INCHOATE THOUGHTS
Each March, the MECC—a huge
trade show site under a single roof in Maastricht in the southern
Netherlands—becomes a self-contained fantasy world of art. For ten days it
houses the European Fine Art Fair—TEFAF—which its organizers claim, probably with some justification,
is the largest and most important art fair in the world.
The wares brought by the dealers
to the stands they rent and decorate at great expense are rigorously vetted. No
vetting committee at other fairs approaches the distinction of the TEFAF Old
Master Paintings Vetting Committee. Its membership is over twenty strong, and
comprises museum grandees—directors, both sitting and emeritus, and
curators—who among them boast something approaching a thousand years of
artworld experience. Some have been committee members from the very beginning;
others appear once only. Somewhat to my surprise, I have been what in Dutch is
termed a keurmeester (literally
“choice-master”) since 1994.
Over the course of two days,
with the dealers absent, we move from stand to stand, looking for anomalies. We
pass over the good stuff with little more than a glance: our attention is
supposed to be directed at the problems. “Call that a Velázquez (or a
Rembrandt, or a Master of the Dead Parrot)? No way!”—and we gather round,
examine it, downgrade it (“Attributed to the Master of the Dead Parrot…”) or
give it the pink slip, and it’s out. Two conservators are on hand to shine
their powerful lamps on suspect paintings, giving them the third degree. If
there’s too much new paint hiding old damage, it’s a goner.
Dealers can appeal, and defend
their questioned paintings to the committee, which reconsiders its earlier
decision, sometimes confirming it, sometimes rescinding it. This is not a
perfect system, but the committee is excellently chaired, and the process is
probably as fair as any that could be devised. The idea is not to settle
academic disputes about the attributions of works of art, but to give the
buying visitor confidence that the descriptions of the things they see are
reasonable.
I have learned to wear
comfortable shoes—slip-on suede leather clogs—because sauntering from stand to
stand from nine in the morning until seven at night, with only a short break
for lunch, takes its toll on the feet. In the last couple of years we have been
accompanied by two servers who dispense refreshments appropriate to the hour from
a cart. In this world apart, the appearance of juice, coffee, tea, or wine, by
turn, is the only vague indication of what time of day it might be. I’m
invariably amazed by the stamina of my older colleagues: scholars in their
sunset years who trudge uncomplainingly from picture to picture, making
piercingly acute observations, while relative youngsters like me wilt while
searching for the nearest seat for a moment’s respite.
The appeals continue into a
third day until the press is admitted. Then at noon the opening party begins.
Glitzy collectors from all over the world arrive in throngs to pick up bargains
while seeing and being seen, sipping Saint Emilion and grazing on endless
canapés for the next nine hours. Eventually, champagne is poured into row upon
row of flutes on bar tops—not ersatz, but the real juice of the Widow. I make a
discreet grab for a corner glass, beaded bubbles winking at the brim, only to
be reprimanded by the server: “Not until five o’clock!” (It’s ten of.) How
unspeakable! How Dutch! “But by then it will be warm,” I riposte before
withdrawing.
But there are people, people,
people: dealers and collectors, museum scholars and flâneurs (“You’re so elegant! How chic! Did you hear who bought the
Michelangelo, and for so much? No!
Really?”) An adviser to a New York collector, miffed that his employer has been
beaten to a star painting by a celebrated collecting couple from Boston,
wonders whether he should buy a charming little Circumcision (a drawing) for
himself. It’s a snip. The good pieces, priced in the millions (euros,
dollars—who cares?) find buyers. The very rich remain very rich, and are
looking for secure investments, which, if attractive, serve another purpose,
too; so blue chip Old Master paintings—not the equivocal, inflated contemporary
stuff—hold steady. The dealers, unsure beforehand how things might turn out,
are relieved.
After eight hours, I meet my
dinner companions and leave, but am back the next day for another eight hours.
By the time I get on the train to Amsterdam I’m glad to be on my way home, yet
I wouldn’t willingly miss TEFAF for anything. Next into the MECC, after the
fantasy world of art from ancient Egypt to Andy Warhol has dissolved, will be—I
guess—a trade show of agricultural machinery. Such is commerce.