The Art of Acquiring: A Portrait of Etta and Claribel Cone (21 page)

Despite her worry, Etta continued her trip and stopped at several galleries in New York. Though impressed by a Van Gogh flower piece at Henry Reinhard, Etta had reservations about making the purchase, and must have voiced them in a letter to Claribel.

Claribel replied, “If I were considering putting $4,000 in a picture I should wish to see it several times before deciding to buy it—if it were for myself this is what I should say:—Van Gogh is very great—he was one of the biggest influences on Cézanne and certainly on Matisse—and many of the later men—everything that he has done is strong and virile (almost too virile sometimes)—and his paintings are attractive—I wonder whether he will remain ‘the fashion’ as long as I live—for he seems a bit less in the limelight than he was some years ago—so much for his name—

“But for the particular picture you have in mind of that I should say if it is pretty (which you say it is) attractive, and if it is decorative and pleases you—why care a darn what anybody else says of it. . . and if it gives you a thrill why I guess
the thing for you to do is to take it. . . a Van Gogh is not to be sneered at: a good Van Gogh is an addition to any collection.”

Etta bought the piece, which Meier-Graefe confirmed was authentic. Years later, with the help of Theo Van Gogh's son, Vincent, she discovered to her dismay that the painting was a fake. Aside from purchasing some faux furniture, it was the only instance during the Cones’ long collecting career that they fell victim to forgery.

In the 1920s, the sisters grew increasingly close to George Boas, a philosophy professor at Johns Hopkins University. When he first arrived in Baltimore, said Boas, he was “warned that of course I might visit the Cone collection if I wished but that its owners were beyond doubt mental cases.”

He didn't heed the warning and came to know the sisters intimately. He said their home was a sort of refuge for a certain type of person who came to Baltimore but felt culturally adrift. For that traveler, said Boas, the Cone apartments felt like home.

“Though both Etta Cone and her sister Dr. Claribel had clear cut personalities, traits which were far from nebulous, and talents which could easily have brought them before the public, they both preferred the peace of their homes and the small confidences of their friends. . . They simply sat there and saw.

“They never used their pictures as a background for themselves, but submitted themselves entirely and persistently to their pictures. One went to see the Cone collection; one came away with a vivid image of two beautiful people.”

The summer of 1927 saw the two American sisters yet again in Europe. But, as Americans, they were hardly alone. American tourists, taking advantage of France's near economic collapse and the strong dollar, were staging a second invasion of the country. The 1927 American Chamber of Commerce reported 15,000 Americans living in Paris that year, but the unofficial figure was closer to 40,000.

The “new American” was not the hero who had helped France defeat Germany in the first world war, but a brash and reckless visitor who used Paris as a playground. In fact, only a very select group of Americans was welcomed by the French. Among them that year was Charles Lindbergh, the shy solo pilot who proved New York was only thirty-three hours from Paris when he arrived by plane at La Bourget.

Etta and Claribel no doubt considered themselves closer to the Europeans than to the new generation of Americans tearing up the town. Claribel spoke of Americans as “a good natured crude people.” The sisters would not be taken for that. The years had turned them into continental dowagers, equally comfortable in a number of countries, and concerned primarily with things cultural. For the Cone sisters, things cultural meant primarily art.

In June, they stopped in Paris, where Claribel picked up thirty-three pieces at the Bernheim-Jeune gallery, including four Matisse lithographs, four Van Gogh gravures, two Modigliani gravures, and two Picasso gravures.

At their next stop, Lausanne, Etta diversified her purchases, selecting works by Othon Coubine, Henri-Edmond Cross, Rodin, Degas, Vallotton, and Signac. Claribel bought an Odilon Redon, a Van Gogh, and an Egyptian bronze cat, which she found especially delightful because of the mystery surrounding its origin.

Claribel, still in the market for a Matisse, hinted that she was looking for one of his older pieces, something like the interior with parakeets that Etta had purchased a few years before. “If Matisse has something, I want one as brilliant as your lovely red interior—but Matisse has seen the heyday of his virility and I fear is toppling downward.”

Etta would never voice such criticism of Matisse, but Claribel had her doubts. “It is a question how many artists of the post-impressionists group will be handed down to posterity as famous,” Claribel wrote, “and whether Matisse will be among them. He is a leader now, but who can say? Only time with its strong focusing lens can give us the proper perspective.” She added, however, “We hope and believe in Matisse.” By the end of the summer, she had overcome her reservations. She found and purchased a Matisse painting that she liked—a still life—for 32,500 francs.

Through 1928, the sisters continued to buy more and varied works. In that year alone, Claribel purchased thirty-one works of art. It was as if she were racing against an unseen clock, filling up her home as fast as she could with as much as she could buy. She may have feared that the same weariness that had forced her to retire to Lausanne would soon force her to remain in Baltimore and effectively end her collecting career.

Claribel had once been romantic about death, threatening to die young while in Munich. Now she was practical about it. Her main concern was how to distribute her precious things.

In April 1929, during a visit to Greensboro, North Carolina, she drew up her will. She bequeathed her entire art collection to Etta, writing, “It is my desire in respect to the above Art Collection that in so far as is possible, or practicable,
the same be kept in tact as one individual collection. It is my suggestion, but not a direction or obligation upon my said Sister, Etta Cone, that in the event the spirit of appreciation for modern art in Baltimore becomes improved, and if the Baltimore Museum of Art should be interested in my said Collection and desire to be named as appointee hereunder to receive said Collection after the death of my said sister, Etta Cone, that said Baltimore Museum of Art be favorably considered by her as the institution to ultimately receive said Collection. My second preference for an appointee would be the Metropolitan Museum of Art, of the City of New York.”

Claribel must have been relieved that she had completed her will when she did. On her next visit to Europe, while Etta and Miss Kaufman traveled in Germany, Claribel, convalescing in Lausanne, felt a pain in her chest.

She wrote what she thought would be a final letter to Etta: “My dear Sister Etta: Last night I had a pain in my heart—the first one I have ever had. This morning my pulse omitted a beat on several occasions—for that reason—and in view of the fact that I have reached the age at which the eldest members of our family die I am writing this letter to say good-bye to you my dearest sister who have always been so good to me (Also to my very dear Brothers, Sisters, nephews and nieces). When one begins to grow feeble one is a useless member of society—so I should say I go without regret—except for the momentary pang of regret (this blot is ink—not a tear although it should be that!) it may be to my dear Brothers and Sisters.

“Give my best love to all—to my brothers, sisters, nephews and nieces and grand nephews. I should like you dear Etta to select from my things—or to buy for each of them something they may like. Of course for you and the Collection I should wish the suitable things saved. . . I expect
to write again! You see I am only one of the many millions who have passed on. (will have passed on.) Say goodbye to Miss Kaufman for me. C. . . I love my family both in Greensboro & Baltimore very much although I am too lazy to express it.”

The letter was premature—Claribel didn't die. When Etta and Miss Kaufman returned to Lausanne in August, Claribel was weak, but well. Miss Kaufman returned alone to the United States, while the two sisters spent time alone for the first time in years.

In the world's eyes, they had become like a husband and wife, forever associated with each other but never really alone together enough to learn what the other truly felt. In Baltimore they had Fred, the household help, Miss Kaufman, Miss Gaul, their extended family, and the friends they had made.

In Europe, when they were together, they were in the center of swirling activity that increasingly involved young family members. Now they had time to sit quietly together.

The sisters, still as different as two souls could be, had nonetheless been constant companions since Claribel returned from Germany eight years before. It had not been easy for Etta—Claribel was a trial for even the most patient person. But living near and with her older sister had given Etta's own life direction. Claribel was an anchor—half-child, half-husband.

In the next quiet month, they wandered the streets of Lausanne together, taking boat excursions on Lake Leman, and shopping for trifles. But the sisters did not buy art. Not until September 20, 1929 did Claribel buy a painting, and the one she selected was entirely unexpected. It was Gustave Courbet's
Rivulet du Puits Noir
(The Shaded Stream at Le Puits Noir).

For a collector who had always loved virility and color in her art, this was an odd choice, because it had neither. It was a dark and utterly still painting. Its subject was a patch of shallow stream. With a spot of light in the background, it seemed as if the sun had just one place to break through the overgrown foliage. There was a serene decay evident in the painting's lush brown tones, and almost the smell of summer's end. The viewer was invited into the painting by the stream's wide mouth, but there was no exit.

Claribel died of pneumonia the day she bought that painting—two months shy of her 65th birthday.

She did not plan; she merely let herself go, and the overwhelming life in her did the rest. It is only when youth is gone and experience has given us a sort of cheap courage that most of us realize how simple such things are.