Rant: Carrion crows of the art world

Rembrandt van Rijn self-portrait, one of two "given" to Spain by the late Baron Hans Heinrich Thyssen-Bornemisza (Wiki Commons)

 


I have been reading, when the spirit moves me, a collection of the late Dominick Dunne's Vanity Fair articles, Fatal Charms and The Mansions of Limbo. I had already read all of his novels, all of those based on real members of either the fabulously wealthy 400 old families in New York City, or the upstart nouveau riche of Hollywood. Dunne had some connection to both those populations.


Dunne was a good writer. And brave. He said OJ was guilty before anyone else did. He also had to insert himself into the events and lifestyles of the rich and infamous to produce his detailed descriptions of how the one-percenter live, just as he had had to attend every revolting minute of the OJ courtroom fiasco.

By the time I was two-thirds through the book, I knew more than anyone has a need to know about robber politicians such as the Ferdinand and Imelda Marcoso, and upstart nobility wannabes such as Claus von Bulow.  Dunne also wrote about the unspeakable Menendez brothers, and Lady Kenmare, who may or may not have hastened the departures from life of four husbands. (Noel Coward thought she had, according to Dunne.) Dunne threw in a few articles about a couple of decent sorts, actress Diane Keaton among them. But still...

Where art enters, so do rogues

And then, last night, I got to the art part: The story of some of the peregrinations of art collector Baron Hans Heinrich Thyssen-Bornemisza.

Who?

Well. Let me tell you. Years ago, I adored Architectural Digest magazine. In my heart of hearts, I wanted to live in one of the houses they profiled. Almost any one of them, really. But I vividly recall the article about Baron Hans Heinrich Thyssen-Bornemisza and his fabulous houses; it was probably the late 1970s or early 1980s when I read that article. Most of the houses in Architectural Digest belong to unspeakably rich people, many of whom are also unspeakably tacky. Perfect Dominick Dunne fodder. And, while I might have hoped to become unspeakably rich myself, tackiness was never one of my life goals.

I say that, doubtless, because I'm hopelessly middle-class. Too bad.

Rich and tacky didn't seem to faze the Thyssen-Bornemiszas, especially when it came to foisting his expenses onto others while extracting coinage from their pockets.

Baron HH Thyssen-Bornemisza (doesn't it sound like a pirate's sailing ship?) had amassed a truly astonishing art collection that he didn't want to be sundered after his death. So he decided to give it to whatever nation was willing to pay him handsomely AND build a brand new, state-of-the-art museum to house it in. Prince Charles paid a visit to the baron's castle trying to get the collection for the UK. The executive director of New York City's Metropolitan Museum approached the baron to try to snag it for his already obscenely overstocked collection; there are more paintings and objets d'art stored in underground passages below the place than are hung on its wall. German Chancellor Helmut Kohl also entered the race. (Note: Dunne said the baron's collection was second only to Her Majesty's, and hers is the greatest in the world.)

In the end, Spain got the collection--probably because the baron's fifth wife was Spanish--and the citizens of Spain got stuck footing the bill for the collection. Granted, they've got back some Goyas and El Grecos that had left the country. But it begs the term "gift" when the nation has to pony up boatloads of cash to acquire the "gift." Isn't that just a purchase? In fact, in this case, it is even worse; it is a rental agreement. According to Dunne, the Spanish government would be paying to the baron's foundation a rental of $5 million for ten years, after which, one supposes, the "gift" would be renegotiated.

Duke of Plaza Toro? (with apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan)

In addition, the baron expected to become a duke as a result of the gift, which would make his commoner wife a baroness.  Baron T-B was already a baron via his first marriage (of five) to a Hungarian baroness and some convoluted hurly-burly to get the title bestowed upon him. Otherwise, he was just little Hans Heinrich Thyssen, son of a robber baron. But robber barons who become so-called hereditary barons are SO much more acceptable in the BEST homes, don't you know? And I suppose similar would pertain to wives of barons of either sort who had started out as beauty queens: Tita Thyssen-Bornemisza had been Miss Spain in 1961. The poor thing had a crown, but no hereditary title.


Regardless of whose offspring are noble and whose are not, the thing that is abundantly clear is that this pack of greedy, self-absorbed humans don't enjoy their wealth of art treasures; they display them and use them to enhance their putative standing amongst other humans of similar ilk. They are, indeed, little better than carrion crows, picking over the remains left by people with bona fide talent and brains, i.e., the artists. On the one hand, they deny the public the opportunity to appreciate great artworks by keeping them behind their own gates; on the other hand, when they figure the pearly gates are the next ones they might see, they entice governments to pay them and their heirs handsomely to return the art to public view.

No set of blackguards is, apparently, more crow-like than the Thyssen-Bornemiszas. Even those who are not of their blood are out for blood. Tita's son by a former spouse, adopted by the baron, sued his mother and lord knows who else, to acquire $7 million worth of paintings from the gifted collection that he said his adoptive father had promised to him. And apparently, the gift was even more convoluted than Dunne knew in the late 1980s, when he was writing about it.

Crowing about art

Indeed, if you click the link above and even skim the article, you'll conclude the only thing possible to conclude:

If these folks lived in the rural United States, shopped at Wal-Mart, ate too much, drank panther-piss beer, hit their wives and lived in mobile homes instead of living in the best cities in Europe, shopping in Paris, eating small portions of foie gras, drinking Cristal champagne, suing each other at the drop of a hat and living in palaces, then the best art they'd have on their walls would be the free calendar from the auto repair shop. Indeed, we would give up our fascination with them fairly quickly.

Postscript: Tonight, if I have the stomach for it, I will get to the article about the auction of the jewels of the Duchess of Windsor.  I might have to go to the hairdresser tomorrow so I can shed the useless and doubtless disgusting gossip I will pick up tonight. Providing anyone remembers who the late and not widely lamented Wallis Warfield Simpson even was, that is.