The Art Historian Bernard Berenson in Florence, Italy

Have you ever wondered how, at the beginning of the 19th century, so many wonderful works of art reached the United States and became part of the wealthiest collections in the world, while their owners had no great knowledge of their acquisitions? We are talking of an age when there were not that many scientific means at one’s disposal to determine whether something was real or not, unlike today. Who could ensure for them that a Madonna, for example, had really been painted by Filippo Lippi (Florentine painter, 1405-1469), since artists did not sign their paintings in the early days of the Renaissance?

Madonna and Child with Two Angels (detail) by Fra Filippo Lippi, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence.

In our time, everything seems self-evident. Paintings are displayed in museums under the right lighting, dated, with the names of their creators displayed on a card alongside, and we believe what we see. Others have done the work for us. When a painter is unknown to us, we just walk past and go on to the next. But what if the specialists recalled their initial evaluation and decided that it had been Botticelli who had drawn a particular painting by an unknown artist (and why shouldn’t it happen?), then we’d all stop for a second look.

The Madonna del Magnificat (detail) by Sandro Botticelli, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence.

“Am I wrong, Mrs. Moretti?” I asked my Florentine friend when I went to visit her at her villa in Fiesole.

“Of course not, we all function like automatons,” was her observation.

I didn’t believe that we all functioned like that, but the strange thing was that each period of time had its own preferences. For example, when the Victorians were visiting the Uffizi, it was doubtful whether they gave Botticelli a second glance. They stood, entranced, in front of Ghirlandaio, his teacher, who was in fashion then. So who convinced the Americans to turn their gaze to the earliest artists of the Renaissance and start collecting them, without having to worry about being cheated?

Madonna and Child enthroned (Sacra Conversazione degli Ingesuati) by Domenico Ghirlandaio, Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence.

That would be Bernard Berenson. His signature was his guarantee.  And he himself was one of a kind. He used to say that his faith in his work made him send the most beautiful paintings back to the United States and that he received his greatest satisfaction seeing them arrive there correctly attributed to the artists who painted them. Under his instruction, the most important private collections in the world took shape, and we can now admire them in American museums.

Bernard Berenson at the Galleria Borghese in Rome - Courtesy: International Center for Photography.

“They say he often bluffed about who had actually painted a work,” Mrs. Moretti continued,

“Of course, he did it to ensure the works were sold.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said.

“Perché?  Imagine how much the dealers would increase their asking price if Berenson assured that The Adoration of the Magi was by Filippo Lippi. Anyway, you yourself said that he lived like a prince in his villa in Tuscany, where all the cosmopolitan élite would go and visit him. Don’t forget his parents immigrated to Boston.”

Bernard Berenson’s Villa I Tatti in Fiesole, Florence, was bequeathed to Harvard University.

“Such slander was reserved for his enemies, who couldn’t stand how famous he had become,” I answered her.

It is true that the dealers in Paris and London would pressure him to sign something’s authenticity, but he would refuse. He often complained, at any event, that getting involved in the buying and selling of Art was taking time away from his studies, but was something he had to do to earn money. What he was accused of was often too difficult to bear.

“He was very careful,” I continued. “He used to say that even though the collectors and the dealers would have liked it to be the case, you could never be sure about whether buying Art would be a good investment or not. It was more of a stop along the line than the end of the journey.”

Bernard Berenson, Art Historian, 1865-1959 - Courtesy: International Center for Photography.

It goes without saying that dealing in artwork at that time was very confusing. For example, a painting would leave Florence, go to Paris and, from there, on to the United States to be included in somebody’s collection, but, if information leaked out that the painter wasn’t the right one then, via London, it would be returned to Paris. If it was established there that the artist had been indeed, the right one after all, then another collector would buy the work, and the original would-be buyer would get on the first liner to Europe hoping to get back the painting at three times the starting price and return with it to the United States. In other words, an art railway.

The Renaissance gardens of the Villa I Tatti in Fiesole, Florence.

And that is why petit Bernard Berenson, with his perfect white beard, was always in demand.

My long sojourn in Tuscany is described in the book: A Year in Tuscany