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ANYONE WHO IS REMOTELY INTERESTED in archaeology or antiquities cannot have failed to have heard of the J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles. Founded fairly recently, in 1954, by the oil billionaire, John Paul Getty, who died in 1976, the museum has made news time and again—sometimes for the right reasons, just as often for the wrong ones.
By all accounts, Getty himself was a fairly miserly and gloomy soul who only came alive when he was collecting art or antiquities (he famously said, “The poor shall inherit the earth—but not the mineral rights”). At Sutton Place, his house outside London, the hallway boasted a massive picture of a bull by Paulus Potter, the famous seventeenth-century Dutch animal painter, and a magnificent triptych by the British modernist Francis Bacon. Yet guests were expected to use the pay phone also installed there. He had begun collecting in earnest in 1938.
His first museum was housed at his ranch, his weekend house on the borders of Malibu. In 1974, however, he opened a brand new one near the beach at Malibu, on the Pacific Coast Highway, just north of Los Angeles, and this time he modeled the museum on the Villa dei Papiri, a rich Roman country house near Naples buried since the eruption of Mount Vesuvius and only partially excavated. The Villa dei Papiri had boasted a big library of scrolls, and scholars believe that the unexcavated part may still contain many originals of lost classics from the ancient world. The antiquities at Malibu were housed on the ground floor, paintings and decorative arts on the second floor.
After his death, the Getty Trust, formed to handle the impressive income from Getty Oil, had its own very special problems, one being that under U.S. law, in order to preserve its charitable status, it was required to spend a minimum percentage of the income from its $3 billion (now $5 billion) endowment within a specified amount of time. The museum was so cash rich there were fears it would distort the art market. That worry turned out to be exaggerated, and the Getty actually behaved quite discreetly on its way to acquiring a number of undoubted masterpieces in the realm of painting, including the Adoration of the Magi by Andrea Mantegna, Portrait of Duke Cosimo I de’ Medici by Jacopo Pontormo, and Irises by Vincent Van Gogh. It was also decided to build an entirely new museum, on a hilltop above the Santa Monica Freeway, at Sepulveda Pass, overlooking both the Pacific Ocean and Los Angeles itself. Designed by the architect Richard Meier, modeled on an Italian hilltop town, and faced with Travertine marble, the new museum opened amid much fanfare in 1997. One of its inaugural exhibitions was Beyond Beauty: Antiquities as Evidence, a seven-part exhibition in which one section considered how scholars cope with antiquities when their origin is not known, and a second dealt with faking and how it can be identified. Irony has run through the Getty ever since the man himself modeled his first museum on the Vesuvian Villa dei Papiri.
Over the years since Getty’s death, however, the museum has often been in the limelight for one controversy or another. Three have involved antiquities. The first was the case of Jiri Frel, an “electrically persuasive” curator who had once worked for Thomas Hoving and Dietrich von Bothmer at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. Frel considered the Getty trustees as no more than a raft of “intellectual cripples,” and he was accused by Hoving in a book, Making the Mummies Dance, published in June 1996, of foisting “thousands of dubious works on the museum—for a tab totaling $14 million.” Frel was in fact forced to retire in 1985 after disclosures that he had traded inflated appraisals for donated antiquities. He moved to Italy, where for a while he took up his legal residence in the house in Castelvetrano in Sicily care of Gianfranco Becchina, one of the senior Italian names on Pasquale Camera’s organigram. At the Getty, Arthur Houghton took over as deputy curator and then Marion True was appointed to full curator.
Second, there was the matter of the Sevso treasure, fourteen magnificent pieces of Roman silver that appeared on the art market in London, via Switzerland, in mysterious circumstances in the early 1980s. These items were offered to the Getty in circumstances no less mysterious, in that the silver was purported to come from The Lebanon, but the export licenses turned out to be fake. The Getty played an active role in discovering that the export licenses were forged and did not acquire the silver, but neither did it alert any law enforcement or other authority as to what was afoot.
Two years later, in 1986, the Getty unveiled a new acquisition, a larger than life-size statue of a youth, known in Greek as a kouros. It had been acquired in Switzerland, the museum said, where it had been in a private collection since the 1930s. Stylistically, the statue appeared to date from the sixth century BC, but a controversy immediately erupted over its authenticity. As one scholar put it, “Why was the statue so pristine and white? Why did the style of the hair not match that of the feet? Would an ancient sculptor have mingled so many styles in one figure?” The discussion was not helped by the fact that most kouroi are in fragments; only thirteen are known that are as complete as the Getty figure (though it had arrived at the museum, in 1983, in seven pieces).
The Getty decided to have the marble tested, to see if it had come from one of the quarries known about in antiquity and to see whether the patina, or surface crust, was ancient or modern. The geologist asked to carry out the tests concluded that the marble was from the island of Thasos, in the north Aegean, an ancient quarry site, and that it had a “calcitic” patina that could have developed only over a long period of time.
Later, however, it turned out that the documents providing a Swiss provenance for the kouros were fake and that the surface patina was more complex than the original geologist had said and not necessarily ancient. It was also reported that the Getty was shown a marble torso, plainly fake, that had many similarities with the kouros. The Getty bought the fake, took the kouros off display, did more tests, and then transferred both statues to Greece in 1992, for an international colloquium to try and settle the issue. Despite this, scholars remained divided, though they were split along disciplinary lines: The art historians and archaeologists were convinced the kouros was a fake, whereas the scientists thought that the science proved it was genuine.
In Italy, it is fair to say, there was an added level of skepticism toward the Getty. This was for two reasons. In the first place, Italian archaeologists had not forgotten Dietrich von Bothmer, at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, for his role in the controversial acquisition of the Euphronios krater. In the 1970s and early 1980s, the curator of antiquities at the Getty was Jiri Frel, a former pupil of von Bothmer’s. In addition, other curators at the Getty who followed Frel, in particular Marion True, had also been students of von Bothmer. The Italians asked themselves if these students shared the same rather cavalier attitude to provenance that their teacher had revealed in the Euphronios krater affair.
A second reason for the Italian wariness of the Getty was due to its publication of Greek Vases in the J. Paul Getty Museum. This catalog, published in six occasional installments, from 1983 to 2000, contained many vases that the Italians believed could only have come illicitly from Italy, and yet in the catalog they were given no provenance. This suggested, to the Italians at least, that the Getty curators did indeed share von Bothmer’s attitude toward provenance. In short, they weren’t overcareful about where their vases came from. Instead, they were busy making their mark, assertively acquiring and publishing their collection of Greek vases, intent on showing that the museum’s collection was rapidly achieving distinction.
Thus, it would also be fair to say that when Maurizio Pellegrini began sifting through the documents seized in Medici’s Geneva warehouse, he kept a special eye open for anything to do with the Getty Museum. He was not to be disappointed.
Section E of the public prosecutor’s preliminary report to the Rome court ahead of Medici’s trial in 2004 was devoted to Medici’s relations with the Getty, and it was by far the largest section. It began: “In spite of the fact that Medici was found in possession of tens of thousands of archaeological objects, and in spite of the fact that he dealt with the most important objects purloined from Italian territory—to the point of making [Frida] Tchacos-Nussberger describe him as being the ‘monopoliser’ of the market—Medici never appears among the sellers [to the museum] and he is never mentioned in official certificates.” Yet Pellegrini soon found that with no fewer than forty-two major acquisitions by the Getty, Medici was the source, and a number of the relevant people at the Getty knew it.
Among the documents that Pellegrini highlighted early on was a set of papers that had been drawn up in March 1986 by the legal firm of Piguet in Geneva as part of the court case between Medici and Christian Boursaud, when the two were contesting ownership of the Hydra Gallery. Among the documents listing the objects said to form part of the inventory of Hydra were a number concerning a bronze tripod. Pellegrini recognized this tripod: It was one that had once formed part of the Guglielmi Collection but had been stolen, together with a bronze candelabrum.
The Guglielmi is one of the most distinguished collections of antiquities ever formed. It was put together in the nineteenth century by the marquises of Guglielmi of Vulci from the fruit of excavations carried out at Sant’Agostino and Camposcala, which were part of the ancient city of Vulci. The collection was displayed at the Palazzo Guglielmi in Civitavecchia until the beginning of the twentieth century, when it was divided into two parts, between the brothers Giulio and Giacinto. The part belonging to Marquis Giulio, inherited by his son, was donated to the Vatican in 1937 and since then has been exhibited in the Gregorian Etruscan Museum. The other part, equally important, remained in the Guglielmi family until 1987, when it was purchased by the Vatican Museums, to be reunited with the other half. The collection consists of 800 objects and is especially strong in bronzes and Etruscan and Greek ceramics. Collections don’t come much more important than the Guglielmi.
Concerning the tripod and candelabrum, the Medici-Getty papers showed that an Etruscan tripod, fifth century BC, and “an Etruscan candelabrum,” also fifth century BC, had been sent to the Getty Museum in Los Angeles on May 25, 1987. The papers further disclosed that the objects had been sent via TWA and Mat Securitas of Geneva, a company that collected the rents at the Freeport and handled shipments for Medici’s other company, Editions Services. However, in this case, the name on the accompanying documentation—all of which was found in Medici’s offices in the Geneva Freeport—showed that the tripod and candelabrum were, purportedly at least, the property of F. (Fritz) Bürki & Son and that they had been sent to the Getty on the basis that they were a “loan possible purchase.” According to a typed invoice signed by Bürki on May 20, 1987, the price attached to these objects was $130,000. Soon after, on June 2, a Getty Museum receipt was issued. This too was made out to “F. Bürki” for the receipt of the two objects, a bronze tripod and candelabrum. Again, this paperwork was sent to Geneva, to Medici, via Mat Securitas (Bürki lives in Zurich).
This was fairly transparent, but at that point, for some reason, Marion True, curator of antiquities at the Getty, wrote two letters to Medici, to two separate addresses in Geneva, one letter in Italian, the other in English. On June 10, she wrote to him, care of Mat Securitas, at the Route des Jeunes address. She began “Caro Sig. Giacomo” (Dear Mr. Giacomo), an unusual form of address in Italian. “The bronze tripod and candelabrum have arrived at the Museum. I hope to be able to purchase them within the next year; we shall keep you informed regarding the date of the presentation.” It was signed, “Cordialissimi saluti,” which indicates an excellent personal relationship. Two weeks later, on June 26, she sent Medici another letter, this time written in English and beginning, “Dear Giacomo.” At the end of this letter, sent to the Rue de l’Evéché, she wrote: “The tripod and candelabrum have arrived from Bürki, and they are quite beautiful. Slowly, we will work on John [Walsh, director of the museum] and try to persuade him to change his mind. With all best wishes to you and your son.” In other words, in the less formal letter, she admits that the tripod and candelabrum came in from Bürki. Remember, we are talking here of stolen objects, stolen from a distinguished collection, part of which was already in the Vatican, with the other part about to join it.
The next move occurred when the Getty Museum wrote to Bürki, asking him to sign two loan agreements for the bronze objects, official documentation for the museum’s files. Bürki did indeed sign these documents and returned them.
And so, as far as the written record was concerned, to begin with at least, these bronze objects had been sent to the Getty by Fritz Bürki. Unofficially, however, the curator concerned—Marion True—knew that they came from Medici.
But was this level of triangulation enough? Perhaps not, because the documentation also shows that some time later, Bürki’s name on the shipping sheet was crossed out and instead, written next to it, in longhand, were the words “Atlantis Antiquities—Attn: J[onathan]. Rosen.” According to the public prosecutor’s report, “This [was] because of a letter which F. [ritz] Bürki sent to [the] P. Getty Museum, in which he declares that the objects belong to Atlantis Antiquities.” From then on the annual update loan files were not signed by Bürki, but by Rosen, as president of Atlantis. When the letters were sent out from the Getty they were addressed to Andrea Hecht, daughter of Robert Hecht, who, with Rosen, was the proprietor of Atlantis.
What was going on? All became clear in February 1988 when the Getty asked Jonathan Rosen, at Atlantis, for permission to restore the objects. This was granted the same day in a fax signed by Andrea Hecht. Almost two years later, on January 17, 1990, the Getty informed Rosen of the museum’s decision to purchase the tripod and candelabrum, for $80,000 and $65,000, respectively. Marion True’s maneuvers had finally triumphed. But this necessitated an invoice, in which it was stated that the tripod’s country of origin was Italy, that it had been bought from a Swiss antiquities dealer in Geneva in 1985 and legally exported “from its country of origin.” Thus, Bürki’s role now was to be the place where the tripod and candelabrum had first been seen, should anyone ask. Having two people between Medici and the Getty was judged safer.
Eventually, having been bought and restored, the tripod (but not the candelabrum) went on display and was published in the museum’s acquisitions bulletin. Whereupon there was an immediate outcry in Italy, Conforti stepped in, and an archaeologist from the superintendency was dispatched to Los Angeles to inspect the tripod. It was established that the object had indeed been stolen from the Guglielmi Collection and, after a certain amount of to-ing and fro-ing, the object was returned to Italy on November 21, 1996. It is interesting that in the wake of the fuss, Marion True was interviewed by Richard E. Robinson, assistant U.S. attorney, and during the course of their conversation, she said that she had first seen the object in Switzerland and that it was owned by Bürki, or Hecht, who had acquired it from Mario Bruno, a dealer in Lugano who had since died. There is no mention of Medici. On the face of it, this seems to be contradicted by her letters of June 10 and 26, 1987, in which she reassured Medici that the tripod and candelabrum had arrived safely at the museum.
The matter has only recently been resolved. The documentation made it clear that a fifth-century BC bronze Etruscan thymiaterion (candelabrum or incense burner) was sent to the Getty at the same time as the tripod, and acquired in exactly the same way. But it was never displayed by the Getty. Is there a reason only one of these objects was ever displayed? The Getty and Marion True may well not have been aware that the tripod and candelabrum were stolen but instead thought they had been illegally excavated and smuggled out of Italy—like so much else that they handled. Was it safer, more prudent, to put these objects on display one at a time, just in case? In fact, in November 2005, the Getty finally returned the candelabrum to Italy.
The tripod episode was fairly clear-cut, because the object had been stolen. But more instructive for showing the extent of the clandestine trade in looted objects was a whole series of photographs that were seized at the Freeport and that Pellegrini, despite having to work in Geneva, away from home and the resources of the Villa Giulia library, managed to match up with objects in the Getty.
In all that follows, the evidence unearthed by Pellegrini has a consistency that he never expected to find. All the photographs, including Medici’s Polaroids, were arranged according to type, date, and location where the objects they depicted had been sold. They were not just a rough assortment but were kept in order. Medici’s name never appears in the official Getty records concerning the acquisition of objects, though he kept plenty of the correspondence addressed to him, written on the museum’s headed notepaper. And this is the point: Medici, it turned out, was a methodical man who took a misplaced pride in what he did.
In each of forty-two specific instances, Pellegrini found three sets of photographs in Medici’s albums that were seized in Geneva. In the first set, the objects were shown, photographed by Polaroid, as they had left the ground. The objects were in pieces, in fragments, with soil and other encrustations adhered to them, and sometimes they were shown lying on Italian newspapers. In the second set of photographs—sometimes Polaroids, sometimes regular photographs (prints or negatives)—the objects were shown in various stages of restoration. The fragments were shown having been put together. Usually this was a preliminary restoration, in that the fragments were reassembled, and lightly glued, so that the vase took shape but the arrangement of fragments was still visible, the joins clearly indicated, and in several instances some fragments still missing, leaving gaps. In some ways, the third set of photographs was the most extraordinary of all, and very revealing, not just about the whole process but about Medici the man. In most cases, Pellegrini found photographs of the objects—vases, sculptures, other items—in the Getty acquisition catalogs. This completed the sequence from the ground of Italy, to Switzerland, sometimes to an auction house or a dealer’s catalog, then finally to the museum itself. However—and this was the most vivid evidence of all, the most grotesque illustration of Medici’s misplaced pride—there was also a fourth set of photographs, a small number of images in which Medici himself was shown alongside the totally restored antiquities, on display in this or that museum around the world. It was a form of pride or vanity that Medici wanted to be photographed with “his” objects at the end of their journey, as if this vindicated what he did, showing that he was the true “father” of these pieces that, having been found in the ground of Italy, were now on view all over the world in distinguished museum settings.
But, at the same time, Medici’s pride or vanity gave the game away. The photographs, and the order in which they were kept, were by far the most psychologically convincing evidence that, by whichever route these objects reached the museums of the world, they had started out with Medici. The documentation showed that antiquities reached the museums via several roundabout routes, but the photographs proved that, in every case, Medici was the beginning of the chain. In all that follows, the reader should remember that a photographic paper trail exists for many objects that Medici handled and that ended up in museums or notable collections. It is as simple and as damning as that.
The first object of interest was a red-figure Attic neck amphora with triple handles and decorated with athletes. On one side was shown a discobolus (a discus thrower), and on the other side a spear thrower. The Getty’s acquisition notes record that the discus thrower was in fact a famous athlete from classical Greece named Phaulos. The vase had been bought by the Getty in 1984, its manufacture was dated to circa 505 BC, and it was attributed to the Euthymides Painter. Euthymides, as Jiri Frel put it in his description and summary when the vase was being acquired, “is one of the three great masters of Attic r-f [red-figure] drawing, called Pioneers. There is no complete piece by him in the United States.” At that stage, Frel said, the Getty had only fragments by Euphronios and “a controversial piece by Phintias” (the other two of the three great Pioneers). Frel said that the mouth of the vase was missing, but otherwise its condition was “perfect.” He then wrote this: “In the twenties of this century [meaning the twentieth century] the piece belonged to Professor E. Pfuhl, the famous specialist of Greek art in Basel. It was sold last year by his great-granddaughter, Mrs. Lattanzi of Ascona, Switzerland, to the dealer. This information has been confirmed by Pino Donati, dealer in Lugano, Switzerland.” Frel added that he considered the piece superior to the Euphronios cup that had been bought by Nelson Bunker Hunt in 1979, which had cost $750,000, and that therefore it was well worth the $400,000 that the Hydra Gallery in Geneva were asking.
All of this was most interesting, especially the fulsome details about the vase’s provenance, in view of the fact that among the negatives seized in Geneva, there was one showing the Euthymides amphora broken in pieces and, as Pellegrini’s report dryly comments, “not in an institutional setting.”
Following the same methodology, Pellegrini next came across a red-figure Apulian pelike, attributed to the Darius Painter, which was acquired by the Getty three years after the Euthymides vase, in 1987. A pelike is a multipurpose amphora with a sagging belly, usually with a wide mouth. Ropes were passed through its handles for lifting. The Darius Painter of the late fourth century BC was active in Apulia, possibly in Tarentum, the modern Taranto, and he was the leading artist of his time. He is named for a monumental krater in the archaeological museum in Naples depicting the Persian king Darius. Instead of always depicting heroes, the Darius Painter was notable for frequently—and unusually—painting myths involving heroines. On this vase, a good example of his work, Andromeda sits on a throne while Cassiopeia kneels before her, entreating her pardon. Perseus stands on the right and Aphrodite looks on.
Pictures of this pelike were found among the negatives seized in Geneva. Again, in one of these the vase is shown in a showcase in the museum ; it also appears in a Polaroid. The matching documentation, which Pellegrini also found, was particularly revealing. The pelike was apparently acquired from Fritz Bürki, via Atlantis Antiquities, and had never been published before. The paperwork showed that the vase was sent to the Getty together with another red-figure Apulian pelike attributed to the Gravina Painter and a black-figure Attic bowl, attributed to the school of the Lysippides Painter. This portrayed Dionysus and Hercules as revelers with drinking vessels, the latter wearing the skin of the Nemean lion over his shoulders. The presence of the drinking vessels and vines probably alludes to the best-known encounter between Dionysus and Hercules, the drinking contest that Dionysus won with ease. Although the supplier of the pelike was ostensibly Bürki, an error was made in the invoice regarding the price: Bürki had written $45,000, when it should have been $60,000. In order to straighten it out, however, Marion True wrote not to Bürki but directly to Robert Hecht. Much of this documentation, remember, was found in Geneva Freeport, on Medici’s premises: a classic triangulation.
Still other documents showed that Bürki had “sold” to the Getty a Lucanian red-figure krater, showing Hermes, Apollo, and Artemis, and attributed to the Palermo Painter, plus a terra-cotta alabastron and an ariballos (a small flask for oil, often suspended from the wrist), both of the latter Corinthian. Yet all these objects were among the Polaroids seized from Medici.
More important still, a red-figure kantharos, with masks (of grotesque faces) attributed to the Foundry Painter and with pottery attributed to Euphronios, was also found among the Geneva Polaroids, showing the object before and after its restoration. This vase is a good example of the very high quality of the objects we are discussing in this book. It was the only known example of its type in North America and has no known parallel anywhere in the world. Curator Arthur Houghton, in his appreciation of this kantharos ahead of its acquisition, described it as showing athletes cleaning themselves after exercise. But on either side the kantharos was embellished, and embossed, with masks, one of Dionysus, the god of wine, and the other of a smiling satyr. These relief masks made drinking from the kantharos difficult (a kantharos is a luxury drinking vessel, but this one was probably never used, being intended instead to serve as a votive offering in a temple or tomb). The cup had been restored from many fragments, some of which were already in the Getty. The Foundry Painter, so named after the scene of a bronze foundry on one of his vases in the Berlin Museum for Classical Antiquities, was the strongest member of the workshop of the Brygos Painter.d The Foundry Painter favored just such scenes as were on this vase—symposia, athletics, or combat.
Marion True attributed the pottery of the kantharos to Euphronios for a number of reasons. His signature as potter is known long after he ceased to paint, perhaps after he went blind and instead concentrated on the more tactile potter’s craft. Houghton added:
The attribution of the kantharos’ potter is very difficult because there is no known parallel for this vase in any collection in the world except for that of the Getty Museum. We have fragments of at least two, and possibly three other kantharoi of the same type.... The fragmentary Getty vase has been attributed by Dyfri Williams of the British Museum to the painter Onesimos. Since the only potter who is known to link the work of the Foundry Painter and Onesimos is Euphronios, and we know also from other fragments in the Getty collection that he potted a number of hitherto-unknown unusual vase shapes, Marion True has attributed the manufacture of the kantharos to his hand.... As mentioned above, the only known parallels for this vase type are in the collection of the Getty Museum, and some of our fragments actually join this cup . . . In addition to its tremendous importance as a vase of hitherto-unknown shape potted and painted by two of the most respected artists of the late archaic period, this kantharos has a significance for the collection of the Getty Museum that it has for no other collection. We have the only other known vases of this type, and their condition is extremely fragmentary. . . . The Bürki kantharos has provided the key to the identification of the potter of this remarkable group of vases.... The cup presents no problem for export. It was in London from 1982 to 1984 with the dealer Robin Symes, then exported to Switzerland to Fritz Bürki and Son in Zurich. The vase is said to have been purchased originally from the
Swiss market. . . . It was attributed to the Foundry Painter by Dr. Robert Guy of Princeton when it was in the possession of Robin Symes, and Guy has discussed with us the remarkable importance of the vase shape. . . . There is no market price that is truly comparable because there is no similar vase known. We purchased in 1983 approximately 2/5 of a large kylix signed by the potter Euphronios and painted by Onesimos for $180,000. Although the shape and decoration of the vase are quite different, the price gives a fair description of the value of an unusual vase from the artists of the Euphronian circle.
It was bought from Bürki for $200,000.
A tripod, a candelabrum, a red-figure amphora, an Apulian pelike, a black-figure Attic bowl, a Corinthian alabastron and a Corinthian ariballos, a red-figure kantharos—eight beautiful, rare, valuable objects, for each of which the documentation in the Freeport was the same: photographs of the antiquities at various stages of their journey from the ground of Italy to display in the Getty, from dirty and encrusted fragments to the restored and polished ensembles that the public sees in the showcases. The pattern was consistent for all of the forty-two objects the Getty acquired (see the Dossier for a full list).
Every single one of these forty-two antiquities was important, in the sense that they were all by definition of museum quality. Some of the vase shapes were unique, the only known examples of their kind; all were by major vase painters and were valued collectively at millions of dollars. Between 1983 and 2000, the Getty published six volumes of Greek Vases in the J. Paul Getty Museum, which purported to be a reputable academic publication. In fact, it was an ostensibly reputable academic publication that dealt in considerable detail with loot. There is probably no equivalent in the history of antiquities scholarship that has so betrayed its high ideals.
One of the most important objects in the Getty, which Medici handled and which reveals most about the activities of the Los Angeles museum in this field, was a splendid red-figure Attic kylix, made between 490 and 480 BC by Euphronios and decorated by Onesimos. Because these two artists were among the greatest known in the ancient world, this kylix is, therefore, directly comparable to the krater acquired by the Metropolitan Museum in New York in 1972 (see the Prologue). The subject of the Metropolitan’s Euphronios vase was the death of Sarpedon. In this myth, taken from Homer’s Iliad, Sarpedon, a hero of the Trojan War, is killed by the spear of an enemy warrior. The subject of the Getty’s Euphronios-Onesimos kylix is a related theme, Iliupersis, or the sack of Troy, the central event in the Trojan War, and there are many scenes from this episode on Greek vases. The Italians had had their eye on the kylix for some time.
As Pellegrini pieced together the story, it emerged that the Getty had acquired the cup, in fragments, over a number of years in the 1980s. These fragments, it was said in the documents, were bought “on the European art market” and were published in the Getty Museum Journal as well as inGreek Vases in the J. Paul Getty Museum, which went through several volumes. By studying these publications, Pellegrini and others in Italy were able to establish that the first nucleus of fragments was bought in 1983, with others added in 1984 and 1985. In 1991, Dyfri Williams, head of the Greek and Roman Department of the British Museum and a noted expert on Attic ceramics, published the kylix in volume five of Greek Vases. Among other things, he said in an addendum that, in November 1990, he had seen a photograph of another fragment of the kylix. He said that this other fragment formed part of the edge of the vessel and was itself divided into three pieces. All this was, let us say, untidy. If three fragments existed—somewhere—and had been photographed, why were they not in the Getty with the rest of the object? What was going on?
Some light was thrown on the situation in 1993, when, in an official excavation, the Archaeological Superintendency for Southern Etruria discovered an impressive building for a cult in the S. Antonio area of Cerveteri. The cult was dedicated to Hercules and it was as certain as could be that the kylix (if not the Metropolitan’s krater) had come from there. For a start, there was writing on the kylix that suggested this: a dedication, in Etruscan, to “Ercle,” the Etruscan form of “Hercules.”
Following this discovery, the Italians began to put pressure on the Getty to return the kylix, but the seizure of the Medici material in Geneva closed this particular circle. For among the photographs seized in Corridor 17, there was a whole raft of incriminating material. There was, to begin with, a color photograph of the tondo, the central round fragment that formed the base of the cup. There were also professional black-and-white photographs of the same piece, which may have been used to propose the object to the museum. Then there was a photograph of the last fragment that the Getty acquired and of the fragment(s) that the Getty never purchased but which Dyfri Williams wrote about. Finally, there was a photograph of the restored kylix with the last fragments that had reached the Getty. What was especially revealing about the Polaroid of the tondo was some writing on the margin, which read: “Prop. P. G. M.” The object had been “Proposed to the Paul Getty Museum.”
Then, and finally, to settle any doubt in the matter, Pellegrini discovered in Geneva a letter that Marion True wrote to Medici in January 1992, the main point of which was to thank him for the donation of a kouros head mentioned above (the one that “proved” the Becchina kouros was a fake). On the second page of this letter, True added: “I am enclosing, with this letter, with my compliments, a copy of Greek Vases 5. I hope that you enjoy it. I think that you will find many pieces included that you will recognize.” Greek Vases 5, of course, contained the article by Dyfri Williams on the Euphronios-Onesimos kylix, with the note that he had seen a photograph of extra fragments.
Armed with this fresh documentary evidence, coming on top of the discovery of the cult building dedicated to Hercules in Cerveteri, not to mention evidence of the gradual acquisition of the fragments throughout the 1980s, the Italians now put still more pressure on the Getty. In the first instance, the museum was forced to open up its files and make their documentation available to the public prosecutor, Dr. Ferri. He also sent an international rogatory asking for all the museum papers on the forty-two objects that Pellegrini had identified, together with any documentation concerning a number of named individuals: Robert Hecht, Fritz and Harry Bürki, Robin Symes, Frida Tchacos, and of course Giacomo Medici. He also asked that the premises and offices of Marion True be searched and any relevant documentation surrendered. This latter request was not granted.
When they arrived in Italy, the Getty papers showed that the central part of the kylix—the tondo—had been acquired from the Galerie Nefer in Zurich, the gallery owned by Frida Tchacos-Nussberger. When questioned later, she said she had bought the tondo from Nino Savoca in Munich. According to the Getty paperwork, other fragments were allegedly acquired from the S. Schweitzer Collection, of Arlesheim, an old and mysterious Swiss collection often used to provide a false provenance for objects, because it had been donated to the state more than thirty years before and was difficult to cross-check. (Many museums in North America have a few items from this collection.) Still more fragments of the kylix were purchased from the Hydra Gallery in 1985 and originated, according to Boursaud, in the “Zbinden Collection.” All this was disingenuous, yet more examples of triangulation, and nowhere more obvious than in the case of the Zbinden Collection. This is because, according to documents later supplied to Ferri and Pellegrini by Sotheby’s, and unknown to the Getty and Boursaud, “Zbinden” often sold material at auction together with Boursaud. They were so close that they had the same account number with Sotheby’s. This was yet more dissimulation and triangulation to protect Medici’s involvement with the kylix.
Faced with this mountain of evidence, the Getty was forced to bow to the inevitable, and in February 1999, it did the decent thing and returned the Euphronious-Onesimos kylix to Italy. It may now be seen, on display, at the Villa Giulia Museum in Rome.
Medici also bowed to the inevitable. Knowing that the game was up, knowing what incriminating evidence was contained in the documentation that had been seized, he surrendered three more fragments of the kylix, three that fitted together to make one piece (as Dyfri Williams had exactly described them in his Greek Vases article), and which Medici had in his possession. He told the authorities that he was returning them “out of love for his country.”
This episode had a happy ending—in a way. Ferri, Pellegrini, and Rizzo put the value of the Euphronios-Onesimos kylix at about $5 million. But it is even now not complete: There are some fragments still out there and the prosecutor is still looking for more.
One final set of objects—and their associated documentation—reveals the close links, even intimacy, between the Getty and Medici. On April 29, 1987, in a handwritten letter, on the headed notepaper of “Atlantis Antiquities, 40 East 69th Street, NY, NY 10021,” was written:
Received in commission for resale from Giacomo Medici at the price of $2,000,000.—(two million dollars) less 5% commission, payable to Mr. Medici after receipt of any payment from the J. Paul Getty Museum:
1. 20 Attic red figure plates ca. 490–480 BC
2. Various attic red figure fragments ca. 490–480 BC
The above named objects have been delivered to the J. Paul Getty Museum with a receipt to Atlantis Antiquities, but are the property of Mr. Giacomo Medici.
Geneva, Switzerland
It was dated and signed by Robert E. Hecht, Jr.
On the same day, John Caswell, associate registrar of the Getty, and Hecht jointly signed a loan agreement for “one year from the date of arrival,” between Atlantis Antiquities and the museum, for three sets of objects. The loan agreement made it clear that the three sets of objects were twenty plates by the Bryn Mawr Painter, thirty-five fragments of a red-figure calyx krater by the Berlin Painter, and nine “Miscellaneous” fragments, though all were dated “ca. 500–490 BC/ ca. 490–480 BC.” The entire group was insured for $2 million.
These plates were the same ones that had been found in Geneva, sequestered in the safe in Medici’s outer office on Corridor 17. Besides the objects themselves, however, elsewhere in the warehouse three sets of photographs were also found relating to these objects. In the first set of photographs the plates were shown before restoration; they were in fragments. Each fragment was a few inches square, and it is hard to tell how beautiful or valuable they are, at least from the photographs. A second set showed the plates in the process of restoration. There were some gaps, but the figures on them can be identified. Third, the same plates were again photographed when their restoration had been completed. Pellegrini’s conclusion was that this third set of photographs was the one that had been used for the presentation to the Getty, because there was a tag attached to one of the photographs, valuing them in shorthand at $2 million.
On this occasion, John Walsh, the director of the Getty, thought that it was an inappropriate use of museum funds to spend $2 million on so many works all by the same painter, and the plates were therefore sent back. Here too the transaction was revealing. The plates were returned not to Hecht, as the loan file in the museum showed the proprietor to be, but to Medici, the owner as Hecht’s written note identified. The shipping receipts, kept by Medici and seized in Geneva, show that the plates arrived at the Freeport in December 1987. Medici kept the shipping documentation, opportunistic as ever, for use later as a provenance, to suggest that the plates originated from the United States, should he be able to sell them later on.
In fact, of course, the plates almost certainly came from Cerveteri. They are of such a quality and made on such a scale that if they had been excavated on an official dig, either recently or in the distant past, their importance is such that they would have been extensively written up, published, displayed, and discussed. The fact that the first set of photographs were Polaroids and showed the plates in fragments, and then being gradually restored, also confirms that they had come to light recently, having been previously in the ground.
Two other documents confirm the triangulation at work in this instance. Although the plates were notionally offered—loaned—to the Getty by Hecht-Atlantis, which is what appeared in the loan card (the Getty sent the Italian authorities no official documentation because they hadn’t acquired the plates), they were also the subject of the two letters that Marion True wrote to Medici in June 1987, one in Italian, the other in English. On June 10, in Italian, she wrote:
Dear Mr. Giacomo, I am sorry to have to inform you that we cannot purchase the 20 plates at the moment on loan to the museum. I have spoken to the director who carefully examined the plates and has decided it is not opportune to purchase them now, for the following reason: the plates are all by the same artist and for a collection like ours it is preferable to spend 2 million dollars purchasing vases by different artists. I tried to convince the director of the uniqueness of this collection but he remained of the opinion not to purchase them.
On June 26, in English, she wrote:
I am terribly sorry about the plates myself, and I do hope that you will understand that the decision was certainly not mine. This is the first time that John has actually refused something that I have proposed. I should have mentioned the Berlin Painter fragments in my letter; naturally, we will return them with the plates as they were part of the Agreement....
Evidently, as far as the Getty Museum is concerned, Medici was responsible for forty-two antiquities that the museum acquired, all illicitly looted from Italy and smuggled abroad, under his direction. In none of these cases is Medici’s name mentioned in the official documentation that the museum keeps, but in the great majority, museum personnel—Marion True above all—must have been well aware of the origin of these pieces, as revealed by these letters to Medici. The tone of these letters, incidentally, is affectionate and almost intimate, as well it might be, considering what was going on. She is amazingly open in their correspondence. Medici seems never to have anticipated being raided in Geneva and perhaps True never imagined her correspondence with him would ever be seen by third parties. One of her letters, dated January 1992 and again written to him in Geneva, reads:
I was also very grateful to have the information on the provenance of our three fragmentary proto-Corinthian olpai [an olpe—plural olpai—is a medium-sized, single-handled wine jug]. To know that they came from Cerveteri and the area of Monte Abatone is very helpful to the research of one of my staff members....
I intend to be in Rome together [with] John Walsh on February 19th through the 23rd. I will be back in Rome again from March 8th through approximately March 12th. During one of these visits, I hope that we will be able to get together and have some further discussion about future acquisitions.
It is hard to escape the conclusion, therefore, that the triangulations that Pellegrini identified were intended to protect the museum. If, for example, we did not have the material—and above all, the photographs—seized at Medici’s warehouse in Geneva, but just had the Getty internal documentation, it would only be shown that the museum had acquired a number of objects, mainly through the European market, over a number of years. The fact that the “European market” turned out to be mainly, but not exclusively, Swiss dealers would be suspicious to anyone knowledgeable about the traffic in illicit antiquities, but it would not amount to proof of anything, as is shown by the fact that the Getty maintained this acquisitions policy for so many years.
But the Medici documents now remove all doubts on this score. The J. Paul Getty Museum in Los Angeles is stuffed with loot, illegally excavated antiquities smuggled out of Italy. What is more, senior personnel know this, and have known it for many years. And they saw to it that the trade was so organized as to keep the museum’s image “clean.” The Getty well deserves the nickname that one of the dealers used during interrogation later in Dr. Ferri’s inquiry. She said that the Getty was known in the Swiss trade as the “Museum of the Tombaroli.”
In some ways, by getting involved with the antiquities underworld—the Medici conspiracy—the Getty Museum made a rod for its own back. The most obvious example is with the so-called Getty kouros. This was bought from Becchina, but the fake that was sent to the museum to prove that the kouros was not authentic was volunteered by Medici. Was he really trying to be helpful to the Getty, or was he settling old scores with Becchina? In dealing with such people as Becchina and Medici, how can one ever be certain—of anything? Medici claimed that his fake shared certain features with Becchina’s kouros—but does that make the kouros fake? Who can be trusted when the cordate are bitter rivals?