The Art of Ownership vs. The Art of The Steal

The Art of Ownership vs. The Art of The Steal

On a winter day in 1923, an exhibit opened in the heart of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Hanging on the walls were pieces of art by Auguste Renoir, Paul Cezanne, Pablo Picasso and others. The exhibit was a masterpiece 30 years in the making. At the center of this exhibit was Albert C. Barnes; a wealthy doctor who discovered a synthetic material to reduce the number of venereal diseases in infants. After years of steeping in the art communities of Paris and London, Barnes had returned to his home in Philadelphia with a collection of art that would usher in the great wave of Post-Impressionist and Modern art into the United States. The doors in downtown Philadelphia were opened wide. No one came. Art critics would later describe the art exhibited as “primitive,” “nasty,” and “unpleasant.”
From that day on, a mild mannered doctor turned from an art lover into an art controversy that is almost 100 years in the making. It is important to survey the events that transpired in which the Barnes collection was purchased, exhibited, hid, hung, stolen, reclaimed and then auctioned off. Through that survey, many questions can be raised on a legal, ethical, moral and spiritual level. The intention of this paper is to disclose the events that transpired in the life of the Barnes foundation, evaluate the ethics of business interfering with the art process, and to discuss the concept of what it means to own something. Furthermore, the documentary The Art of the Steal will also be referenced, as the film has interviewed most of the parties involved.
Alfred Barnes has always been a curious man to art historians. His life was spent in a low class portion of Philadelphia where he worked hard to put himself through school by participating in boxing matches. He became rich after discovering a safer synthetic of silver nitrate. And as his popularity and prestige grew, so did his circle of friends. He became involved with art through a friend, who introduced him to Henri Matisse and other influential artists. As his interest in art grew he began purchasing art in excess. He began with the founders of post-impressionism and modernism; Renoir and Cezanne, but quickly added several influential artists to his collection. Quickly, he had one of the most ambitious private collections of any American citizen.
Ethically and morally, it’s impossible to place a value on what the collection is worth. From an art historian’s viewpoint, Matisse’s Joy of Life completely reorganized how art was devised with his use of complimentary colors. It seems like such a simple thing to contemporary eyes, but the Joy of Life is the genesis of many elements and principles of design. That, ethically, cannot be given a dollar value. But it is important to recognize that the piece itself has a categorized value. It must be this way, if not; there is no reason for it to exist.
It is surprising to note that most artists are befuddled by their own success. Artists create from a realm just beyond human understanding, and cleverly translate their concept into an art object that can be seen. But it seems to rarely occur to many artists that there may be social success to making such art-objects. And because these aesthetic experiences are successful, the next logical step is to preserve the art-object so that the viewership of it can continue indefinitely. The most important way to preserve the art-object is to give a monetary value to it that ensures it will be secured and preserved for as long as possible. Investment is the bulletproof glass that encircles the art from neglect and ruination. Artists, for an unknown reason, struggle with that concept. But the money that is exchanged in order to possess the object is merely a legal transaction. The exchange of money only gives the buyer the responsibility to uphold the art-object’s standards of preservation. Ownership of the art is an entirely different thing.
In no uncertain terms, the viewer of the art owns the art. The act of looking morally purchases access to the intimacy that the art is trying to express to one viewer, at one time, in one space, for one purpose. If individuals cease to look at any particular piece of art, it ceases to have value; both monetary and morally. Also, it ceases to fulfill its duty as an art-object. The act of looking at art is tricky, because there are no standards for looking at art. Anyone can do it; poor, rich, ignorant, educated, man, woman, deaf, paralyzed. And many scholars claim that those who look at art with ignorant eyes are, in effect, ruining the art. Those ignorant people are also referenced in The Art of the Steal, they are those who understand the politics of posing as art-aficionados but when it comes to art, they look through it; not at it. This is not an uncommon notion, Elizabeth Prettejohn references her colleagues who say:
“they [the ignorant viewer] read into the forms of the work those facts and ideas for which they are capable of feeling emotion, and feel for them the emotions that they can feel- the ordinary emotions of life… Instead of going out on the stream of art into a new world of aesthetic experience, they turn a sharp corner and come straight home to the world of human interest. For them the significance of a work of art depends on what they bring to it; no new thing is added to their lives, only the old material is stirred.” (Prettejohn, pg 173)
This is not ownership of the art, this is renting it out for a while. The art-object is present for all to see, it gives every viewer a shot at doing something new with their past experience and their perception of the world. Whether the viewer accepts the invitation, is only known to the viewer. Even though many may see it, only a few truly own it.
Even though the viewer owns the art, the man responsible for the art was in control. Once Barnes returned back to his home town of Philadelphia, he exhibited the art in 1923. After the poor showing and bad reviews, Barnes was devastated and quickly closed the exhibit. He then instigated a plan where he would store the artworks in a building he would erect and turn into a school. Thus the Barnes Foundation was made. A building was erected, the art was hung, and students and teachers were selected. After a few years passed, America caught up with the European trend of art and people became vastly interested in the work that Barnes had acquired. Remembering bitterly how the work was initially received, Barnes guarded his collection jealously, and only allowed his students to view it. Two days out of the week, Barnes opened the foundation to the public, only allowing a few people in at a time, and mostly just upon initiation. He wanted to preserve the reverent nature of looking at art. And in order to do that, he felt he needed to reduce the frequency and number of times the art could be viewed.
The art is arranged in a curious way in the gallery. It is hung in the salon style, meaning that the art is hung from knee to ceiling. Other objects aside from the paintings are hung alongside, such as key locks and trinket boxes. Furniture and sculpture fill the room. It’s critical to note that when art is hung in this way, it means that the viewer is no longer having an organic experience. The reception of the art is glazed over by the interpretation of those who hung the exhibit. It is clear to the viewer of The Art of the Steal that the way Barnes hung the work was as important as the work itself. One patron discusses the act of roaming the Barnes gallery as “He arranged it in a way that makes the art speak to one another.” The issue that is raised is that art should not speak to one another: it should speak to the viewer. In the documentary, a former teacher discusses the fact that other museums with white walls offer what is known as a “shopping experience” where people who know nothing about art can pretend to patronize. That statement seems like fact, but is in actuality an opinion that is not commonly shared among the high-art community.
White walls, wood floors and nothing else facilitates a space where nothing comes presupposed. In that lack of presupposition, the art viewer is liberated to interpret and feel as they choose. Barnes’ gallery does the work of interpreting the art for the viewer, so all the viewer really has to do is arrive. The act of seeing things is so often taken for granted. But when individuals take a pilgrimage to see something deliberately, it becomes a sacred experience. Ideally, even the art viewer comes with metaphorical white walls and wood floors within themselves. Theodor Adorno discusses that experience when he says “the spectator must not project what transpires in himself onto the artwork in order to find himself confirmed, uplifted, and satisfied in it, but must, on the contrary, relinquish himself to the artwork, assimilate himself to it, and fulfill the work in its own terms. In other words, he must submit to the discipline of the work rather than demand that the artwork give him something.” (Adorno, pg 255. Italics added.) Yellow walls, key locks, and furniture do not accommodate that sacred experience of looking at something, and fulfilling it on the viewers own terms. This is one of many moments where it is clear that Barnes understood little of what it means to exhibit art. But, of course, at the time of the foundation’s conception, the art still belonged to him, and his aesthetic experience was his to control. Julian Bonds, a friend of Barnes simply stated “It was his art, why couldn’t he do what he wanted?”
After the death of John Johnson and the subsequent theft of his work that was willed to never be moved from his home, Barnes became scared that after his death his art would quickly be sold to inner city museums and his art-experience would be lost. Thus he began drafting a will that would secure the foundation after his death. In the will, he stipulates that the Barnes collection could never be moved from its location at the school, that the gallery could only be opened two days a week to a limited number of patrons, that no art could ever be sold, no art could ever be loaned and that the Barnes Foundation would always remain a school and would not be turned into a museum. An endowment of 10 million dollars was established and the foundation ran off its profits of $200,000 a year. His arch-nemesis was the Annenburgs; owners of the publication the Philadelphia Inquirer and patrons of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Barnes believed the PMA to be “a place for artistic prostitution” and greatly feared that his work would make its way there via the Annenbergs.
On July 24th, 1951 Barnes dies instantly in a car crash much to the dismay of his colleagues. But tears were quickly dried as the fate of the Barnes was now put into question. The collection was passed to Violette Di Mazia, a “disciple” of Barnes who taught French at the academy. She honored the wishes of Barnes and after thirty years, she too passed away. The Annenbergs became hostile toward the foundation and sued them under the pretense that the foundation was abusing their power as a non-profit organization and asked the courts to force the foundation to be turned into a museum. They lost that battle in court. A trustee of the Barnes foundation said that “The Barnes Foundation was a handmade thing in a machine world” which succinctly conveys the feelings that were brewing between the two art communities.
After Di Mazia’s death, the rights to own the collection were given to a board of five trustees, and after the fifth trustee died, the rights to appoint new trustees were given to a college named Lincoln University. The university was under financial difficulties, but nevertheless, ventured to find a board that would work with the foundation. They filled it with many influential art historians, and one lawyer as the president; Richard C. Glanton. Glanton’s business savvy was undeniable and he even indicated that he had no intention of “someone else ruling, while I reigned.” He understood the dire financial straits that plagued the foundation. He discovered the building as unlivable, and that the art was in jeopardy of damage because of it. This inspired him to take several steps that shocked the local art community and the other trustees. At Walter Annenburg’s suggestion, Glanton devised a plan to deaccession a few pieces of art that would be sold in order to bolster the foundation’s dwindling endowment. This was met with great criticism, so he fired the other trustees and hired new ones. When it was seen that it would be a bad political move to sell the art, he suggested that the art be put on tour for two years while the improvements on the Barnes could be made. It was approved, and the Barnes was shut down.
Both of these suggestions were in direct opposition to the will. But when art is put into physical jeopardy, it doesn’t matter. The business of art is the very thing that saves art. The creation of art must have a symbiotic relationship with the business of art as business ensures its destiny, whereas the creation of it ensures its demise. In terms of art conservation and restoration, any beginner in that field can testify that art is made to fall apart. Canvas, oil, tempera, iron, even a urinal is not made to last forever. So it is in the interest of the art to be tagged monetarily and to be auctioned to businesses and other interest groups that deem it expensive enough to invest in. If an investment is made, then capital will be set aside to ensure that the investment is not damaged. That means that it can be preserved for other viewings at other times.
With that in mind, it is clear to see that Glanton did the ethical thing. He didn’t do, perhaps, the legal thing; but certainly the ethical one. On its tour in Paris and Germany, Barnes was “met as the conquering hero” to the art community. And it is well deserved. The art that so many had only seen in poorly reprinted books was now available to them in a museum that could be accessed by all. There is no question that some patrons are caught up in the perception of art-patronage, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that those who deliberately came to see saw what they needed to see. And a man’s selfish will is a simple price to pay for millions to benefit.
In order to solidify this argument, let us consider what would have happened if the Barnes had been left to its own devices. The art would most certainly be ruined, if not destroyed. The natural lighting would pale the art; even oils can’t withstand that much exposure. The canvas would buckle on the stretcher bars and the medium would crack. Millions on top of millions of dollars would have to be invested in order to restore the paintings. Millions they didn’t have. Thus the art would fall into obscurity, the intimate connections that inspired the creation of the art would be forgotten, and the objects would eventually turn back into dust.
Albert Manguel discusses what would happen next perfectly: “If neither metal or marble will last, why not accept their transience as being, in itself, a monument?” He continues with a story Kiplin tells regarding a memorial for a soldier named Kurban Sahib and in order to memorialize him, it was required for one to look at his house. However a traveler indicates: “the house is not there, nor the well, nor the big tank or the fruit trees, nor the cattle. There is nothing at all… the rest is like a desert here –or my hand – or my heart. Empty… all empty!” (Manguel, pg 252) Then Manguel says the most important thing: “Emptiness, as the Romans understood when they razed Carthage, is also a memorial.”
It is clear that emptiness would have been memorialized in the case of the Barnes Foundation, and not the art that could have been saved. The empty rooms, the empty hallways, the empty frames would have all stood as a memorial that one man’s pride trumps a million peoples true intimate ownership. Business is, on many occasions, unethical. It’s unavoidable. Money and ignorant patronage can also contribute to the decline of art. But in this case, business tactics were the only thing that saved the art that needs to be seen.