Truth stranger than fiction
Auction results for art and antiquities have blown off the roof in the past few years, which may be a good thing for the market but bad for art and artists. When people start to buy names instead of pictures, that is a bad sign. When people go to Art in the Park, a venue for young and aspiring artists, guided by potential returns on investment rather than an appreciation for the artworks, that is a bad sign.
There seems to be a lot of liquidity in Manila these days—banks cannot offer even modest interest rates on savings and time deposits just to cover inflation—that have been funneled into art. The prices have been so exaggerated as to generate a lot of questions: Is art really worth that much? Do these prices reflect a trend in collecting or investing? Are people unloading art to generate funds for the coming elections? Is it possible that tainted money is being laundered? There are enough angles in the overheated art market to make a good novel or an exciting movie.
Then there is the underbelly of the art market. With high prices come forgeries and sometimes theft. The Vatican has just confirmed having received a ransom demand for the return of two autographed letters by Michelangelo that were stolen from the archives two decades ago! Then there is the case of an electrician who worked for Picasso for many years and claimed that the artist’s wife had given him a box to take home that contained 91 drawings and 180 other works: paintings, lithographs and collages—all estimated to be worth 50 million euros. He had these since 1970 and only recently decided to sell the works, so he contacted the administrators of the Picasso estate who then informed the police and questioned him for possession of stolen goods.
Picasso’s son declared that the artist would not have given away such a large number of works to anyone for free.
All these reminded me of the theft of Rizal manuscripts from the National Library in 1961. Taken from glass display cases were the original manuscripts of “Noli Me Tangere,” “El Filibusterismo” and “Ultimo Adios.” These were not insured, and even if so, the policy would not have covered the P1.4-million ransom demanded in 1961. “Tell P.I. Government to Pay P1,400,000 for Rizal manuscripts or I will send them to the fire” was the threatening message written using
letters from newspaper headlines pasted on bond paper. This was later discarded by the police as a prank because the fingerprints on the display cases from which the manuscripts were stolen did not match those on the ransom note.
Rereading the newspaper reports on this sensational theft makes for a rib-tickling hour. Police investigators regaled the press with a multiple-choice set of hypotheses on the crime: It was an inside job by culprits familiar with the Library building; it was done by “mentally deranged persons” who wanted to project themselves into the limelight by stealing the manuscripts; it was done by “an expert international thief”; it was the work of a prankster who wanted to copy or outdo reported thefts of important paintings in Europe; it was undertaken as a publicity stunt by an individual or group meant to dramatize the five-day International Congress on Rizal ongoing at the time; it was done by “diehard Rizalists” who wanted to own the manuscripts, or those who worshipped Rizal as a god; it was done by people who wanted to sell the manuscripts or demand ransom for their return; it was part of a plan to destroy all of Rizal’s original works.
Meanwhile, in Congress, Speaker Daniel Z. Romualdez filed a bill providing for a fireproof, bombproof, and theftproof safe that would preserve all the historical manuscripts precious to the nation. What was to be revealed in early 1962 was a negotiation between the thieves and Education Secretary Alejandro R. Roces, who was able to retrieve, without paying a centavo of ransom, the original “Ultimo Adios” that he presented to Diosdado Macapagal as his early Valentine’s gift to the president and the nation. Roces recounted that when he met the thieves to confirm that they had the manuscripts, they brought with them, like proof of life in kidnap situations, the original “Ultimo Adios” rolled in ruled pad. He asked to examine the document and when it was handed to him, he put it in his shirt pocket and calmly walked off. When the thieves protested, he replied that they still had the “Noli” and “Fili” anyway, so this was a token of goodwill.
In February 1962 the ransom for the “Noli” and “Fili” was set at P100,000. To cut a long story short, Roces was able to retrieve the “Fili” first and haggled the “Noli” price down to P5,000, yet the government refused to pay. Roces got the “Noli” back and in time the police arrested a certain Nilo Cabrido y Deza, 47, of 75 Sergeant Mariano Street, Pasay. He was a clerk at Swan, Culbertson and Fritz Brokers; a JRNCC laborer in April-May 1959; a high school graduate; married with six children. He was eventually convicted of the crime.
Makes me wonder how much the original “Noli,” “Fili” and “Ultimo Adios” will be worth today, and whether the theft would have been solved as easily and with flair by someone other than the flamboyant Alejandro R. Roces. The story is truth being stranger than fiction and deserves to be made into an indie.
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