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Manhattan art gallery owners and assistants are often quite gracious. Nobody would ever misconstrue me for an art buyer, not even at an affordable art fair. I have “child of the working-class” and “middle-school teacher” written all over me. Yet, exuding my Midwestern good cheer and curiosity, I have often been met by gallery personnel who were more than willing to spend time explaining pieces to me, knowing full well I had no intention of buying.

Therefore, I was not surprised during a recent Asian Art Week when a gallery assistant wandered up to me to explain the head of a Buddha I was looking at intently. It was an antiquities gallery, specializing in the art of South and Southeast Asia. When I first saw it, it reminded me of late 19^th/early 20^th century German expressionist sculpture. To think that an artist had created it hundreds of years previously!

This gallery assistant, a handsome, young gentleman, was full of pride, a wide smile on his face, as he informed me that what I was looking at was the head of a Gandharan emaciated or “starving” Buddha.

“It’s from the Gandhara area and period,” he began.

“Alexander the Great got as far as South Asia in his conquests and the art from the Gandhara region, now in Pakistan, reflects the influence of Greek art on what was being produced in that area, at that time. During the Gandhara period some artists portrayed the Buddha as they thought he must have looked while fasting as a means of using self-mortification to try to gain enlightenment.”

I interrupted, “It’s the expression in his eyes that seems most remarkable to me. It’s a look of inner discovery. Is this a unique expression of the exact moment when the Buddha realized that which allowed his liberation? The moment of his big discovery…If so, it’s a work of art which physically asserts that there is a fulfilment for a journey of enlightenment.”

The assistant shook his head slightly and politely said, “Well, that’s a good guess. But, actually, legend has it that the Buddha was close to dying due to his self-mortification and a little girl named Sujata offered him a bowl of milk-rice which he gratefully accepted and drank, realizing that a middle path was much more preferable to the path of mortification. If the gaze shows inner discovery, it would be the discovery of the middle path; denying your bodily needs is not necessary for enlightenment.”

He looked quite dapper, actually, in a stylish dark suit and purple silk tie. It was nice to sometimes interact with these sorts of guys instead of my fellow teachers with their wrinkled shirts and rolled up sleeves, wearing gaudy ties they got from their students for Christmas. He really enjoyed talking about his gallery’s acquisitions and continued. I loved it.

“There are many happy Buddhas. Buddhas after enlightenment. For some reason, during the Gandhara period, they decided to show the Buddha during his struggle. Very Hellenistic. This is sculpture that embraces the process that the Buddha engaged in, the pain he endured to overcome…” he paused, “…whatever he overcame, and to achieve Nirvana. The inner vision conveyed in this piece makes this piece a masterpiece. One of the rarest works of Gandharan art that we have ever handled. Some of the most sophisticated curators and collectors in the world are coming to see this one piece.”

“One question,” I needed to ask, “Why do you have that sign under the head stating there are to be no photos? Wouldn’t you want everyone to see this piece? I mean, this is a piece that can promote the ideal of mindfulness and an emergent higher quality that can appear.”

He chuckled and looked just slightly uncomfortable. He seemed to be scanning my face with a forced smile to determine whether I already knew the answer or not. I must have looked completely innocent (and I was).

“We know this piece is going to sell. We don’t need to put images of it out there. We are confident that a person who walks in here representing a collection or museum will swoop this up. Hopefully we can sell to a museum directly so it can be publicly viewed. Also, I cringe thinking of the selfies that might be taken in front of this work. Sacrilege.”

Fair enough, I thought, gullible and trusting guy I once was. In any case, the assistant was kind to me, a really sweet guy and seemed to like me a bit, and he took me around to speak about some of the other masterworks on display. But before I left, I knew I had to try something.

“You know,” I started awkwardly, “I have to get a photo of that head. I can’t just describe it adequately. I can develop an entire 40-minute class around this head with a writing assignment. I have to show this to my students. This is one of the greatest works of art I have ever seen.”

His mood changed noticeably as he looked at me askance, no longer revealing his amiable and charming smile.

“Sir, I have already informed you that nobody will take a photo of this work. This piece is not going to be plastered all over the internet by people who do not understand its significance. Now, I was very kind to you. If you are a gentleman, you will leave as I have other things to do now.”

I was grateful for the time he had accorded me, and I was stunned that I had irritated him. His affability just evaporated like that. I tried to apologize but then thanked him and quickly walked out of the gallery space.

I fell into quite a dour mood as I walked slowly away from the gallery, so I did not notice that a man followed me almost immediately, catching me by a stairway. He was laughing. He was just as dapper, if not more so, than the assistant, I would guess about 60, slim, agile. This guy looked as if he had been born elegant, chic and dashing.

“You really don’t know why there are to be no photos?” he asked with genuine humor, in a slight French accent.

“I’ll take him for his word,” I said.

“So amusing. You will take an employee of one of the world’s most prominent art plunderers at his word. This is too much. You are just too drôle, young man.”

“I’m happy I brought some joy into your life.”

“No, just amusement. Yes, you are every inch the teacher. Déformation professionnelle. So straight-forward and unassuming. You want to show a starving Buddha head to a group of students. Just wonderful. I think I was like that, once. I want to offer you a cup of coffee at the café nearby. I think you’ll find what I tell you to be of immense interest since you seem open to learning what middle-school teachers are usually not allowed to learn. I will be your serpent, you will be my dove. We will defy convention. Forge an unholy alliance.” Sounded good. I went with him.

He introduced himself as another art plunderer. 

“You must be able to imagine the pleasure I have in possessing objects like these. You can imagine. This is why you go to museums and galleries. You are looking for something that resonates with your understanding, maybe helps you understand yourself a bit more, provides an image for some insight. That affirms your faith, maybe.

“I, too, understand what is being conveyed in these objects, but I now have the means to possess them. That’s the real gratification. To be the one person in the world who will possess the object of revelation. To own it and say to yourself, I understand this rare, irreplaceable masterpiece and it is mine.

“I am sure you saw the Maltese Falcon. They did not care about the gold, they cared about the falcon created in Malta during a particular historical era by artists who invested great belief and spiritual insight into the piece.

“Believe me, and I do not mean to denigrate the profession of middle-school teacher, but if you had money, my friend, you would be buying too. You have mastered step one. You love art deeply and you generally get the meaning. Step two is to buy. There is no more glorious feeling. The real purpose of the creation of art is for someone to possess the object of art. Museums are a new invention. From the time that art was first created it was meant to satisfy the desire to individually own beautiful and meaningful objects.”

I said, “If I recall my James Frazer correctly, people might have prayed to this type of emaciated statue to bring about a good harvest or rainfall. Sometimes people fast before a planting as a magical way to increase the output. Some kind of inverted magical principle, the more I deny myself the more abundant the harvest will be. You are taking this important community asset away.”

He countered, “The temple has been abandoned. It has been picked through and is rubble. Some desperately poor folks looking to make money chop the heads off of these Buddhas at long abandoned temples. If they kept the statuary intact and in place, what good would that do? Have you ever been to Angkor Wat? Let me tell you, the people who go there do not know Visnu from Shiva. They want something eye-popping, nice photos. What they see stops at the retina. If this statue remained in South Asia, you might get rich tourists to see it, but they would walk away with nothing.”

“It’s illegal.” I said.

He could not contain a laugh. This whole discussion was a delight for him. Another sweet guy, two in one day for my joy journal.

“Humphrey Bogart will chase after me? Wonderful. I think I can handle Bogey. To illegally own one of these pieces is even better. The law has no business in this matter. Occasionally they find a piece that gets ‘returned’ to a country. Let’s pick Cambodia. Let’s say they find a piece in the Met Museum that poor folks took from a temple and Cambodia demands the piece back.

“Why should it be returned? Ancient Khmer society looked nothing like modern Cambodia. What right does a military dictator, who has kept his people living in dirt while he lined his own pockets, have to demand that a priceless work of art go from one of the most prestigious art museums in the world to that rather dingy place where they keep art in Phnom Penh, which we, the French, built in 1921 anyway. It was the French who saved Khmer art through our “plunder,” the French who dug Angkor Wat out of the ground. Henri Mouhot died of a spider bite after discovering this cash cow for a despot’s tourist industry. But the masterpiece goes back to a dictator, former Khmer Rouge officer.”

He was having too much fun. He had what he considered an intelligent and possibly sympathetic audience that looked to him as an expert and he could vent a little.

He raised his eyebrows and looked at me directly with a wide smile on his face.

“Listen, let’s have some fun.”

He took out a little notebook and pen. He jotted something down.

“Here is the name of the person from the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office who arrests the various art plunderers he can catch who sell during this week. He can’t catch everyone, mostly he hardly catches anyone. He makes a good living and has become famous so he’s happy. A cushy job.

“Just because they see a Buddha head that was separated by hammer from a stone body does not mean they can arrest the seller. They have to identify where the Buddha head came from first. They have to do a lot of things. By the time they do all that, the piece is sold and gone.

“My friend, for example, there is an emaciated Buddha in the Met Museum with its head knocked off. The head is probably in another museum, or someone’s villa. They can’t possibly trace all of this stuff. But here is the name of the DA. I know you are a moral person, a do-gooder. You like the idea of righting wrongs.

“Go online, you can find his office phone number and email address. Here’s what I dare you to do. Return to that gallery in 2 hours, when it reopens after lunch, and take a photo of the head. Then email it to this DA. Let’s see what happens. I bet nothing, he’s already had his publicity and photo shoots for the week, he’ll let this slide. The assistant can’t stop you from taking a photo at the gallery. That guy had the audacity to kick you out. Now it’s tit for tat. You have nothing to fear. You are a burly guy. Just because he puts a piece of paper up that says ‘no photos’ means you can’t take photos? Nonsense. Go back and get a photo and send it to the DA. But I want to be there too, and I will assist you if you have any difficulties. But you won’t, you have a physical presence, he’ll be shocked and scared.”

“Deal,” I said.  

Two hours later, my cell phone in hand, I walked up the steps of the gallery complex to get the possible evidence of a stolen antiquity of immense value. I had stressed-out and fretted the previous two hours, imagining what I would do in regard to any resistance from the gallery assistant. I actually became afraid that I, myself, might get thrown in jail for disturbing the peace. Whom would the NYPD favor, a dapper guy in an Italian suit or a teacher from the Bronx? I knew the answer. It makes the cops feel important to suck up to and do the dirty work of the Italian suit crowd. In any case, the art plunderer had promised to be there too. Maybe I would go there and do nothing. Maybe I would take the photo. I was not sure what would happen.

When I arrived, the gallery was still closed but the assistant and the art plunderer were there – let me call him Pilleur, which means plunderer in French. Monsieur Pilleur smiled broadly and motioned for me to come in. It started to dawn on me that all of this was his form of a joke.

“Welcome to our dear schoolteacher,” he said.

The assistant, now courteous again, bowed slightly to me and with an ironic smile on his face informed me that he regretted his display of temper and was deeply sorry for unceremoniously booting me out the door of his gallery.

“Regrettable. The stress and pressure of this type of job,” he said. “Ah, but I do have news you will enjoy hearing. We sold the Gandharan Buddha head.”

“To a museum with a French accent?” I asked.

He chuckled. “No, this piece is too expensive and too risky for most museums. They prefer public auctions, actually. This can’t go to auction. The museums will have to wait for the buyer to drop dead, then it might go to a museum if he is benevolent enough and folks are sure the head can’t get them into trouble.”

Monsieur Pilleur joined in, “I assure you that this piece will be offered to a world-class museum even before I drop dead. Yes, sincerely. I give you my word, because of you, this will reach the light of day. I want to live with it for a while, but if I am able to, I will donate it and derive incredible gratification knowing that good people like you will be deeply affected by it. Ironically, however, the art cops make objects like this head disappear. If a museum is afraid to take it, it goes to someone else like me.

“Anyway, I was jesting. I meant no offense, I envy your sincérité. It is so ennuyeux dealing with fellow plunderers.”

“So I guess you cordial fellows won’t mind me snapping a photo after all?” I asked, raising my phone in front of the bust. “It would be so nice to have a memento.” They could see the image of the emaciated Buddha head on the screen of the phone.

They paused. “Just because you have a sign that says ‘No photos!’ doesn’t mean anything. You wouldn’t think of getting your Ferragamo suits torn trying to deter me, would you?”

Pilleur looked quite déconcerté. Now it was my turn to be as magnanimous as a guy from the working class could be.

I moved the phone away from the bust and reassured him, “Don’t worry, now I’m jesting. Everything you told me was in confidence. I do not betray anyone’s confidence, although I am really tempted to in this case. I learned a great deal of forbidden knowledge, that’s what I live for. Even if I were to take a photo, I would have no intention of denouncing my friendly serpent to some DA who should, perhaps, be arresting corrupt politicians instead.”

“Glad to hear you say this, teacher.” Pilleur nodded, smiling again.

I never saw Pilleur again, I have no idea who he was nor where he lived. But I saw the gallery assistant occasionally at Thursday night Chelsea openings. During one gallery opening he told me a remedy for gout after expressing surprise that I sometimes suffered from it.

“Teacher, only members of the high nobility get gout, have you checked your lineage closely? You should get your DNA record.”

Coincidentally, his dad also suffered periodic bouts of gout. “Potassium citrate powder, my friend,” he said, “is the best possible preventative for this blight of the advanced social classes, and middle school teachers.”