Chasing Aphrodite (17 page)

They also mingled gingerly with the East Coast glitterati. Overweight, outgoing, and at times pushy to the point of obnoxiousness, Larry disliked the pretentiousness of the collecting crowd, particularly its tendency to favor the opinion of academics over self-taught connoisseurs such as himself. Art, he preached, should be accessible to everyone. For Barbara, the preferred art form was theater, which she had majored in at college. Though petite, she had a presence that could fill a room, and she was far more comfortable than Larry navigating Manhattan's elite social circles. Yet she retained the midwestern touch. When she threw one of her splendid parties, she refused to have it catered and instead made all the food herself.

By 1982, when Larry became sole owner of the Kennedy Galleries, he stopped collecting American art to avoid any conflict of interest that might result from competing with his customers. But he couldn't shake the collecting bug. The Fleischmans began selling off their American art, reaping a windfall on Edward Hopper watercolors they had bought for $500 that were now going for one hundred times that amount. With the profits, they bought Greek and Roman antiquities. Larry haunted the Met's antiquities department for advice on acquisitions. He regularly picked the brain of assistant curator Maxwell "Max" Anderson and took stern advice from Anderson's boss, Dietrich von Bothmer. His buying power often exceeded that of the Met, a fact that allowed Larry to learn about pieces before either of the Met curators. He developed a direct line to Robert Hecht, whom Larry regarded as an archaeological genius and a mercurial character. He did most of his buying, however, from Robin Symes of London. The flashy high-end dealer represented exactly the kind of mean-spirited arrogance that Fleischman abhorred, but Symes consistently came up with the best stuff. Like others, the Fleischmans came under the spell of the dazzling presentations Symes staged for preferred customers in his private studio. There he often unveiled his best merchandise by sweeping aside a velvet curtain to reveal a dramatically lit object mounted in the center of the showroom.

As they had with American art, the Fleischmans bought only those antiquities that appealed to them personally. They favored artifacts related to everyday life—mirrors, bracelets, weights. They steered clear of objects that glorified war and chased other, more idiosyncratic pieces that reflected Barbara's love of the theater, such as pottery decorated with dramatic masks of Dionysus. All the items had to be small enough to fit in the custom-built alcoves of their Manhattan apartment. Larry doted endlessly on the collection, often getting up to dust or rearrange the pieces in the middle of the night when he was restless. By 1990, although concerns about the illicit antiquities trade were growing, the collection was so impressive that academics and curators from around the country regularly made pilgrimage to United Nations Plaza to study the Fleischmans' menagerie of small masterpieces.

"Larry Fleischman has bought up nearly every great piece available recently," Princeton University Art Museum curator J. Michael Padgett wrote to one of True's deputies at the Getty. "I have to admire the way he has stretched himself to get the great things while he can."

As for the provenance of his artifacts, Larry showed little interest in finding out where the things came from or how they arrived on the market. "Everything comes from somewhere," he would say with a shrug. His main criteria were whether the objects were authentic and beautiful. He did take some precautions: he never bought objects in Italy or Greece, and eventually he started making dealers sign a one-page form guaranteeing that they had been legally exported. But Larry, like most antiquities collectors, knew that if he dug much deeper, he might get into trouble.

The Fleischmans' relationship with True and the Getty grew stronger in 1991 when the couple flew to Los Angeles to participate in a symposium on Greek marbles led by True. Larry left California impressed with the curator's poise and acumen. He knew that the Met was looking for a replacement for von Bothmer, who had retired from his curator position the year before. Fleischman supported Met director Philippe de Montebello's interest in hiring True as the new head of the Greek and Roman department. The Met's wooing of True sparked a bidding war that the Getty won when it promised the curator a raise, a trust-financed low-interest loan to buy a Santa Monica condo, and a future promotion.

That same year, Fleischman turned to True for help with a personal problem. Despite outward appearances, he was hurting financially, having lost money in a bad gamble on petroleum stocks. An economic downturn was also dragging down his art business and real estate investments. He needed some quick cash, a sale that he considered a "surgical strike." He wanted to know whether True and the Getty would like to buy a collection of ancient jewelry and a group of eight second-century
B.C.
Hellenistic objects. His price was firm: $5.5 million.

True urged her bosses to make the deal. "There is no question that each of these objects is of exceptional quality and importance," she wrote in an acquisition proposal to John Walsh. "Any one of these pieces would be a welcomed addition to the collection. The possibility to purchase all together is an extraordinary opportunity."

She noted that moving so quickly would leave foreign governments little if any time to respond to the inquiries that the Getty's 1987 antiquities policy required. But that wasn't much of a concern, True told Walsh. Scholars from all over the world had studied the Fleischman collection. "I think it is unlikely that the inquiries should raise any problems," True said. The deal went through.

From then on, when business brought True to New York, she often stayed with the couple free of charge. Accepting favors or gifts from someone with whom the Getty did business was expressly prohibited by the museum's conflict of interest policy. After all, the Getty was relying on True's unbiased judgment in matters such as its $5.5 million purchase from the Fleischmans. Yet the Fleischmans were also potential donors to the museum and close friends of True's. Indeed, they were fast becoming the worldly, sophisticated parents True never had. She often dropped their names in conversations with colleagues.

True informed Walsh about her relationship with the couple. He encouraged it. Perhaps it might lead to something bigger for the museum.

T
HERE WAS REASON
to hope. Larry Fleischman hinted that he didn't expect to keep his antiquities forever. Collectors, he often said, were just stewards of artifacts for the next generation.

From Los Angeles to London, curators had their eye on the Fleischman collection, but the assumption within the museum world was that the valuable objects adorning the couple's apartment were bound for the Met. Larry and Barbara had extended their largesse from American art to the museum's classics department, helping revive a dormant fundraising support group called the Philodoroi, which included Arthur Ochs "Punch" Sulzberger, the publisher of the
New York Times.
They had ponied up $1.5 million to help establish a position in von Bothmer's honor upon his retirement. And during the Met's exhibition of antiquities owned by Wall Street hedge fund manager Leon Levy and his socialite wife, Shelby White, the Fleischmans even underwrote the cost of a seminar for the event.

In 1993, von Bothmer's recently appointed successor, Carlos Picón, quickly turned his attention to negotiating a temporary exhibit of the Fleischman collection. The show not only would give the museum a new draw for the public, but it also would give the Fleischmans a glimpse of the future, subtly demonstrating how the objects might someday look in Met display cases with donor cards bearing the couple's names. In addition, the show would yield a bonus for the collectors: an illustrated catalogue of their collection. The Fleischmans had grown weary of enthusiasts tromping through their apartment to ogle their art. An exhibit catalogue would be a handy way for Larry to let academics see what he owned without having to open his front door. It would also create the appearance of a legitimate provenance for a collection whose objects had no documented history.

True was unaware of the Met's plans when she approached the couple about displaying their pieces at the Getty, but she was undaunted when she found out. She offered the Getty as cosponsor and the West Coast venue for the exhibit. Plans soon mushroomed to include the Cleveland Museum of Art and Boston's MFA. Six months into the planning, however, arrangements for the Met opening blew up. The dapper Picón called Larry Fleischman into his office to discuss a new wrinkle. Despite the beauty of the pieces, he said, the museum couldn't find a corporate sponsor willing to underwrite the exhibit. If the Fleischmans wanted the exhibit to go forward, they'd have to pay for staffing and advertising the event, as well as donate twelve of their best antiquities up-front.

Fleischman was stunned. In business and art, he was renowned for being a fierce, even belligerent, negotiator. But once he made a deal, he always kept his word. In his view, Picón was trying to strong-arm him into paying for everything and then make a donation as well.

"I can't afford to pay for all of this," he said, pointedly reminding Picón that he had already offered to pay for the inaugural dinner party and photography for the exhibit. "This is totally inappropriate. If we end up paying for all this, that makes it nothing more than a vanity exhibit."

The spat was an embarrassment for the Met. One of the museum's biggest backers was now griping to others in the field. When MFA antiquities curator John Herrmann went to the Fleischmans' apartment to study the objects in anticipation of the show, Larry complained, "I have a wonderful collection, and I don't have to give a chunk of it away to get a good showing."

Not long after the Met was eliminated from the lineup, the MFA pulled out. Museum director Alan Shestack vetoed the exhibit. He knew Larry as a crafty dealer, one who surely understood that a public exhibit would almost certainly increase the value of his pieces, which could then be sold off or donated for great personal gain. Shestack suspected that Fleischman had a business deal up his sleeve.

The stumble by the Met and withdrawal by the MFA opened the door wider for the Getty. True jumped through, promising that if the Getty was designated as lead institution, it would pay all the costs.

O
N OPENING NIGHT
of the Fleischman exhibit in October 1994, more than two hundred VIPs assembled in the Getty's gardens before walking through galleries displaying nearly two hundred objects dating to the period 2600
B.C.
to
A.D.
400.

Larry Fleischman was delighted with the catalogue—a 358-page hardcover volume printed on glossy paper and wrapped in an ocher jacket cover featuring one of the couple's favorite pieces, an Etruscan roof ornament depicting two satyrs. The catalogue was filled with large color photos and entries based on research conducted by Getty staff and Larry's part-time curator, Ariel Herrmann, former wife of the MFA's antiquities curator.

True didn't stop there. Seizing on Barbara Fleischman's fondness for the theater, the Getty curator arranged for a number of Greek plays to be performed on a replica of an ancient Greek stage built in the museum's inner peristyle. Comedies by Menander and Plautus, along with musical compositions specifically written for the exhibit, were performed by actors wearing costumes modeled on Fleischman bronzes or vase paintings. True also arranged for a series of exhibitrelated lectures, including one given by Larry Fleischman on the subject of collecting. In a sometimes stumbling speech, Larry—who was known for his frequent mispronunciations and spoonerisms—led the audience through a slide presentation of his favorite pieces.

More than 100,000 people came to the exhibit before it moved on to Cleveland. The reviews were glowing. On October 18, 1994, the
Los Angeles Times
declared it "hands down, the best thing of its kind we've seen in living memory" and the "sort of event the public should embrace and artniks revere." The
Christian Science Monitor
heaped praise on True's tasteful arrangement of the objects. Taking a cue from how they were displayed in the Fleischmans' apartment, True had placed them thematically throughout the Getty, rather than grouping them more traditionally by culture or era.

The Fleischmans were thoroughly charmed. They had finally gotten their catalogue and the recognition they wanted. For all the hoopla, the incident that left the deepest impression came as the Fleischmans and True were walking to the auditorium for Larry's lecture. They met a group of ten-year-old schoolchildren, who began peppering him with questions: How did you get all these things? Where did you store them? What will you do with them?

Suddenly, one boy called out, "Mr. Fleischman! Is this about the best thing that has ever happened to you?"

"Yes," the collector said, laughing. "It surely is."

N
OT EVERYONE WAS
tickled. The exhibit and the Getty's relationship with the Fleischmans drew protests from archaeologists, who accused the museum of glorifying the fruits of the looted antiquities trade. More than 85 percent of the objects on display had no documented ownership history, a good indication that they had been recently looted.

The Getty came in for scorching criticism from Boston University archaeologist Ricardo Elia, who accused the museum of helping the Fleischmans legitimize their loot, which could now be sold off at higher prices or donated for major tax deductions. He also accused officials at the Getty and the Cleveland Museum of Art of cozying up to the collectors in hopes of obtaining the collection down the road.

"Collectors create the demand for antiquities and provide, however indirectly, the financing for lootings," Elia wrote in an October 1994 opinion piece for the
Art Newspaper.
"The link between collecting and looting is so strong that it is no exaggeration to say ... that collectors are the real looters."

Elia had good reason for his suspicion that the Getty was after the Fleischman collection. Getty management and board members were well aware that the Fleischmans were potential major donors. True and other senior Getty officials took the Fleischmans on a tour of the museum to explain the planned renovation, which would transform the Getty Villa in Malibu into the nation's first museum dedicated exclusively to antiquities. The museum's hope was obvious: the collectors would be so impressed with the plans being spun out by their dear friend that they would agree to donate some of their antiquities to the Getty.