the art of selling art

JULIUS MEIER-GRAEFE

a distinguished german authority explains the methods and modus operandi of european dealers

Dealing in art as a business is nearly as old as the passion for art itself. If faith may be placed in the diary of the Englishman John Evelyn, who visited the Rotterdam market in 1641, the trade even at that time had a strong capitalistic tendency. Canny rich peasants bought up large numbers of pictures on speculation for sums amounting to $25,000 to $30,000—at the values of today.

The present form of the art trade originated in England. Sothby & Co. was founded in 1744, Colnaghi in 1760; the firms of Agnew and Christy are also over a hundred years old. The greatest of them all, Duveen, is of recent origin.

Until recently Turner and Constable and the Barbizon school marked the extreme limit of modernity in the English art trade. Since the war—due to the influence of Parisian dealers, especially the young and energetic Etienne Bignou—the modern French artists have been included.

The Paris market, which at present is becoming more and more a huge export centre, relies on the universal importance of French art. In the Nineties the trade, in Paris, centred in the streets around the Hotel Drouot, the official auction house; and the rue Lafitte harboured (besides the Banque Rothschild), the principal dealers handling present day art. Coming from the Boulevard, the first store was the little establishment of old Bernheim, who only after considerable hesitation turned towards the Impressionists, then Vollard's shop, a single room with two show windows, which always gave the impression of moving day. The Cezannes and Gauguins stood against the walls by the dozen and the visitor had to take care not to put his foot through a masterpiece. Then came DurandRuel's house, which extended through to the next street; then a few more small shops, among them Moline's, who in the old days bought Constantin Guys at twenty francs a dozen and from whom I purchased Chahut by Seurat for two hundred francs, a picture which is now in the Kröller-Müller collection in the Hague and which, at the present prices of Seurats, would fetch $150,000. On the other side of the street were Camentron, who often had Daumiers; Pellet, Lautrec's agent, and others. In the neighbourhood, rue de Provence, corner of rue Chauchat, beckoned the new façade of the Art Nouveau decorated by Brangwyn. Here old Bing, formerly dealer in Japanese goods, tried to market the neoimpressionists, Tiffany glasses, and other modern objects of art.

The connoisseurs of Manet's generation browsed around in this section. Shops with older French works, especially engravings, were everywhere. The left bank of the Seine up to Montparnasse was crowded with them. Here the dealers had no idea what went on in the rue Lafitte. In 1895 one of the dealers showed me a pastel by Degas with dancers. In order to justify his price of 800 francs, which he considered high, he told me that the painter was highly esteemed on the other side of the river. Whoever had time could pick up in this section sketches and watercolours by Delacroix at absurd prices. Earlier the Goncourts had found Fragonards, Bouchers and St. Aubins here. The tiny shops often consisted of a few stands with portfolios, just as in the time of Daumier, who painted such interiors and what took place within them.

From 1914 and during the war the centre shifted to the rue la Boétie and the adjacent parts of the faubourg St. Honoré, and the rue Lafitte is now deserted. The three or four largest dealers have built their own houses, whose comfort has been adapted to the continuous bull market in art and the many American customers. Nearly all the large firms have branches in New York.

Although the big dealers are not excessively popular with their more modest colleagues, it cannot be said of them that they swallow up the little fellows. Resourcefulness and skill are always the best capital in this business and prestige does, not depend upon the elegance of the shop, but on the quality of the stock. The goods are there and discriminating customers are there, who know what they want. The new part of the Louvre sings the praises of the Parisian art dealers, for in the Louvre so many private collections find their ultimate resting place. The collections Thomy-Thierry and Camondo and the later one of Pellerin are for the most part the work of individual dealers whom the collectors trusted.

The heroic epoch is over. The domestic purchasers of to-day are rarely connoisseurs who are driven solely by the fanaticism of the collector, they are careful and calculating business men. Since the death of old Henry Rouart, whom no offer could tempt to dispose of the smallest object in his collection, and since the passing of his concierge, who was a passionate collector of Daumiers and who also refused to give up his beautiful sketches and watercolours, that sort of Parisian collector has become legendary. But, if the amateurs .trade in art more or less shamefacedly, the dealers are amateurs too.

I know only a few dealers of importance who would market sardines or soap with equal success. Every Parisian art dealer who respects himself has a private collection. It is often in an aristocratic part of the city or as an annex to a branch shop in the country with higher prices, but scarcely less stable than the possession of most of the official collectors and is continually added to. One of the guarantees of the market rests on this custom. The dealers' exhibition arranged last year gives a good idea of it. Thirty-six Parisian dealers sent works of the 19th and 20th Centuries from their private collections. There could easily have been ten such exhibitions.

In Berlin there is an essential difference due to the colonial origin of the city, and this has not even yet been overcome. It is true that a Berlin school of art worthy of great respect has existed for a hundred years, but it was created for a quite different and much smaller Berlin and doesn't begin to satisfy the needs of the metropolis. An extraordinarily large percentage of art works comes from elsewhere, mostly from Paris. Importation is Berlin's pride and its weakness. It furnishes all sorts of beautiful things, but it hinders the development of the qualities of native craftsmanship common in Paris. The German dealer lives in a sleeping car and employs his energy in every possible way, but, even if he could be in Paris every week, he could but rarely reach the sources open to the Parisian dealers. As buyer he cannot seriously compete with his Parisian colleagues, for he is as dependent upon them for current business as a Berlin style shop is upon the great Parisian couturiers. As a result there is a great demand for money and, in order to buy cheaply, cash must be paid. Formerly it was different. Until the outbreak of the war, Paul Cassirer, at that time the most prominent dealer, could acquire the finest Manet on a commission basis and could sell for scarcely more than the Paris prices. Without paying an advance, he was silent partner of Durand-Ruel and others. England was not yet in the market; America and other countries were just beginning; Germany was the best customer.

German galleries were ahead of all others, even the French ones. This halo also benefited Cassirer's colleagues, who flirted with Paris. So long as these pleasant relations lasted, one mistake on the part of the German trade remained unnoticed. The dealers rarely considered the future and failed to invest their profits in goods. The war is not entirely to blame. It is due to the method of buying.

Thirty years ago the city had two art stores, and these carried only German pictures. At present there are in the western part of Berlin whole streets of art dealers. War and inflation demonstrated the usefulness of art as an investment. While the Government securities shrank to nothing, the value of French paintings doubled and trebled. There is no lack of courage and talent among German dealers, and there are a few good connoisseurs. But the majority are amateurs and speculate on accidents.

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In the last few years important Berlin firms have markedly increased the quality of their objects and invested large sums in stock. The limit of the attainable is almost reached. The essential restriction is due to the retrospective direction of the demand. Every great Paris dealer has, beside the works of the past, the present with him also. As old Durand-Ruel had (besides Corot, Delacroix, etc.), Manet, Renoir and Monet, Vollard had his Cezannes and Gauguins; the Bernheims, Paul Rosenberg, Guillaume, had their impressionists, their Bonnards, Picassos, Braques, Segonzacs, Derains and many others. And they haven't had these younger painters only since they became famous—and expensive. This is the kernel of the problem. The German dealer thinks of art, not of the artist. A young painter must make something of himself with the Germans, dining and dancing with rich people and losing his time over the intrigues of the exhibitions and museums. But in Paris the dealer makes him, particularly the small dealer. The big ones take him up only after a shorter or longer preparation. Every artist who is anybody, or might be, finds his manager. This mustn't be taken as idealism. The young painter delivers the goods under severe conditions. He receives the price for his materials plus his necessary expenses. All artists begin in this way. The small dealers have small customers, the large dealers large ones. The artist grows slowly and dealers and purchasers grow with him.

In Germany, an artist only begins to exist when lie's a little god,—and then they make him a Professor. As modest prices are considered undignified, the German artist prefers not to sell at all and piles up pictures in his studio. This difference is significant.

The German trade can at present less than ever do without domestic production, if it wishes to attain a reasonable balance. I would be the last to object to the imports from France, but we are discussing trade, not art. Does anyone think it possible to keep up with the increase of the French prices, which are still far from reaching their highest level; and will the business pay much longer in view of the enormous competition? Even the works of long recognized German masters, with the exception of Liebermann, are seldom met with in the trade; partly because their material has been absorbed by the many German museums, partly because even important artists like the deceased Corinth have given way to the French painters of the present day. Only a few of the many dealers are interested in The still unclassified German painters. To gain international recognition of German art is the problem, in Germany, of the future. It is perhaps not insoluble.