with the fourth deadly
sin; pathologically, he is often afflicted by a degree of mania. His
distinguished kinsman, the connoisseur, scorns him as a kind of
mercenary, or at least a manner of renegade. I shall never forget the
expression with which a great connoisseur--who possesses one of the
finest private collections in the Val d'Arno--in speaking of a famous
colleague, declared, "Oh, X----! Why, X---- is merely a collector." The
implication is, of course, that the one who loves art truly and knows it
thoroughly will find full satisfaction in an enjoyment devoid alike of
envy or the desire of possession He is to adore all beautiful objects
with a Platonic fervour to which the idea of acquisition and
domestication is repugnant. Before going into this lofty argument, I
should perhaps explain the collection of my scornful friend. He would
have said: "I see that as I put X---- in his proper place, you look at my
pictures and smile. You have rightly divined that they are of some
rarity, of a sort, in fact, for which X---- and his kind would sell their
immortal souls. But I beg you to note that these pictures and bits of
sculpture have been bought not at all for their rarity, nor even for
their beauty as such, but simply because of their appropriateness as
decorations for this particular villa. They represent not my energy as a
collector, nor even my zeal as a connoisseur, but simply my normal
activity as a man of taste. In this villa it happens that Italian old
masters seem the proper material for decoration. In another house or in
another land you might find me employing, again solely for decorative
purposes, the prints of Japan, the landscapes of the modern
impressionists, the rugs of the East, or the blankets of the Arizona
desert. Free me, then, from the reproach implied in that covert leer at
my Early Sienese." Yes, we must, I think, exclude from the ranks of the
true zealots all who in any plausible fashion utilise the objects of art
they buy. Excess, the craving to possess what he apparently does not
need, is the mark of your true collector. Now these visionaries--at least
the true ones--honour each other according to the degree of "eye" that
each possesses. By "eye" the collector means a faculty of discerning a
fine object quickly and instinctively. And, in fact, the trained eye
becomes a magically fine instrument. It detects the fractions of a
millimetre by which a copy belies its original. In colours it
distinguishes nuances that a moderately trained vision will declare
non-existent. Nor is the trained collector bound by the evidence of the
eye alone. Of certain things he knows the taste or adhesiveness. His ear
grasps the true ring of certain potteries, porcelains, or qualities of
beaten metal. I know an expert on Japanese pottery who, when a sixth
sense tells him that two pots apparently identical come really from
different kilns, puts them behind his back and refers the matter from his
retina to his finger-tips. Thus alternately challenged and trusted, the
eye should become extraordinarily expert. A Florentine collector once saw
in a junk-shop a marble head of beautiful workmanship. Ninety-nine
amateurs out of a hundred would have said. "What a beautiful copy!" for
the same head is exhibited in a famous museum and is reproduced in
pasteboard, clay, metal, and stone _ad nauseam_. But this collector gave
the apparent copy a second look and a third. He reflected that the
example in the museum was itself no original, but a school-piece, and as
he gazed the conviction grew that here was the original. Since it was
closing time, and the marble heavy, a bargain was struck for the morrow.
After an anxious night, this fortunate amateur returned in a cab to bring
home what criticism now admits is a superb Desiderio da Settignano. The
incident illustrates capitally the combination of keenness and patience
that goes to make the collector's eye.
We may divide collectors into those who play the game and those who do
not. The wealthy gentleman who gives _carte blanche_ to his dealers and
agents is merely a spoilsport. He makes what should be a matter of
adroitness simply an issue of brute force. He robs of all delicacy what
from the first glow of discovery to actual possession should be a fine
transaction. Not only does he lose the real pleasures of the chase, but
he raises up a special clan of sycophants to part him and his money. A
mere handful of such--amassers, let us say--have demoralised the art
market. According to the length of their purses, collectors may also be
divided into those who seek and those who are sought. Wisdom lies in
making the most of either condition. The seekers unquestionably get more
pleasure; the sought achieve the more imposing results. The seekers
depend chiefly on their own judgment, buying preferably of those who know
less than themselves; the sought depend upon the judgment of those who
know more than themselves, and, naturally, must pay for such vicarious
expertise. And, rightly, they pay dear. Let no one who buys of a great
dealer imagine that he pays simply the cost of an object plus a generous
percentage of profit. No, much-sought amateur, you pay the rent of that
palace in Bond Street or Fifth Avenue; you pay the salary of the
gentlemanly assistant or partner whose time is at your disposal during
your too rare visits; you pay the commissions of an army of agents
throughout the world; you pay, alas! too often the cost of securing false
"sale records" in classic auction rooms; and, finally, it is only too
probable that you pay also a heavy secret commission to the disinterested
friend who happened to remark there was an uncommonly fine object in
Y----'s gallery. By a cheerful acquiescence in the suggestions that are
daily made to you, you may accumulate old masters as impersonally, as
genteelly, let me say, as you do railway bonds. But, of course, under
these circumstances you must not expect bargains.
Now, in objects that are out of the fashion--a category including always
many of the best things--and if approached in slack times, the great
dealers will occasionally afford bargains, but in general the
economically minded collector, who is not necessarily the poor one, must
intercept his prey before it reaches the capitals. That it makes all the
difference from whom and where you buy, let a recent example attest. A
few years ago a fine Giorgionesque portrait was offered to an American
amateur by a famous London dealer. At $60,000 the refusal was granted for
a few days only, subject to cable response. The photograph was tempting,
but the besought amateur, knowing that the authenticity of the average
Giorgione is somewhat less certain than, say, the period of the Book of
Job, let the opportunity pass. A few months after learning of this
incident, I had the pleasure of meeting in Florence an English amateur
who expatiated upon the beauty of a Giorgione that he had just acquired
at the very reasonable price of $15,000. For particulars he referred me
to one of the great dealers of Florence. The portrait, as I already
suspected, was the one I had heard of in America. Forty-five thousand
dollars represented the difference between buying it of a Florentine
rather than a London dealer. Of course, the picture itself had never left
Florence at all, the limited refusal and the rest were merely part of the
usual comedy played between the great dealer and his client. On the other
hand, if the lucky English collector had had the additional good fortune
to make his find in an Italian auction room or at a small dealer's, he
would probably have paid little more than $5,000, while the same purchase
made of a wholly ignorant dealer or direct from the reduced family who
sold this ancestor might have been made for a few hundred francs. With
the seekers obviously lie all the mystery and romance of the pursuit. The
rest surely need not be envied to the sought. One thinks of Consul J.J.
Jarves gradually getting together that little collection of Italian
primitives, at New Haven, which, scorned in his lifetime and actually
foreclosed for a trifling debt, is now an object of pilgrimage for
European amateurs and experts. One recalls the mouse-like activities of
the Brothers Dutuit, unearthing here a gorgeous enamel, retrieving there
a Rembrandt drawing, fetching out a Gothic ivory from a junk-shop. One
sighs for those days, and declares that they are forever past. Does not
the sage M. Eudel warn us that there are no more finds--_"Surtout ne
comptez plus sur les trouvailles."_ Yet not so long ago I mildly chid a
seeker, him of the Desiderio, for not having one of his rare pictures
photographed for the use of students. He smiled and admitted that I was
perfectly right, but added pleadingly, "You know a negative costs about
twenty francs, and for that one may often get an original." Why, even I
who write--but I have promised that this essay shall not exceed
reasonable bounds.
For the poor collector, however, the money consideration remains a source
of manifold embarrassment, morally and otherwise. How many an enthusiast
has justified an extravagant purchase by a flattering prevision of
profits accruing to his widow and orphans? Let the recording angel reply.
And such hopes are at times justified. There have been instances of men
refused by the life insurance companies who have deliberately adopted the
alternative of collecting for investment, and have done so successfully.
Obviously, such persons fall into the class which the French call
charitably the _marchand-amateur_. Note, however, that the merchant comes
first. Now, to be a poor yet reasonably successful collector without
becoming a _marchand-amateur_ requires moral tact and resolution. The
seeker of the short purse naturally becomes a sort of expert in prices.
As he prowls he sees many fine things which he neither covets nor could
afford to keep, but which are offered at prices temptingly below their
value in the great shops. The temptation is strong to buy and resell.
Naturally, one profitable transaction of this sort leads to another, and
soon the amateur is in the attitude of "making the collection pay for
itself." The inducement is so insidious that I presume there are rather
few persistent collectors not wealthy who are not in a measure dealers.
Now, to deal or not to deal might seem purely a matter of social and
business expediency. But the issue really lies deeper. The difficulty is
that of not letting your left hand know what your right hand does. A
morally ambidextrous person may do what he pleases. He keeps the dealer
and collector apart, and subject to his will one or the other emerges.
The feat is too difficult for average humanity. In nearly every case a
prolonged struggle will end in favour of the commercial self. I have
followed the course of many collector-dealers, and I know very few
instances in which the collection has not averaged down to the level of a
shop--a fine shop, perhaps, but still a shop. I blame no man for
following the wide road, but I feel more kinship with him who walks
scrupulously in the narrow path of strict amateurism. Let me hasten to
add that there are times when everybody must sell. Collections must
periodically be weeded out; one may be hard up and sell his pictures as
another in similar case his horses; artists will naturally draw into
their studios beautiful objects which, occasion offering, they properly
sell. With these obvious exceptions the line is absolutely sharp. Did you
buy a thing to keep? Then you are an amateur, though later your
convenience or necessity dictates a sale. Did you buy it to sell? Then
you are a dealer.
The safety of the little collector lies in specialisation, and there,
too, lies his surest satisfaction. To have a well-defined specialty
immediately simplifies the quest. There are many places where one need
never go. Moreover, where nature has provided fair intelligence, one must
die very young in order not to die an expert. As I write I think of
D----, one of the last surviving philosophers. Born with the instincts of
a man of letters, he declined to give himself to the gentler pursuit
until he had made a little competence at the law. As he followed his
disinterested course of writing and travel, his enthusiasm centred upon
the antiquities of Greece and Rome. In the engraved gems of that time he
found a beautiful epitome of his favourite studies. For ten years study
and collecting have gone patiently hand in hand. He possesses some fifty
classical gems, many of the best Greek period, all rare and interesting
from material, subject, or workmanship, and he may have spent as many
dollars in the process, but I rather doubt it. He knows his subject as
well as he loves it. Naturally he is writing a book on intaglios, and it
will be a good one. Meanwhile, if the fancy takes him to visit the site
of the Bactrian Empire, he has only to put his collection in his pocket
and enjoy it _en route_. I cannot too highly commend his example, and yet
his course is too austere for many of us. Has untrammelled curiosity no
charms? Would I, for example, forego my casual kakemonos, my ignorantly
acquired majolica, some trifling accumulation of Greek coins, that
handful of Eastern rugs? Could I prune away certain excrescent minor
Whistlers? those bits of ivory cutting from old Italy and Japan? those
tarnished Tuscan panels?--in truth, I could and would not. Yet had I
stuck to my first love, prints, I should by this time be mentioned
respectfully among the initiated, my name would be found in the
card-catalogues of the great dealers, my decease would be looked forward
to with resignation by my junior colleagues. As it is, after twenty years
of collecting, and an expenditure shameful in one of my fiscal estate, I
have nothing that even courtesy itself could call a collection. In
apology, I may plead only the sting of unchartered curiosity, the
adventurous thrill of buying on half or no knowledge, the joy of an
instinctive sympathy that, irrespective of boundaries, knows its own when
it sees it. And you austerely single-minded amateurs, you experts that
surely shall be, I revere if I may not follow you.
We have left dangling from the first paragraph the morally important
question, Is collecting merely an habitual contravention of the tenth
commandment? Now, I am far from denying that collecting has its
pathology, even its criminology, if you will. The mere lust of
acquisition may take the ugly form of coveting what one neither loves nor
understands. This pit is digged for the rich collector. Poor collectors,
on the other hand, have at times forgotten where enterprise ends and
kleptomania begins. But these excesses are, after all, rare, and for that
matter they are merely those that attach to all exaggerations of
legitimate passion. As for the notion that one should love beautiful
things without desiring them, it seems to me to lie perilously near a
sort of pseudo-Platonism, which, wherever it recurs, is the enemy of life
itself. As I write, my eye falls upon a Japanese sword-guard. I have seen
it a thousand times, but I never fail to feel the same thrill. Out of the
disc of blued steel the artisan has worked the soaring form of a bird
with upraised wings. It is indicated in skeleton fashion by bars
extraordinarily energetic, yet suavely modulated. There must have been
feeling and intelligence in every touch of the chisel and file that
wrought it. Could that same object seen occasionally in a museum showcase
afford me any comparable pleasure? Is not the education of the eye, like
the education of the sentiments, dependent upon stable associations that
can be many times repeated? Shall I seem merely covetous because I crave
besides the casual and adventurous contact with beauty in the world, a
gratification which is sure and ever waiting for me? But let me cite
rather a certain collector and man of great affairs, who perforce spends
his days in adjusting business interests that extend from the arctic
snows to the tropics. His evenings belong generally to his friends, for
he possesses in a rare degree the art of companionship. The small hours
are his own, and frequently he spends them in painting beautiful copies
of his Japanese potteries. It is his homage to the artisans who contrived
those strange forms and imagined those gorgeous glazes. In the end he
will have a catalogue illustrated from his own designs. Meanwhile, he
knows his potteries as the shepherd knows his flock. What casuist will
find the heart to deny him so innocent a pleasure? And he merely
represents in a very high degree the sort of priestliness that the true
collector feels towards his temporary possessions.
And this sense of the high, nay, supreme value of beautiful things, has
its evident uses. That the beauty of art has not largely perished from
the earth is due chiefly to the collector. He interposes his
sensitiveness between the insensibility of the average man and the always
exiled thing of beauty. If we have in a fractional measure the art
treasures of the past, it has been because the collector has given them
asylum. Museums, all manner of overt public activities, derive ultimately
from his initiative. It is he who asserts the continuity of art and
illustrates its dignity. The stewardship of art is manifold, but no one
has a clearer right to that honourable title. "Private vices, public
virtues," I hear a cynical reader murmur. So be it. I am ready to stand
with the latitudinarian Mandeville. The view makes for charity. I only
plead that he who covets his neighbour's tea-jar--I assume a desirable
one, say, in old brown Kioto--shall be judged less harshly than he who
covets his neighbour's ox.