ON SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1972, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City announced—via an article in the New York Times Magazine —a sensational new acquisition. It was an exceptionally rare Greek vase, a calyx krater in the terminology of the classical world, meaning that it was a two-handled bowl, used for mixing water and the strong, heavy wine the ancient Greeks produced (they did not drink their wine “neat”). This krater was very large, designed to hold seven gallons of liquid, and very old, having been produced in the sixth century BC. It had been “thrown” by the potter Euxitheos and decorated by the painter Euphronios, who is acknowledged to be one of the two or three greatest masters of Greek vase painting. His works are so rare that the last important piece before this one had been unearthed as long ago as 1840. About eighteen inches high, the vase showed ten massive, beautifully fashioned ochre figures on a black background. The main figure was the dying, naked Sarpedon, son of Zeus—the greatest of all Greek gods—oozing blood from three wounds and being lifted up by the twin gods of Sleep and Death. The great warrior had delicate locks of reddish hair, and his teeth were clenched in a paroxysm of death. In other figures, young men were preparing for a battle that could kill them, the delicate lines of their armor beautifully rendered—in browns, red, and shades of pink. Not the least remarkable thing about “the Euphronios vase,” as it became known, was the price paid for it by the Metropolitan Museum—$1 million. This was the first time $1 million had ever been paid for an antiquity.
No sooner was the news about the acquisition made public than controversy erupted. Many—including several prominent archaeologists and museum curators—thought that the Met had been duped. Cornelius Vermeule, then acting director of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, pointed out that a number of comparable vases were on the market, some for as little as $25,000, and that the most anyone had ever paid for a krater of similar size and age was $125,000. John Cooney of the Cleveland Museum of Art appraised the vase at between $150,000 and $250,000, whereas Professor Ross Holloway of Brown University said $200,000 was the limit. On this reckoning, the Met had paid four to eight times what the krater was worth.
Still more controversial was the way the Met had actually acquired the vase.1 In February 1972, some months before the public announcement, according to the account given at the time, Dietrich von Bothmer, the curator of the Greek and Roman Department, had received a letter from a certain Robert E. Hecht Jr., an American dealer in antiquities then living in Rome. Educated at Haverford College, Hecht was the heir to a Baltimore department store fortune but had been living in Europe since the 1950s. In his letter to von Bothmer, Hecht had described the vase he had on offer as the equivalent—in beauty, importance, and price—to an impressionist painting. (The Met had itself opened the age of million-dollar impressionists with its then recent acquisition of Monet’s Terrasse à Sainte-Adresse, for which it had paid $1,411,200.) Hecht gave it as his opinion that the vase on offer was the equal of the famous calyx krater in the Louvre, generally regarded as one of the three greatest pieces of pottery known.
In June that year, 1972, Thomas Hoving, the director of the Met, along with von Bothmer and the Met’s deputy director and chief curator, traveled to Zurich to view the krater. Von Bothmer later said, “When I saw the vase I knew I had found what I had been searching for all my life.” Hoving was more grandiloquent.
To call [the vase] an artifact is like referring to the Sistine Ceiling as a painting. The Euphronios krater is everything I revere in a work of art. It is flawless in technique, is a grand work of architecture, has several levels of heroic subject matter, and keeps on revealing something new at every glance. To love it, you only have to look once. To adore it, you must read Homer and know that the drawing is perhaps the summit of fine art . . . I found the drawing the finest I had virtually ever observed. One long, unhesitating line that sped from the wing of Sleep through his arm in a pure stroke was genius.... I tried to think of something comparable, from any time or any master. I could only think of the so-called Alexander sarcophagus in Istanbul, the precious drawings in the illuminated Book of Hours created for the Duke of Berry by the Limbourg brothers around 1410, and the watercolor of the bird’s wing by Albrecht Dürer in the Albertina in Vienna. They were all unique masterworks, yet none had the same sense of soul.
There was no haggling over price, so it was said, and Hecht hand-carried the vase to New York at the end of August. Before it went on display, the cracks that covered the surface were painted over, at museum expense, and von Bothmer began to prepare a scholarly article on the vase to supplement the piece in the New York Times, which had been placed via Punch Sulzberger, a Met trustee and a member of the family that owned the paper.
To begin with, both Hoving and von Bothmer were coy as to exactly how they had acquired the krater, and about the cost, though the director, who appeared with it one morning on the Today show on ABC TV, admitted that the vase would be insured for $2 million. Hoving had told the reporter who compiled the initial New York Times story that the vase had been in a private collection in England at the time of World War I. Hoving said that he didn’t wish to be more specific about the owners “because they have other things that we might want to buy in the future.”
The veiled explanation didn’t stand much scrutiny. Many archaeologists were skeptical about Hoving’s account from the very beginning because the Etruscansa had always had a predilection for Euphronios, and it was generally assumed in the profession that the krater had been discovered on an illegal dig, somewhere north of Rome. In the trade, too, it was realized that a vase by Euphronios—who, after all, was very famous, the equivalent in the ancient world of Michelangelo or Picasso—could not have lain for half a century unknown in a private collection.
Then there was Hecht, the dealer. At that time he was persona non grata in Turkey following a scandal in which, on an internal flight from Izmir to Istanbul, he had taken out some ancient gold coins to examine them. An air stewardess noticed the coins and informed the captain, who radioed ahead to the airport. On arrival, police were waiting for Hecht, arrested him, and seized the coins, which they discovered had been illegally excavated. The coins were therefore confiscated and Hecht expelled. He had also been arrested in Italy in the early 1960s, implicated in an antiquities-smuggling scandal, but acquitted.
The editors at the Times began to sense that the story they had run about the acquisition of the vase had been part of a carefully orchestrated presentation. No one likes being a patsy, and so the paper assigned a team of reporters to verify the real story. One of them, Nicholas Gage, began by delving into the customs records at New York’s Kennedy Airport for August 31, 1972, the day when it was said that the vase arrived. After several hours, he found records for a vase valued at $1 million that had arrived that day aboard TWA flight 831 in the company of one Robert E. Hecht Jr. Flight 831 came from Zurich, so that’s where Gage went next. In Zurich, he interviewed three dealers, each of whom said he had heard that the vase had been dug up in late 1971 in a necropolis north of Rome and was sold to Hecht by a well-known middleman for a little under $100,000. In Rome, others gave Gage the same story.
Meanwhile, back in New York, von Bothmer had been a little more forthcoming. He first of all confided that the vase could have come from England—or it could have come from Italy. “But it doesn’t make any difference whether it was the 3,198th vase or the 3,199th vase found there.” All that mattered, he said, was whether it was genuine or fake, and how beautiful it was. “Why can’t people look at it simply as archaeologists do, as an art object?” This statement severely damaged von Bothmer’s credit among archaeologists. In a letter to the editor of the New York Times, Margaret Thompson of the American Numismatic Society spoke for many when she wrote: “I am outraged.... [A]ny archaeologist worthy of the name knows that the place and circumstances of discovery are of great significance for the archaeological record.” She was supported by the newsletter of the Association for Field Archaeology, which argued in an editorial that publication of the fantastic price of the krater had “at one stroke” enormously inflated the market for all antiquities. “The purchase cannot fail to encourage speculators whose objectives in acquiring ancient art . . . lie in the tax benefits to be saved by donating the objects to museums or educational institutions at their new market value.... As long as acquisition at any price is to be the credo of our major collections, they will fail to serve the cause of knowledge and serve only to incite resentment and encourage crime.” And in fact that year, at the annual meeting of the Archaeological Institute of America (AIA), traditionally held between Christmas and New Year’s Day, and called in 1972 in Philadelphia, the scholars delivered a humiliating rebuke to von Bothmer. He was a distinguished man. A German by birth, he had studied at Berlin University and at Oxford with J. D. Beazley, the great historian and connoisseur of Greek vases. Von Bothmer was wounded in World War II, in the Pacific, and awarded the Bronze Star for heroic achievement—all this before joining the Met. That year, 1972, he was one of those slated for the six-strong board of trustees of the AIA—a nomination that is normally tantamount to election. But just before the vote, a seventh nomination was made from the floor. Von Bothmer came bottom of the vote—and out.
In speaking about the vase, its English provenance was not all that von Bothmer revealed. He also confirmed that he had first seen it in the garden of Fritz Bürki, a restorer who was listed in the Zurich directory as a sitzmoberschreiner , or chair mender. The vase had been broken, von Bothmer said, but had been reassembled and was complete, save for a few slivers. Von Bothmer further volunteered that, at the Met, if they were offered an object without a pedigree, or provenance, their normal policy was to submit a photograph of the object to the authorities in those countries “that might consider the object part of their cultural or artistic patrimony.” That procedure hadn’t been followed with the Euphronios vase, however, because—it now turned out—Hecht had provided a pedigree. He said that the krater had belonged to an Armenian dealer named Dikran A. Sarrafian, who lived in Beirut, Lebanon. Hecht had provided two letters from Sarrafian, one dated July 10, 1971—that is, a few months before the alleged clandestine dig in Etruria. The first letter said, in part, “In view of the worsening situation in the M.E. [Middle East], I have decided to settle in Australia, probably in N.S.W. [New South Wales]. I have been selling off what I have and have decided to sell also my red figured crater which I have had so long and which you have seen with my friends in Switzerland.” It mentioned a price of “one million dollars and over if possible” and a commission of 10 percent for Hecht. The second letter, dated September 1972, confirmed that Sarrafian’s father had acquired the vase in 1920 in London, in exchange for some Greek and Roman gold and silver coins.
On learning all this, the enterprising Gage dashed to Beirut, traced Sarrafian, who—over several whiskies at the St. George Hotel—told him that Hecht had just been and gone. Sarrafian, according to Gage, was a smalltime dealer in coins, who also organized archaeological tourism. He would not at first say what, exactly, Hecht had paid him for the vase, or why the American had flown to see him in such a hurry. He admitted to Gage that he did not collect—either vases or statues—but had inherited “a hatbox full of pieces.” This is the man that the director of the Met, Thomas Hoving, would not identify to begin with because he owned other “major objects” that the museum might want.
This whole set of events—so improbable, so inconsistent and mysterious—had created a furor in Italy, as had the fact that so far as the fractures in the vase were concerned, none of them crossed any of the ten faces on the figures. This was miraculous good fortune. Unless, perhaps, the vase had been deliberately and carefully broken in order to smuggle it more easily out of the country where it had been found.
Gage didn’t give up. Back in Rome, and acting on a tip, he drove to Cerveteri, the ancient site of an Etrurian city northwest of Rome, and went from door to door asking for a man known as il Ciccione (a modern American equivalent would be “Fatso”). According to the story he wrote later, Gage was eventually led to a two-room stone house where he found “a short, husky, unshaven man in bare feet.” This was Armando Cenere, a farm laborer and mason, who confessed to also being a tombarolo, or tomb robber. Later in the evening, sitting by his stove, Cenere further confessed that he had been one of a team of six men who had been digging nearby at Sant’Angelo in mid-November 1971, when they had turned up the base and handle of a Greek vase. He was detailed as “lookout” while the others cleared the entire tomb, a process that took a week. They found many pieces, including a winged sphinx, which they left in a field and then tipped off the police about it. This was to divert suspicion from themselves and what else they had found.
Cenere recalled to Gage one piece of pottery that, he said, showed a man bleeding from three wounds. Shown a photograph of the Met’s Euphronios vase, he identified the portrait of the dying Sarpedon. He said he had been paid 5.5 million lire (about $8,800) as his (equal) share of the payoff.
Cenere’s testimony, though vivid, was not conclusive. He could have been mistaken, he could have been inventing the details, in the hope of payment, or the limelight. If he and his friends did find the vase, and it was in pieces, it was unlikely that none of the breaks would cut across at least one of the figures’ faces. Certainly, Thomas Hoving didn’t accept the tombarolo’s version; he even said the Met was being “framed” by the Times.
Eventually, the case came to court in Italy. In the witness box, Cenere went back on everything he had told the New York Times. He and Hecht were acquitted, though the latter was also declared persona non grata in Italy, to add to his similar status in Turkey. He moved to Paris.
At the end of 1972, when von Bothmer gave his talk to the annual meeting of the Archaeological Institute of America (after which he was not voted on to the board of trustees), his subject was the myth of Sarpedon, illustrated with slides of its portrayal by the artist Euphronios. During the course of his presentation, von Bothmer showed not only scenes from the Met’s krater but also an earlier treatment of the same subject on a smaller cup, or kylix. In other words, this cup was a second unknown work by Euphronios. Wasn’t this an extraordinary coincidence—that the krater should show up after fifty years in Sarrafian’s collection, and then another piece should surface at the same time? Furthermore, what von Bothmer didn’t know just then was that the police investigations of the krater in Italy (following publication of the New York Times article) had, quite independently, uncovered rumors about the existence of a second Euphronios work—a kylix—also with a dying warrior scene. Tackled later by journalists, von Bothmer admitted that he had a photograph of the kylix but had never seen the cup itself. He wouldn’t show anyone the photograph, he said, since “the owner might have a prior claim on it” (although he had used the photo readily enough in his AIA lecture). Moreover, he didn’t know where the actual object was—“It’s supposed to be in Norway.”
Discussing the kylix, Hoving and von Bothmer got themselves into a real muddle over who had seen what, and when. In the first place, Hoving changed his story. In an interview with David Shirey of the New York Times, he said at first that he had never seen the kylix, or even a photograph of it. Later, he telephoned back and said, “I want to be perfectly clear that I never saw the cup. I did see a photograph.” One reason for this change may have been that, late in the day, he recalled an interview he had given to a reporter from the London Sunday newspaper, the Observer, which was also interested in the Met’s controversial acquisition, because it might have been smuggled out of Britain. To an Observer reporter, Hoving admitted being offered—in fact, on that very day of the interview—a kylix by Euphronios, a cup that he said was signed, was in fragments, had pieces missing, but showed Sarpedon being carried off by Sleep and Death. Hoving told the reporter the cup had been made about twenty years before the krater.
Later, still before Gage published the first of his articles, von Bothmer said it was Hecht who had the kylix and had had it since before he’d had the krater. On this occasion, von Bothmer also said that he had seen the kylix in Zurich, in July 1971, thus giving a different version to what he had said before, when he had claimed not to have seen the kylix and didn’t know where it was. He told the Observer reporter that he didn’t want to say too much more about the cup, because he wanted to buy it. There followed this exchange:
OBSERVER: Isn’t it a good fortune for Robert Hecht . . . that he manages to have first the vase and then the cup?
VON BOTHMER: The other way round—the cup has been owned for a couple of years, I was shown this cup in July 1971. [Pause.] I stopped in Zurich and I saw the cup and I have my notes and my dates. I would put it differently—the cup at the price then being quoted me was not nearly so exciting to me until after this object [the vase] appeared. Therefore, when you have two of a kind, it takes on greater significance.
In other words, von Bothmer implied that the Euphronios krater had surfaced some time after July 1971, when he saw the cup in Zurich. Was he not then aware of Sarrafian’s letter to Hecht, dated July 10, 1971, affirming that the krater had been in the Sarrafian family for more than fifty years and that Hecht had already—by July 1971—seen it in Zurich?
That was not the end of the confusion. A later affidavit by Sarrafian said that when he had made the vase available to Hecht, in 1971, it was in pieces and “Hecht was warned that I am not responsible for any missing pieces.” This was confusing and inconsistent on three grounds. First, he also said he had authorized its restoration “three years ago”—that is, in 1969. How could that be, if it hadn’t surfaced until July 1971? Second, Fritz Bürki had reported that when he received the vase in the summer of 1971, it had already been restored but “so badly I had to take it to pieces and restore it all over again.” Third, von Bothmer had said earlier that when he had first seen the vase it was not yet completely restored, so he had authorized Bürki to fill in the cracks and paint them over, for a fee of $800. No one account seemed to match another.
Then there was the inconsistency about the nature of the fragmentation. In his affidavit, as mentioned above, Sarrafian had said that Hecht had been “warned that I was not responsible for any missing pieces.” How could Sarrafian know there were missing pieces, if the vase comprised between sixty and 100 fragments, as Hoving said? And in any case why should he worry when, again according to Hoving, the enormous price that the vase commanded lay partly in the fact that it was in perfect condition or, as one later document put it, 9944⁄100 percent complete, with just a few slivers missing?
The price also seemed too neat: In his July 1971 letter, Sarrafian had instructed Hecht to sell the vase for “one million dollars and over if possible.” How did he choose such a high target price since, until then, the highest price a vase had sold for was $125,000?
The improbabilities did not end there. Sarrafian told Gage that Hecht had taken the bulk of the money, in contrast to what he had said in the July 1971 letter, which specified a 10 percent commission to Hecht. “Bob was clever, I was stupid,” said Sarrafian. “I wouldn’t have given him an invoice—one dealer doesn’t usually give an invoice to another—but he specifically asked for one. He said he wanted it for tax purposes . . . I gave him an invoice saying he’s paid a fantastic price for the vase. I didn’t even get one quarter of a million dollars for it. The bulk of the money went to Hecht.”
The final contradiction, in his letter dated July 10, 1971, is Sarrafian’s remark that in view of the deteriorating situation in the Middle East, he had decided to settle in Australia, “probably in N.S.W. [New South Wales],” and this was one reason he was selling. He never went. Sarrafian and his wife were killed in a car crash in Beirut, in 1977.
In other words, the confusion about the Euphronios vase—where it came from, when it was assembled, who was paid what, what its relation was to the kylix—was fairly comprehensive. No wonder Dietrich von Bothmer’s fellow archaeologists, most of the trade, and journalists on both sides of the Atlantic were so skeptical about the official version. Hecht had by then acquired a controversial reputation, though Hoving, von Bothmer, and the trustees of the museum appeared not to care very much.
But there was one man who did. Oscar White Muscarella was an assistant curator at the Metropolitan Museum in the Department of Ancient Near Eastern Art. Born in 1931, he had a master’s degree and a Ph.D. in classical archaeology from the University of Pennsylvania, then the foremost archaeological school in the United States and one of the top three in the world. He had been a Fulbright scholar at the American School of Classical Studies at Athens and had excavated at Mesa Verde in Colorado, at Swan Creek in South Dakota, at Gordion in Turkey, and at five sites in Iran, in one of which he was director and in three others co-director. In 1974, he had just turned forty and was the author of one well-received academic book and at least twenty-six articles. His career also boasted another unusual distinction: Although he was still at the Met, he had been fired three times.
It was a murky story that turned on—or appeared to turn on—Muscarella’s inability to cooperate with his colleagues, either in the field or in the museum itself. In fact, the objections to Muscarella had more to do with his involvement in museum politics than with his work. He had been active in championing the rights of women, who were paid less at the museum than men for identical positions, he had objected to the museum’s architects cutting down some large (“magnificent”) magnolia and elm trees to create space for a new wing, and perhaps most important, he had been one of several junior curators who had set up the Curators’ Forum—not quite a trade union, but clearly a threat to the Met’s established power structure. Then there was the fact that four times, in 1970, 1971, and 1972, he had written memoranda to the museum administration, calling for a change to its acquisitions policy in regard to antiquities, drawing attention to the fact that the Met was acquiring plundered and smuggled artifacts.
He had first been fired, by Thomas Hoving, in July 1971, ostensibly because he could not get along with colleagues and therefore was unable to excavate properly. He was given six months’ academic leave to look for another position and was moved out of the Ancient Near Eastern Department. But Muscarella chose not to go quietly, hired himself a lawyer, and twice got the date for his departure postponed. In August 1972, he was fired again, and this time he was given just a month’s notice, mainly because the museum had acquired extra evidence that he was, allegedly, difficult to work with on excavations. This time Muscarella obtained a temporary injunction. At much the same time, the American National Labor Relations Board was investigating the Met because it had fired a number of other people because of union activity. As a result of this investigation, several museum employees were reinstated. Muscarella was one of them.
When, in early 1973, the New York Times was investigating how the Euphronios vase had reached the Met, Muscarella said, to a Times reporter, that he was opposed to the purchase and expressed the view that the krater had been looted from Italy, not acquired, as Hoving and von Bothmer maintained, from Dikran Sarrafian in Beirut. He was also quoted as saying that he believed the museum trustees had not adequately questioned the provenance of the vase. “They have abdicated responsibility,” he said. “They should have checked out every possible origin of the vase before it was purchased.”
Muscarella’s views were published in the Times on February 24, 1973. Four days later, at a staff policy meeting, Ashton Hawkins, a vice president of the museum and the Met’s in-house counsel, discussed Muscarella’s statements and announced, “We are definitely going to get rid of him now.”2Muscarella later gave a television interview on the program Straight Talk, in which he again spoke against the purchase of the vase, and he wrote about “the curatorial role in plundering” in the Association of Field Archaeology News. At the end of 1973, Muscarella lectured to the Archaeological Institute of America, again on the curatorial role in looting, after which he was asked to give more lectures, on the same topic, to other organizations. In early 1974, his article in Field Archaeology News was reprinted in other academic journals.
Later that year, in October 1974, he was fired for the third time, accused—in a letter of three and one-half pages—of unprofessional conduct, the letter terminating his employment on December 31 that year. By this time Muscarella’s attorney, Steven Hyman, a partner in the law firm of radical defense lawyer William Kunstler, was so dismayed by the Met’s tactics against his client that he had agreed to waive his fee. Hyman obtained an injunction, a full one this time, and the court appointed a fact finder, a lawyer acceptable to both sides, named Harry Rand. The twelve days of hearings were spread out between September 11, 1975, and November 26. Four months later, in March 1976, the fact finder produced a 1,379-page verdict—in which Muscarella was totally exonerated. Rand concluded that not one of Hoving’s allegations against the assistant curator “is sustained by the record.”
That was not quite the end of the affair. Muscarella was reinstated, as he had to be, but the trustees didn’t approve the action until December that year, and it was not until May 1977 that the museum put in writing that he was “an Associate Curator in the Department of Ancient Near Eastern Art in good standing.” Moreover, the following March, in 1978, Muscarella was notified that he was being “promoted” to “Senior Research Fellow.” He was told that this was the equivalent of being a full curator, but in fact he was being sidelined. Since 1978, Oscar White Muscarella has never received a salary raise, or any other promotion, except cost-of-living increases, and even those stopped in 2000.
Criticizing Thomas Hoving and his policies, in particular with regard to the acquisition of the Euphronios krater, has exerted a heavy toll. But Muscarella, like the vase, is still—as we write—at the Metropolitan Museum. Over two decades later, events in Italy are vindicating him, and in more ways than even he could think possible.