Sotheby's Antiquity Sale

When Roman Statues Play Pranks

NEW YORK - It is the ultimate paradox in the culture of our time. As Greek and Latin studies decline in the Western education system, admiration for Roman sculpture and the fascination with its rediscovery in the Renaissance age - which changed the course of European art forever - keep rising.

Take Sotheby's stupendous sale of antiquities last week. Few imagined that buyers would go nuts on seeing a damaged marble bust of Athena dating from the second century A.D. Scholars might have been expected to get mildly excited on learning that this Roman copy of a lost Greek original of the late fifth century B.C. is the only one known to have been carved as a bust. The other eight recorded versions are, or belonged to, larger standing statues. But when it comes to picking up the bill, collectors do not normally take kindly to a badly smashed nose, nor to breaks as awkward as those that could be seen around the shoulders of Athena.

What apparently made the difference between moderate interest and uncontrollable desire would hardly have caused a ripple a decade ago. In the catalog, Florent Heintz, Sotheby's remarkable expert who is a historian by training, dwelt on the fact that the most famous of all Roman copies of the Greek original is "The Athena Giustiniani," now in the Vatican Museum. In 1631, it stood in the palace of Cardinal Giustiniani, who was the most prominent collector of Roman Antiquities in Europe at the time.

In an inspired move, Mr. Heintz ran at the top of his catalog entry a quote from Goethe's "Die Reise nach Italien" (Italian Journey). The German writer lyrically describes the exultation he experienced as he gazed at the statue in the Palazzo Giustiniani on Feb. 13, 1787.

Somehow, the aura of the grandest Roman copy of the Greek statue, once owned by a 17th-century cardinal and admired by Goethe, was transferred to the damaged bust. Sotheby's hoped that Athena might be knocked down between $600,000 and $900,000. It quadrupled the highest expectations as it made $4,114,500 with the sale charge.

This extravaganza served as a grand overture to usher in two sculptures at the heart of the most extraordinary rediscovery made in the past five decades.

In January, the photograph of a marble torso of a Roman figure landed on the desk of Gallus Pesendorfer, deputy director of Sotheby's Vienna office. The parade cuirass carved with the chariot of the Sun god and two winged victories flanking a trophy show that the monumental fragment was once part of an imperial statue of the first century A.D.

The photograph was submitted by the descendants of a 19th-century collector, Wilhelm Aloys Maximilian Neumann. The interior of the family mansion in the town of Graz, Austria, was being redesigned and the owners wanted to sell. How much was it worth? Mr. Pesendorfer dispatched the file to Mr. Heintz, who valued the imperial torso at $600,000-900,000. The collector's descendants gladly agreed.

Meanwhile, some crucial background information had emerged. Shortly before the advancing Russian Army entered Austria at the end of World War II, the sculpture was shoved into the narrow space separating two sets of doors between adjoining rooms in anticipation of possible looting. The doors were plastered over, and there the torso lay, forgotten by all until they were torn down in the course of the redesigning of the house.

It further transpired that the owners' father had told them how the torso was acquired. Their ancestor bought it around 1857 from another collector in the town of Split in present-day Croatia. The initial owner had indicated that the sculpture came from the Roman site of Salona, now Solin, five kilometers, or about three miles, from Split. It had been discovered with another torso, today preserved in the Zagreb Archaeological Museum. The close stylistic connection between the two carvings makes the story entirely credible.

Mr. Heintz felt no need to travel. The authenticity of the sculpture was evident and a consignment contract was promptly signed.

What the Sotheby's expert with all his experience could not guess from a photograph was the formidable impact of the sculpture. With an impeccable sense of mise-en-scène, Sotheby's set it up at the end of the hall where contemporary art was on view in early May. Its majesty was overwhelming. On June 11, the Roman imperial torso made $7.36 million.

Actually, the price is not quite as wild as it seems. The chances of finding another imperial torso from an identified archaeological site are slim. Add that the torso left Austria with an export license duly delivered, and the chances sink to zero. Regrettably, the names of the bright guys who allowed out of Austria a phenomenal work of art that should have gone straight to the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna are mentioned nowhere.

Part two of what should be known in the future as "The Neumann Sculptures, An Ancient Roman Comedy" is even more hilarious.

As Mr. Pesendorfer was leaving the Neumann residence after inspecting the torso, the deputy director routinely asked whether there was anything else that had belonged to the owners' ancestor. Nothing, he heard, except for a terrible 19th-century plaster cast of some Laocoon group. The auction-house man wished to see that as well. And so it was that a sculptural group covered in soot and dead spiders was dragged out of a recess concealed by a monumental commode. Mr. Pesendorfer ran his finger over the dingy surface. This was marble, not plaster.

Three grimacing satyrs struggling to fight off a serpent entwined around their legs, indeed looked like a parody of the famous Laocoon group dug up in Rome in 1506. The sculpture, too, had been bought in Split from the same anonymous collector by Neumann. The 19th-century "plaster cast," elevated to the more exalted status of "a marble group, Roman Imperial (circa first century A.D.)" was likewise consigned to Sotheby's for the sale scheduled on June 11.

Here, however, things get complicated. In the catalog, Mr. Heintz recognizes in the Neumann sculpture a marble group of three satyrs fighting a serpent, described in a letter which was written by the banker Nofri Tornabuoni on Jan. 31, 1489. Tornabuoni was one of the two agents who negotiated the group on behalf of Lorenzo de Medici, the passionate collector and patron of the arts who ruled Florence. Another letter dated Feb. 13, 1489 and signed by the other agent, Luigi da Barberino, also mentions the group.

But is the Neumann piece really the same as the sculpture cited in 1489? Its handling irresistibly calls to mind the manner of Florentine sculpture reviving the Ancient Roman style in the age of Michelangelo. Mr. Heintz himself admits that his first reaction was to think of Renaissance sculpture.

Two sets of considerations nevertheless convinced him that the Neumann group is the one cited in the 1489 letters. One is the details provided about the missing arms as well as the dimensions (although bear in mind that these were given in imprecise measurements) and the other is the physical character of the stone, typical of many Roman sculptures.

Sceptics will object that working in the Roman manner, mythological subjects included, was standard practice in Florence, and finding an appropriate stone to pass off a pastiche as the real thing would have been child's play.

Mr. Heintz notes in the catalog that Michelangelo carved around 1490-1492 a marble relief of the "Battle of the Centaurs" in which he "used parts" of the Graz group. This raises the question: could the Neumann group be a superb pastiche of ancient sculpture reflecting the Florentine perception of Roman art?

And, for those who like to dream, might the Neumann group have seen the light of day in Michelangelo's studio?

While majority opinion among scholars currently concurs with Mr. Heintz in accepting the Ancient Roman character of the Neumann group, there are still some naysayers. And academia has an entertaining way of making 180-degree about-turns every so often.

Last week bidders suffered no qualms. The Neumann group was valued at $300,000 to 500,000, a timid estimate if this really is a Roman sculpture once owned by Lorenzo de Medici. The three satyrs dutifully wiggled their way up to $3,442,500.

Bear in mind that satyrs in Ancient Rome liked nothing better than fooling humans.