A tribute to simon gillespie by dr. jeffrey lant master marketer and also collector of fine art nov 21, 2012

A tribute to Simon Gillespie by Dr. Jeffrey Lant master marketer and also collector of fine art Nov 21, 2012

Preface / Introduction

This is article which continues the series of restored pictures which will be coming to Cambridge
and its new home at Dr. Jeffrey Lant.

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Table of Contents
1. What a collector lives for... a steal... and of an emperor who insisted upon apricot dumplings in
season and out... a tale.
2. 'I may know nothing about art..." a fine portrait of the Uncle of Europe, Edward VII, by Heinrich
von Angeli, 1840-1925, the best connected artist in the world.
3. Charles VII, Holy Roman Emperor 1742-1745. A must-have imperial image found by a
connoisseur, restored by a master, shared with you in its full majesty.


What a collector lives for... a steal... and of an emperor who
insisted upon apricot dumplings in season and out... a tale.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. Quick! What do you know about the great Magyar nation of Hungary, a key
element in the European equation for two thousand years? Exactly. Unless you are Hungarian
yourself, you know little, if anything, about the matter... and that's why you, if you had the chance,
would have walked past this gem... and missed a rare occasion to add its splendor and verve,
radiating the e'clat that is so very Hungarian, to your collection.
For make no mistake about it, this is a picture of consequence... not least because it is, in microcosm,
an apt representation of its nation, being bold, supercilious, absolutely sure of itself with an
arrogance and hauteur that is quintessentially Hungarian (and got the nation into such a lot of trouble
and grief, even unto its complete suppression and subjugation).
Look carefully and consider what you see, for this is how a king should look ... and be.
Now add the musical accompaniment of the Rakoczi march. It's the very thing to go along with and
amplify this article. Find it in any search engine. Listen to the sound of this blood stirring music
(composer unknown). You can see the crack troops of the kingdom on parade; the petted darlings,
dazzling in their designed-to-impress uniforms and valorous decorations.
We look! We admire! We fall victim to a charm that defines the nation! This is the Hungary of
September 28, 1830, the very day the young man portrayed, His Imperial Majesty Ferdinand I,
already an emperor, was crowned King of Hungary as King Ferdinand V, and thus one of the key
factors influencing every European nation and their millions of inhabitants. In short, this was
History!
And, since History is the supreme ironist, you may be sure that what you see is most assuredly not
what you get. See for yourself...
The facts.
People who enjoy the undeniable delights of condescending to others can never afford to forget that
to condescend with credibility you must win, constantly, consistently, completely. To condescend
without victory is to open yourself to ridicule... snide remarks... and condescension by others more
successful than you. Thus, while Hungary had been a great nation in the days of Attila the Hun (434
A.D.) since then Victory had been fickle, elusive... and so it found itself in 1830 one of a vast
number of dukedoms, principalities and other kingdoms in unhappy and restless thrall to God's good
servant, the emperor of Austria, reigning supreme and condescending to all from Vienna.
This galling fact roiled every loyal Hungarian, for bending the knee to anyone was bitter indeed to
the schemers of Budapest. But to bend the knee to the man who called himself Ferdinand V was the
most bitter of all.
For these are the attributes and features that distinguished this imperial majesty... epilepsy,
hydrocephalus, neurological problems, speech impediment, and more. Such was the fruit of the
union between his consanguineous parents the Emperor Francis II and his double first cousin Maria
Theresa, princess of Naples and Sicily.
His ability to produce an heir, non existent. His ability to reign, impossible. His ability to make the
crucial decisions inherent in his weighty and powerful position... episodic, unpredictable. The only
adamant decision he ever made related to... dumplings. Told by his chef that he could not have an

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apricot dumpling because apricots were not in season, he responded with uncharacteristic
decisiveness, "I'm the Emperor, and I want dumplings!" And so in this matter at least he was
gratified.
Otherwise for the 13 long years of his reign he was a negative factor, a void at the center of a
turbulent Europe, marching to the Revolutions of 1848, when at last His Imperial and Apostolic
Majesty was gently deposed, to be succeeded by his nephew Franz Joseph, who allowed his uncle to
live in suitable splendor in Prague's Hradcany Castle, where perhaps he found dumplings a plenty
and entirely to his taste. The record does not say.
His portrait as King of Hungary, 1830.
The picture you see above, so grand, so designedly inaccurate was left behind... only to turn up as
Lot 125 at Dorotheum's Austrian auction 3 April, 2012. You can see its deplorable "before" state,
the state in which I first saw this picture and knew I had to have it. You see, a true collector relies
upon a practiced mixture of fact, hunch, visual impact and affection to evaluate a picture and make
decisions which may well cost a small fortune, or more. It is a process in which the skills of sleuths,
specialists, historians and lovers are uniquely mixed and which, luck willing, produces connoisseurs
with bravado and nerves of steel. I am such a person, and I have been liberally helped along the way
by conservator par excellence, Simon Gillespie of Cleveland Street, London. He is the man who has
helped me acquire and return to their pristine perfection over three dozen such pictures. I honor and
trust him accordingly.
What Simon saw.
When the image was first put in front of him it seemed destined to be rejected as dull and flatly
painted. Close inspection revealed that the unknown artist had applied a thick oil paint which over
time had left deep interstices that collected considerable dirt and old varnish which had itself
discolored. The resulting effect was dismal, a dull surface, dirty, disfigured.
Here is where experience and a trained eye become absolutely essential. Connoisseurs and their
conservators must learn to see that which is below the surface, to see the dazzling promise in the
seemingly hopeless. Here Simon Gillespie excels.
After extensive analysis, he concluded the work was worth acquiring, though there was still risk
involved; there always is. Still, Simon concluded that at the end of the day the picture would be
magnificent as the Elect of God should always be. On this basis I acquired the work at auction,
though other discerning eyes did succeed in increasing the price. Still, I did not overpay, always a
danger when one's heart is involved.
In short order, Simon had the picture, shipped with their usual speed and careful packing by
Dorotheum. As the crate was opened, always a moment of concern and nervous anticipation about
what one would find within, the picture emerged, forlorn, dirty, distressed, but not disheartened. For
this fortunate image had had the good fortune to become distressed in ways that could be dealt
with... so long as it had an empathetic purchaser... and that I most assuredly was.
In Cambridge, in sympathetic hands.
Now this object of royal grandeur, with its uniquely opulent frame, has come to its new home where
it will be properly handled, regarded, and maintained. I see it before me now, touched by the divinity
that must hedge a real monarch. Yet it would scarcely be a true Hungarian tale without its mysteries
still to be revealed. Who painted his majesty and why did he leave no clue? Who composed the
Rakoczi march? And why, too, did its composer demur and remain incognito despite composing a
work so excellent the fastidious Abbe Lizst would honor it at his piano? Again, we do not know.
And, finally, did Ferdinand I and V get the apricots he coveted for his dumplings? All these are left



to discover.
However, one thing is clear. The work is imperial indeed, made perfect again by the scrupulous care
of Simon Gillespie. And so Ferdinand, sore troubled and afflicted in life, goes confidently into the
ages to come, looking every inch as he should, a king, and a King of Hungary at that.



'I may know nothing about art..." a fine portrait of the Uncle
of Europe, Edward VII, by Heinrich von Angeli, 1840-1925,
the best connected artist in the world.
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant.
Author's program note. One day in 1901 at the beginning of his long-deferred reign, the new and
enthusiastic 60-year-old sovereign Edward VII by the Grace of God king, emperor, ruler of plum
properties everywhere on Earth, was surveying his picture collection at Buckingham Palace (itself
worth a king's ransom) along with Frederick "Fritz" Ponsonby, later Lord Sysonby (1867-1935).
Fritz was one of those most useful of beings; a man who had grown up in a courtly family; his father
was Sir Henry Ponsonby, Queen Victoria's long-time private secretary. He was a courtier to his
finger tips, knowing all the ins and outs and where all the bodies were buried. Such a man was
expected to be available at the monarch's slightest command, know everything, say nothing... and do
it all for a pittance. Oh, yes, such people were useful indeed.
On this particular day, the new king and young Fritz were surveying the picture galleries which still
had the dour mark of Queen Victoria on them. This meant the greatest masterpieces of the greatest
European masters cheek by jowl, higgledy-piggledy with daubs in water color by minor princesses
of minor German states. ("Dear Maria had no talent, poor thing.")
There was no order to it, just one thing on top of another. Edward VII, a man who understood his
craft, his metier of kingship, was appalled but not dismayed. He had waited a lifetime for this
moment, and he told Ponsonby, standing by with notebook in hand, "I may know nothing about
arrrrrrrt," he intoned in his idiosyncratic mixture of English and guttural German. "But I think I
know something about arrrrrrangement."
And so he did... in art, in music, in life. Thus, to accompany this article I have selected the "Enigma
Variations" by Sir Edward Elgar (1857-1934). Find them now in any search engine. They were
composed in 1898-1899, just in time for the lush richness of England and her empire at their peak in
the reign of a man who knew every nuance of being a king, including which artists should be
allowed to paint him and so provide the desired look for all time.
One of the most favored of these artists was Heinrich (later Baron) von Angeli, persona gratissima
at all the Courts of Europe, not merely talented, but arguably the best connected painter of his day.
How had this happened?
Favored by an unhappy princess.
Prince Albert, Queen Victoria's beautiful and obsessively loved husband, fathered 9 children, of
whom two were of major political significance: Princess Victoria, Princess Royal (1840-1901) and
Prince Edward, Prince of Wales (1841- 1910). She was married far too young (just 17 years old) to
Prince Frederick of Prussia, Crown Prince (1831-1888). It was a love match fervently desired by her
parents, who saw thereby a means to expedite German unification and hence create a liberal,
progressive nation under a constitutional monarchy, a highly desirable solution to the thorny
"German problem" to the benefit of all Europe.
It was, on paper, a brilliant plan... except for one thing: neither Fritz's father, King (later Emperor)
William of Prussia (1797-1888) or his chief henchman Otto (later Prince) von Bismarck
(1815-1898) wanted what those meddling Englanders wanted... quite the reverse, "blood and iron"
being more their cup of tea. And so young, idealistic, home-sick Princess Victoria, now Crown
Princess of Prussia, went to her fate... to be ridiculed, derided, humiliated and isolated by Bismarck,



past master in the art of exquisite torments.
She became the most unhappy princess on Earth, for all that she had the man of her dreams as her
wedded husband. She needed a friend and here at least the fates were kind, for she got as her
painting tutor just the right man, Heinrich von Angeli. His visits lessoned the burdens of her royal
life. He made her smile and this skill, linked to undeniable talent, made von Angeli and his meteoric
career.
Mirror, not just painter.
He saw the princes of Europe as they wanted to be seen, picturing them as larger than life, bold,
audacious, people of vision and destiny. And on this basis he networked his way through the
interconnected dynasties which constituted the acme of Europe in this last, greatest age of
monarchy.
Paint box in hand, he trod the corridors of undeniable power, great pictures always the result of his
visits... pictures of his loyal patron the Crown Princess of Prussia, her husband the Crown Prince....
Queen Victoria (to whom in 1877 he presented his own most attractive self portrait)... Austrian
Emperor Franz Josef... and, of course, Prince Edward, The Prince of Wales. It is the study for this
magnificent portrait of 1890 that you see above, the dirty, distressed, undistinguished "before"
image... and then, as if painted today, the splendid "after", a prince indeed.
For if von Angeli had been fortunate in his patron, so, too, both he and his image of the man who
became Edward VII were equally fortunate in the conservator who brought this woebegone picture
back from the brink, saving it for grateful generations yet to come. This gifted conservator is Simon
Gillespie of Cleveland Street, London, an expert adept at saving portraits of royalty... and every
other kind of person or scene. I know. He has worked his undeniable magic on over three dozen such
pictures for me, this being the latest.
"Kaiserhaus und Historika" sale, Dorotheum, Lot 260, 8 May, 2012.
This picture was placed for auction at the very end of a long day when I had had almost no luck,
until I acquired Lot 256, a superb signed photograph of the Prince of Wales' brother-in-law, Emperor
Frederick III photographed as Crown Prince of Germany. I owed its "steal" price to the fact that the
auction was nearly over, most folks already gone. My spirits upbeat from this pip of an acquisition,
I awaited the signed and 1890 dated portrait of Edward of Wales with equanimity. In the event, its
unappealing condition linked to a much diminished audience carried the day. It was mine, and at a
very attractive price. All it needed now was Simon Gillespie.
Simon's review.
Simon's work demands utter and complete honesty and integrity. This is essential, and here with this
distressed artifact he gave full measure. Upon delivery from Vienna, he emailed a full report of its
disfigurements and discolorations. Most of the background, which is now a light gray and for its
time a modern conceit, had been glazed over with a brown paint. Further to this, the last treatment it
had received had included painting out broad brush strokes around the head in an attempt to "tidy
up" and make presentable the regal image.
Gillespie never commits such solecisms... for his credo is to return venerable objects to their pristine
state... conserving, not inventing. He is the painter's latter-day incarnation, as true to the painter's
original intention as possible... and his intentions in this work were clear: to make an energetic
sketch, to render the bravura techniques and prowess of his middle age, to capture the good
personality of the sitter. The artist succeeded in his objective because Simon Gillespie, master,
succeeded in his.



There is only one question left. Did this splendid study lead to one of Angeli's royal masterpieces? It
constitutes the perfect query for my older age. Therefore I am not chagrined to have found no
answer yet. For now it is enough that this engaging sketch has survived and faces its future with a
mixture of royal pride and affability, the attributes of the sitter, captured by von Angeli, saved by
Gillespie and now, chez moi, an object of grandeur and appeal, truly fit for a king, perfectly
positioned for maximum effect... for I know something about arrrrrrangement, too.



Charles VII, Holy Roman Emperor 1742-1745. A must-have
imperial image found by a connoisseur, restored by a
master, shared with you in its full majesty.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. You are about to be taken inside a world of finesse, exquisite manners, bon
ton, a world where la douceur de la vie was perfected in every particular and where every moment
away was quite simply unbearable. I am talking, of course, of eighteenth century Europe and more
precisely of its monarchs and the aristocracy that provided the rapt audience for majesty's every
move. As Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord said, "Those who had not known the Ancien régime
would never be able to know how sweet life had been", and he was most assuredly in a position to
know.
So while we cannot reconstruct this moment of heaven on Earth, we can at least revive a moment of
its essence, rather like the fine perfume that lingers on a packet of love letters and so evokes the
whole in an instant of rich remembrance. That is why I advise you to play Jean-Philippe Rameau
(1683-1764) before continuing with this article. Yes, Rameau whose sophisticated notes wafted
from the salons of Versailles to all the chateaux of Europe, the music for love affaires without end.
Listen to La Orquesta de Luis XV Concierto de Jordi Savall. You will easily find it any search
engine, and you will soon savor it, especially if there is a drop of blue blood in your veins, as you
have always surmised... and hoped.
An emperor dies, a cornucopia of possibilities.
This chapter of our story begins with a death; but not just any death; the death of God's vicegerent on
Earth, Charles VI, ruler of the conglomerate that was neither (according to Voltaire) Holy... nor
Roman... nor an Empire. He was a man with a problem; a problem he died (1740) believing he had
solved. He had sired only daughters (two) but according to the rules of succession, these daughters
could not rule; only sons might... and there were no imperial sons to be had. Charles kept trying to
remedy the deficiency, but could not. He then decided that the rules could be changed, if he bribed
his fellow monarchs sufficiently.
He called his solution the Pragmatic Sanction... and it cost him a pretty penny. What's more, the
minute he died, the princes of Europe (particularly Frederick II of Prussia) abjured their oaths... each
believing they could get more through outright theft, an art perfected by sovereigns thereafter called
"Great", like Frederick. And so war with all its delicious possibilities came again to Europe, this
particular dust-up called "The War of the Austrian Succession" (1740-1748).
Of the many kings and princes involved (including Maria Theresa, the archducal beneficiary of the
Pragmatic Sanction), only one need detain us here, Charles Albert, Prince-elector of Bavaria from
1726. He was the candidate Louis XV of France selected to break the Habsburgs unbreakable hold
on the imperial title and emoluments. It seemed like a fine idea when raised... and so enough electors
were bribed to make him "Charles VII, by the grace of God elected Holy Roman Emperor, forever
August, King in Germany and of Bohemia, Duke in...etc., etc." How could mere mortal turn it all
down?
Thus was Europe divided into the Habsburg party and those who saw more spoils by adhering to the
only non-Habsburg emperor since the 15th century, Charles VII Albert of the giddy House of
Wittelsbach, cock-a-hoop, but not for long.
"Uneasy lies the head..."



Soon enough Charles Albert had reason to regret. His imperial coronation on 12 February 1742 was
followed by his Austrian adversaries overrunning his home territories and Munich his capital. He
had an imperial title but no substance whatsoever. Deriding wags mocked him, "et Caesar et nihil,"
meaning "as well Emperor, as nothing." Just a year later,1743, this impecunious, hapless princeling
died, of gout, obese, despairing. And so he returned to Munich in a super sized coffin, a failure, an
embarrassment, a man best forgotten, not painted.
Bildnis des Kurfursten Karl Albrecht von Bayern, Jan Kupetzky (Bosing/Pressburg 1667- 1740
Nurnberg), zugeschrieben, Ol auf Leinwand, 92 x 74,3 cm.
I am a close reader of "Alte Meister" ("Old Master") catalogs produced by the Austrian auction
house Dorotheum (founded in 1707). I open these catalogs with a mixture of dread and white-hot
enthusiasm; afraid of what I'll find that will crush my every good intention to "budget" and "save"...
painstaking in reviewing every page. The portrait of the Emperor Carl VII Albert, Lot 8, 11 June,
2012 was tailer-made to catch my eye. It was love at first sight; I could only hope that my long-time
conservator Simon Gillespie would find the irremediable flaws that would save my money and
negate any thought of purchase. Otherwise I was well and truly doomed, since I am an assiduous
collector of Austrian imperial pictures and this one was rare indeed; no wonder, given the fact that
the subject had other things to do than sit for his portrait during his brief reign so filled with woe and
catastrophe. I awaited Simon's report with impatience.
Dull to look at, layers of dirt and discolored varnishes, what the trained eye sees, what it means.
If you mean to collect good art, particularly good art down on its luck, dirty, damaged, desolate, you
need an eye that sees not only what is but what was and what can be. This is the masterful, deep
seeing eye Simon Gillespie, wizard of Cleveland Street London, has developed over decades and
which I, mere acolyte, have spent many years improving. The entire business is predicated on what
the master's eye sees and what his deft hand must then effect to return the disconsolate image to the
radiance its artist intended.
This is all easily said but needs the study and experience of a lifetime to render. I invariably retain
Simon Gillespie because he remains constant in his objective; to restore, not to invent; to go where
the artist went but no further, and so return to life in its pristine form each work he touches with his
nimble fingers, the fingers it has taken a lifetime to train and execute their crucial work.
Simon's report.
Given the dull appearance of this picture, its layers of disfiguring dirt and degraded varnishes,
writing it off might have made perfect sense, especially given a plethora of other problems,
including a plain and ordinary wooden frame. There was absolutely nothing imperial about it. But
here is where Gillespie's masterful eye came into play, for beneath every dismal aspect there was
quality, the quality imparted by its creator, Jan Kupetzky (1667-1740).
Kupetzky's talent manifested itself early and to the right people. Just 20 years old, after studying with
the Swiss painter Benedikt Klaus, Kupetzky went on an extended Italian study trip. In Rome, Prince
Aleksander Benedykt Sobieski, the son of Polish King John III Sobieski, helped him become
famous... and so for the rest of his long life he was. This fame got him the plum commissions; the
striking pictures that resulted got him more; Prince Eugene of Savoy, aristocrats needing a careful
touch with their eternal images, even Russian Tsar Peter I and his hapless heir, Tsarevich Alexei
Petrovich. Influenced by Caravaggio and Rembrandt he painted splendid pictures of himself, his
family, friends. He was a master and used his great gifts to great effect. In due course, with assiduity
and brilliance he became the most significant German portrait painter of his day; just the man
Charles VII Albert required to portray him as he wished to be, very definitely not as he was.



Gillespie looked deep and saw enough evidence of masterful Kupetzky to justify proceeding to the
next level. And on this basis I acquired the work at auction for the low estimate; I believe I was the
only bidder. That's how little appeal this picture then possessed and how nearly a very different fate
had been avoided.
Ah, but look at it now... its splendor enhanced by the best carver and gilder in London who
replicated an original frame design and delivered the high tone of gilding as would have been at the
time. And so the saddest Holy Roman Emperor, the man who gambled all and lost all, sails forth
into perpetuity looking exactly like a king should look, signed by Kupetzky, conserved by Gillespie,
hung here in Cambridge for me.



Resource
About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide
range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business
training, affiliate marketing training, earn-at-home programs, traffic tools, advertising, webcasting,
hosting, design, WordPress Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online
Home Business Training program by getting a free Associate Membership today.
Republished with author's permission by Howard Martell http://HomeProfitCoach.com.


A tribute to simon gillespie by dr. jeffrey lant master marketer and also collector of fine art nov 21, 2012

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