Aesop's Mirror: A Love Story

Prologue

I am living in the wrong century. Friends joke I was born in a hoopskirt. Every day, I think of what it must have been like to have lived in the past. Even at night I sometimes have vivid dreams in which I am a character in another time, in a different country, where people are dressed in period costumes and wander about rooms furnished in the decor of a featured era. If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I, like most adherents, picture myself not as one of the common folk but as belonging to the higher caste of society. In that tableau, I am among those who patronize the artisans of my time, thus setting the standards of fashion; my peers and I are so on the mark about taste that centuries later people are still enthralled with the pieces we commissioned.

Since a time machine has not been invented, the closest I have come to participating in another age is to surround myself with antiques. My whole career has been spent in the decorative arts. I am a restorer. Touching the surfaces of objects created long ago, I connect to history in a visceral way. When I work on antiques, I get to glimpse several personalities at once: the designer, the artisan, the owners, past and present. The living and the dead are my clients. I consider all of them before I pick up a tool or a brush.

People love antiques for a variety of reasons. At the high end of the field, experts create the market. Investment-minded collectors follow their lead. New discoveries are made more frequently now, when more people than ever collect (everything) and dealers have to make a living. For others, like me, who don’t have a million dollars to spend, appreciation is enough reward.

My niche is American and French decorative arts from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. I am drawn to Americana for its charming simplicity. I love French pieces for their rich ornamentation, sophisticated construction, and use of a wide range of materials. My favorite categories are seating and mirrors. Chairs, both sculptural and practical, are to me the most intimate of all furniture since they are designed to encase the body.

Mirrors are fanciful. As the saying goes, a mirror never lies. They reflect how we feel about ourselves in every possible way. When people, and even animals, put their faces to a mirror, they tend to remain absolutely still for a few seconds. Whenever I’m working on an old mirror, I am amused to think about the variety of characters who once posed before the glass.

Mirrors, once considered precious in every civilization, are now common. As far back as 400 B.C.E., artists were inspired to embellish mirrors with mythological narratives—themes having to do with poetry and love, both exalted and sexual. In ancient Greek divination ceremonies, a small polished steel disk would be lowered on a string into a well. When raised, the mirror was believed to have the power to show the face of the person on whose behalf the ritual was performed. What follows is a story about a mirror I discovered at an auction in Rhode Island. Even in poor condition, the carved figures captivated me. The frame of my mirror depicts a fable—Aesop’s The Fox and the Grapes. In much the same manner as the ancient disk on a string, this particular mirror had a story to tell about the people who owned it.

PART ONE

Treasures of the Past

CHAPTER ONE

A Rhode Island Auction

When people discover I am in the antiques business in New York City, they never hesitate to ask my advice. Often, I am invited to their houses to see what they have. In most cases, such hospitality is extended when a change in residence is imminent. After people tell me the stories of how they came upon their cherished antiques, two questions inevitably arise: How much are they worth? And how can we best unload them? Right away, I set the record straight. I am not an appraiser. I am an antiques restorer. I have more exposure than most to the world of dealers, collectors, and specialists, and thus I know a thing or two about old furniture, but I know far from everything. The truth is no one really does.

The question of an antique’s value is tough to answer. It is not like the Blue Book value of a car, although the sale price is based on similar criteria: model, year, and condition. With the market for art and antiques in constant flux, not even the pros can predict with absolute certainty how much pieces will bring. Recent sales of similar things in the same category serve as a barometer for rough estimates only. But what one person chooses to pay for one object, at one particular time, does not always set value. I can attest to this from firsthand experience. Often I have found myself the happy owner of some unusual piece that I possibly have paid too much for. The fact that so few wanted what I now own has not diminished the pleasure of living with my beautiful mistakes.

How should you sell your antique, the one you have been hoping will allow you to quit your job and ease you into retirement? If by slim chance you own an outstanding piece with extraordinary, documented provenance, you won’t have to go looking for buyers. Chances are the dealers and specialists already know your name. Eventually they will be in touch. If, on the other hand, what you own is of purely sentimental value, you may as well let it serve its purpose. The rule of thumb for midrange antiques is Easy to come by, hard to sell. Such is the world I work in.

In the summer of 1995, a new friend named Tracy Hall told me her family was planning to sell their farm in central Rhode Island, as well as the contents of the outbuildings. Mrs. Miller, Tracy’s mother, had spent sixty years collecting antiques in Rhode Island. At that point, I had spent twenty-five years working in decorative arts, so I offered to go through the family’s household furnishings as a favor. Having never been to their home, I could not wait to see what was there.

Tracy, a top horse handler, is recognized for her ability to work with horses no one else can train, turning wild creatures into Palm Beach polo ponies. The farm where the family lived was used mainly for this purpose. Although I like horses, for me the best vantage for viewing them is at a distance, preferably when they are grazing in a faraway field. Horse people are notorious for clean barns and messy houses, so I happily anticipated finding a trove of neglected antique furniture at the farm.

Navigating the country roads through central Rhode Island, I arrived at Brigadoon Farm in the town of Clayville. The family compound resembled a scene from a Currier & Ives lithograph. Rows of beech trees shaded a split-rail fence that ran along both sides of a long dirt road. Set beyond two granite pillars was an eighteenth-century colonial house bordered by a vast reservoir. As I passed through the opened gate, I could see Tracy, surrounded by a milling assembly of mixed-breed dogs. Tall and lean, she had the erect posture of an equestrian. Her dark hair was tucked behind her ears, her large Prussian blue eyes smiling. Together we walked around the grounds, accompanied by the dog pack crisscrossing our route. On a lawn overtaken by weeds, we passed a disused swimming pool where a broken diving board dangled by the threads of its torn canvas cover at a forty-five-degree angle.

By footpath, we arrived at the edge of a lake. Tucked beneath an umbrella of tall pines were two log cabins built in the 1890s. Unoccupied for years, they were furnished in organic Adirondack decor: chairs and tables were constructed of twisted twigs; chests of drawers covered with peeling white birch bark sat across from metal bedsteads, whose mattresses sagged in the middle like hammocks. On a dressing table, a girl’s vanity set was laid out in a fan-shaped pattern; a hairbrush, comb, and handheld mirror with handles made of walnut burl were placed atop a rust-stained linen table runner embroidered with violets and edged in scalloped crocheted lace.

In contrast to the forlorn cabins, the leather-and-hay-scented barn was immaculate. Only one stall out of the ten was occupied; it belonged to a young, edgy thoroughbred, recently arrived from Virginia. The horse, deemed unworthy of a career on the racetrack, had been destined for the slaughterhouse before Tracy interceded. In the shadowy interior light, we passed a line of tack hanging on beam posts. When we approached his stall, the horse’s eyes flickered with fear. He moved skittishly, scraping the floor with his hoofs. He turned from us and stuck his head out a window that faced the meadow where he longed to run and join his new friend, the goat. Tracy tried to tempt him with an apple, all the while praising him by name in a gentle singsong voice. But the horse could not be swayed by flattery or sweet reward.

Finally, Tracy led me to the carriage house attic. The place was packed tight with layers of stacked furniture, making it impossible to walk around without toppling things. It was hard to see with only shafted light filtering through boarded windows. Tracy turned on the single bare bulb dangling on a cord from a rafter. From my vantage on the top rung of a ladder, most of the furniture appeared to be American. Although authentic, the style was simple country. The painted cottage chests, sets of stenciled Hitchcock chairs, spinning wheels, and primitive tables, although charming, did not strike me as particularly valuable.

The main house had a colonial American character, with most of the original interior architectural features intact. Mrs. Miller’s eclectic collection created a relaxed New England atmosphere. Given that it belonged to a woman with a rack-roofed station wagon and a reputation for mining the fertile antiquing ground Rhode Island once was, it was not as cluttered as I had hoped. I chose a few pieces for my friend to consider keeping, based on decorative charm rather than market value.

Tracy was not interested in any of the inventory. Nothing I could say tempted her. I am moving across the road to a house my mother gave me, she said. I’ve already taken all I want from here.

That said, there was no point in pressing or continuing to poke around further. I was anxious to see her house across the road, as I was still unconvinced she could not somehow squeeze in a few more antiques.

Once inside her modest two-bedroom house built in the 1940s, I saw Tracy had selected the best of what I had seen that day. A small collection of good early American pieces such as highboys, clocks, and primitive paintings made her home personal and cozy. One piece, however, struck me as incongruous. A Roman garden statue—a lion cub—reclined on the floor between a pair of potted ferns. Its limestone features had softened from years outside. It would be a while before I figured out where it came from.

Several months later, in October 1995, I vacillated about attending the Millers’ auction. Not until the morning of the sale did I decide to go. The clincher for me was the weather and time of year. The sky was cerulean blue, and the sun looked as though it was going to stick around. Instead of being holed up in my New York City apartment, which offered unappealing views of the façade of the Holiday Inn across the street and a symphony of honking taxis and idling tourist buses, I decided the day warranted a trip to New England. The leaves were turning, the autumn air was crisp and earthy. Because during my previous trip I had not seen anything I was dying to have, I headed for Little Rhody with empty pockets. Cruising through the center of Clayville, with its white steepled church, Grange building, and tiny post office, I was reminded of photographs in a propane gas company calendar one might receive at Christmastime. I arrived for the preview about forty-five minutes before the auction was to commence and parked my car in line with others on the bank of a freshly cut hayfield.

Mike Corcoran had been chosen to handle the auction. Mike is the best-known society auctioneer in Rhode Island. His clientele is from the old money set; the mansion-encrusted coastline of Newport and Watch Hill has been his primary district. A born showman, he is funny, outrageous, irreverent, and handsome. According to local legend, Mike once was Aquidneck Island’s most desirable bachelor, and so far nothing has changed. He started in the business in the 1950s, working for Gustave White, auctioning off the contents of thirty-room mansions as robber baron descendants either died or grew weary of maintenance and property taxes on their titanic summer residences. If a wealthy buyer or arsonist could not be found, a popular alternative was to gift estates to tax-exempt institutions like the Catholic Church or the Preservation Society of Newport County. Original household furnishings and fine art were offered to the public. These auctions drew dealers from Boston, New York, London, and Paris. Medieval tapestries, Persian rugs, Old Master paintings, and period European furniture were routinely sold under value and carted away by the truckload, ultimately landing in the hands of the next batch of nouveaux riches.

When Mike is not holding on-site sales, he conducts auctions from his own white-shingled warehouse in Portsmouth, Rhode Island. The quality of his merchandise varies from the horrible (which he will admit publicly) to meriting the occasional prize. Mike touches everything he sells. He’s tried on an Australian fire brigade helmet and dozens of top hats and derbies. He cracks himself up as he swings a Scottish sword made in 1745 or aims the empty barrel of a broken antique shotgun at people in the audience he pretends to not like. If there is a baby grand on the block, Mike steps off the stage, saunters to the back of the room, and plays a few bouncy jazz riffs from the 1940s. His talent at the keys reels in the old ladies. He will go to any length to keep his audience entertained, integrating those present into the theater of the auction. He never forgets a name, so one doesn’t need a paddle with a number, only to register at the front desk with Elsie, his secretary of forty years. If he spots new faces in the crowd, he walks right up to their seats and in front of everyone asks their names, where they are from, and if they have cash.

A top-notch Newport estate auction will attract hotshot antique dealers to a Corcoran event. But a sale in Clayville, advertised in Antiques and the Arts Weekly and featuring stoneware crocks and spinning wheels, did not lure heavy hitters. Only small-time local dealers and curious neighbors attended the Millers’ auction. Past auctions had prompted me to observe that locals did not go to a Corcoran event with the intention of buying. They came to see Mike’s act under a tent, mingle with friends in privileged surroundings, and enjoy a catered lunch. On this day, I planned to dovetail into that category myself. But one never knows. A testament to Corcoran’s wizardry is his ability to cajole the tightest Yankee into an impulse buy in a matter of seconds. After a sale, a common sight was the remorseful expressions on the victims’ faces as they lined up at the receipt counter. However, because, I’ve been told, Mike neither spends his time studying antiques and art nor pays attention to current market prices, people have been known to score at his estate sales. I was about to do the same.

During the preview, I was surprised to spot two large crated Rococo mirrors leaning against a wall inside the carriage house. One was the most unusual mirror I had ever seen. Rapture and intrigue hit me at once. It was as if my brain was shot with a sudden blast of dopamine, the hormone that neuroscientists believe triggers cognition, motivation, reward, and . . . compulsive gambling.

The frame’s figurative design was based on Aesop’s fable The Fox and the Grapes. The carvings displayed a whimsical Rococo repertoire. Frolicking babies carrying baskets of grapes on their heads climbed a ladder across a divided section of glass at the top. Two other babies perched on opposite ledges. One stood beside a rustic, grape-filled bucket while his twin pulled a resisting goat on a leash. From among rocks gushing golden water at the crown, bold clusters of fruit, vines, and flowers cascaded down the sides. Tucked into two central cyma curves at the base, an alert fox sat in the grass with head raised, thirsting for the grapes he could not have. Designers working in London in the eighteenth century often used such allegory. As I gazed at the frame, one in particular came to mind: Thomas Johnson. A master carver and furniture designer, Johnson worked in London in the mid-1700s, at the height of the Rococo period. His first book of plates for carving pieces was published in 1758, and his work became so popular that the core design was reinterpreted in the nineteenth century. The question was, was this mirror made during the official Rococo period in the eighteenth century, or was it manufactured later?

The word Rococo is derived from the French word rocaille (rocky), and the Rococo style evolved from the weightier seventeenth-century Italian Baroque. The Rococo movement originated in France in the eighteenth century and was promoted by Madame de Pompadour, Louis XV’s trendsetting mistress and patron of the arts. From Versailles the style quickly spread to every nation in Europe. Like the lifestyle emphasized at the French palace, the compositions are lighthearted and gay.

Hallmarks of Rococo design are its asymmetrical proportions, made up of scrolls, curves, and surprising forms. Carved and gilded ornaments convey the interaction between man and nature in a surreal world filled with action and fantasy. Wild beasts and putti often appear amid masses of intertwining foliage, shells, rocks, and dripping water. Chinoiserie characters holding umbrellas, seated on raised platforms beneath pagoda roofs, are often part of the design. These, plus baskets, fruit, flowers, trophies, and human masks are frequently cast together in a variety of schemes meant to jolt the imagination and evoke timeless stories and fables.

For collectors of Rococo, the period from 1730 to 1770 is the most desirable. Indisputably, the art of carving both in France and England was at its apex then. Two artisans collaborated: the carver and the gilder. But the success of the end product depended on the gilder’s finesse at tooling into thin layers of white gesso built up with a brush over the raw wood. The gilder’s smoothing of the gessoed surface, carving of tiny veins on leaves, and creation of intricate patterning on flat planes all lent refinement and dimension, enhancing the effect of shadow and light once the piece was sheathed in gold leaf and raised decoration burnished with an agate-tipped tool.

In the 1830s the Rococo style experienced a revival in Europe and America, which lasted well into the 1870s. Familiar designs were reintroduced and reinterpreted. And thanks to the advance in technology, for the first time in history enormous glass plates were within the means of the expanding bourgeoisie. But there was a difference.

Mass production of mirror frames became cheaper when the woodcarver and gesso worker could be eliminated. Cast plaster often replaced solid wood. Identical pieces were cranked out in volume to satisfy the droves of people who could not tell the difference between them and artful, custom-made pieces and who were not inclined to pay or wait for something better. In the Victorian age of clutter, there were vast rooms to fill and walls to cover. If mirrors were large, ostentatious, and covered in shiny gold, most customers were satisfied.

What puzzled me about this mirror was that its size appeared to be Rococo revival while the primitive carvings on the frame were reminiscent of the eighteenth-century American school. Then there was the matter of inconsistency. Some sections were artfully managed, while others were handled awkwardly. The carver excelled at fruit and flowers, whereas his human figures were disproportionate, static, squashed, and quirky, strikingly similar to those on American labels, etchings, and paintings from the mid-1700s through the 1830s. Perhaps what one famous observer said about furniture could apply to a mirror. Thomas Jefferson, who preferred to buy his own in Paris, noted, Furniture of quiet elegance could be made in Philadelphia, as well as furniture with burdens of barbarous ornament. Indeed, the Fox and Grapes mirror, raucous and bold, had nothing quiet about it.

It was this primitive, self-taught American-like quality to its figures that attracted me to the Fox and Grapes frame. If it was made even as early as 1800—rather than in the 1830s—the mere thirty-year difference would substantially increase its value. If that were the case, it would rise above the category of simply decorative and might almost be museum-worthy. Regardless, in my long career as a restorer and gilder of mirrors, I had never come across one like it.

Colonial mirrors made between 1760 and 1800 have always presented experts with problems determining country of origin: England versus America. In the mid–eighteenth century, shops along America’s Eastern Seaboard regularly carried imported English-looking glasses as well as frames. Despite the colonists’ hatred of the English, almost everything made in England was precisely what everyone wanted to own. But imported mirror plates were often refitted to frames made by colonial craftsmen. Carvers and furniture makers working in places like New York, Baltimore, and Philadelphia used British design books as they strove to imitate the much sought after English models. Artisans took license in reinterpreting forms according to their own skills and their clients’ budgets. Though England’s Rococo period was winding down in the 1770s, the style remained popular in America, where it extended to as late as 1800.

Unfortunately, the original glass had been replaced in the Fox and Grapes mirror. This would detract from its value and create one more obstacle in determining the frame’s age. It was hard to say when the change had been made. Judging from the thickness and clarity of the glass, my off-the-cuff guess was that it had been replaced after 1850. Earlier mercury-backed glass plates blemish over time, one reason why so few examples exist. As the art of mirror making improved, people often pitched out tarnished glass for more reflective surfaces. Even American mirrors displayed in museums seldom hold their original plates of glass.

Another tall gilded Rococo mirror stood beside the Fox and Grapes. A shell adorned the crown, and from there, flowers and graceful leaves descended, looping around ten divided glass sections. This ornate yet refined mirror was a perfect example of high standard 1860s Rococo revival. The frame was in pristine condition and had never been restored. The original glass was spotted with age. Harmonious proportions made it pleasing, and the vibrant carvings were of wood rather than composite. It was not common to find a revival frame made entirely of wood. As mentioned, cast plaster over wood was generally the method for producing frames during the later part of the nineteenth century. A Victorian with a discerning eye and a flush bank account had purchased it. This mirror’s flawless state guaranteed a quick sale to one of my decorator clients in either New York or California.

Outside on the lawn was what appeared to be an American Greek Classical sofa. It was so shocking to see it there, my first thought was that it was a reproduction. Several dealers gathered around the sofa. I tried not to generate more interest by getting too close. A top-quality antique here in Clayville seemed too good to be true. The days of finding treasures in attics and barns were over.

Yet, even from a distance, the proportions of the sofa looked right and period. A pair of dolphins constituted the arms and extended to the feet. The sculptural form, bold and sleek, manifested exquisite balance and grace. In place of fins, long leaves suggestive of wings lent the piece lightness, as though at any moment it might lift and fly away to a mythological island in