Peter was fortunate to have come into extreme wealth while he was young enough to enjoy it. His father, Martin Crowner was part of the Andy Warhol “Factory” crowd of the 1960s to the 80s. Among his useful friends were famous artists such as Basquiat, Herring, and Banksy. They were not famous at the time, but Martin and his wife Perdy, had a hunch about the potential of some of these pop culture trendsetters. The two of them were vanilla and inconspicuous and could allow their artist friends to be in the spotlight.
Andy Warhol liked Martin and Perdy because they never fawned over him. Both were aware that Warhol had a cult following and anything he touched seemed to turn to gold. Martin watched to see who Warhol was courting and promoting. During this very prolific period, Martin quietly collected 28 art pieces, which he stored in a secure unit in Queens, New York.
When Martin died, Peter became acutely interested in his father’s past and made it his business to learn more about who he knew, what he knew, and how he came upon such a lucrative collection. Why had he kept his ownership of the paintings and the storage of them, to himself? Peter was relentless in his pursuit of nibbles of truth he could use as a jumping off point in his very private and personal investigation.
When he was a young boy, he recalled a man coming over to the house early in the morning asking his father to “come clean.”
The angry man must have asked the same question ten times, “Where are you keeping the artwork Peter?”
He recalls his father saying he had no idea what the man was talking about. This incident seemed to take place around the time that Warhol was shot in the stomach while working in his studio. Did his father have anything to do with the shooting? Peter had a vivid imagination and his parents revealed no clues.
There were parties at Peter’s house throughout his lonely childhood. He’d wake up and see people he’d never seen before sleeping on the sofa or outside on the pool deck; sometimes sprawled out in their unfinished basement. He often felt invisible as he curiously wandered among the seemingly dead bodies. His parents would wake and coax people to the front door — never an argument or fight.
Some returned for future parties and others were never to be seen again. Peter didn’t have a sense back then that their lives were any different than anyone else’s. What he did think was strange, however, was his father’s detachment. These people were all around them, but his father seemed more an observer than a participant and his mother appeared to be, just playing along.
Sometimes Peter would ask about certain people, “Why is that man dressed like a woman?
“Do you take drugs too daddy?
His parents always had the same answer, “Keep quiet Peter, nobody we know takes drugs — mind your own business.”
Martin worked in advertising. He would often run ideas by Perdy, who was interested, but oddly aloof. His father would get frustrated and say,
“Thanks Perdy, you’re always so helpful.”
Martin, ever the sarcastic prick. Perdy rarely paid any attention to what he said. Peter, forced to remain in the shadows.
Perdy died of ovarian cancer when Peter was 12 years old. No family was allowed to visit during her illness. Martin stayed with his wife day and night; she remained stoic till the end. A small funeral followed her death; Warhol, Edie Sedgwick and a few others he recognized stopped by the house to pay their respects. None of them recognizing Peter.
Martin had been a reserved man who faded into the background, but Perdy’s death amplified his insecurities. He mostly remained home when he wasn’t at work; pouring over papers and watching hours and hours of television, probably for the advertising. Peter stayed in his room; talking to his father was not an option and Peter had no idea what Martin was thinking.
Martin, a complicated man for sure, but how did he acquire all those paintings? Was he gifted the artwork? Did he steal them? Did he have proof that he was the rightful owner? Peter had to know the truth. He hoped he would eventually learn how it all went down.
But how would he get to the bottom of it? He could no longer ask his mother, his father didn’t seem to have any real friends; the artists whose paintings he inherited were all dead, and as far as he knew there was no provenance documentation. Peter couldn’t go public until he knew all the facts and he could prove ownership of the paintings.
Peter cold called dozens of artists who may have known someone who knew the artists who painted the pieces Martin had stored. After months of getting nowhere, he finally talked to a friend of Keith Haring. Gerry Parma was Haring’s lover back in the 80s. Gerry told Peter that Keith often spoke of Martin.
“Oh yea, Keith told me more than once, that your father was a power broker in the artworld and that he hoped Martin would help him become famous. This call led him to four or five people who all said the same thing about his father. One friend of a friend agreed to meet Peter for a drink.
A few days later Peter met Will Penbrook at The Chelsea Hotel. Will introduced him to a staff member who’d been at The Chelsea for forty five years. Ron said he knew Martin and Perdy fairly well.
“I knew both your parents. Sometimes your mother would show up to pick-up packages. I’m pretty sure they were paintings, but I’m not sure.”
Helpful, however, no answers to speak of. A year after the death of his father, Peter received a letter from Chase Bank. They told Peter that his father had a safe deposit box at the bank and they were inquiring as to whether or not Peter would be renewing the rental. Peter informed the bank that he was the sole recipient of the Crowner estate, but that he did not have a key to the box. In fact, he’d never heard about this safe deposit box. The Chase manager said that as long as he could verify that he was the sole heir, he could acquire the contents of the box.
The next day Peter went into Chase to clear out the safe deposit box; he had no expectations. When he opened the box he found several things: his mother’s jewelry which he assumed his father had sold after her death, a letter addressed to Peter and proof of ownership of all 28 paintings in storage. Peter walked out of the bank in a stupor. His father´s secrecy lingered even after his death. Why had he not told Peter about any of this? Peter decided to open the letter later that evening, where he could be in a quieter place with a gin martini, his father’s favorite.
Dear Peter,
I know you’re wondering why I didn’t make you aware of this letter sooner. My attorney was not very happy with me for handling the matter this way, but as you already know, I lived life on my own terms.
First, I want to apologize for my failures as a father. Early on in our lives, without meaning to, your mother and I became involved in a dangerous, cut throat world of schemers and thieves. It was a rabbit hole we had no choice but to protect you from.
I looked around me and saw dealers exploiting the art market by bidding higher than the paintings value, creating the illusion of a frenzied market, and then stockpiling paintings until the value exploded. I couldn’t sit by without finding a way to legitimately capitalize on it. I had to be very discreet and professional in order to gain the trust of those insecure, doped-up artists. Most of them had little or no talent, but every once-in-a-great while I witnessed raw talent I knew I could exploit. With the help of your mother, who became a trusted broker, we promised fame in exchange for a painting or two. My sole responsibility was to create buzz around an artist who had potential. Our inclusive parties, dinner engagements, and artist friends, all helped to boost the fame of a select few.
Your mother was cunning and always gracious. We acquired the paintings along with signed and notarized letters gifting the paintings to you Peter. Every painting in storage has provenance and enormous value. Over time I sold off the paintings I knew would never increase in value. At the time of the writing of this letter, the value (before taxes of course) of your paintings is over a billion dollars. All legitimate, all done without bloodshed. And you were not involved in a single transaction.
We loved you very much Peter. You were our only authentic creation. We protected you from the moment of your birth until we could no longer do so. I know this treasure trove will cause you consternation, but hopefully, over time you will come to enjoy the collection. Do with it what you wish; museums, sales, hang them in your home, give them away — you decide. For your mother and I, the thrill was in the acquisition. Neither of us had any regrets. If you don’t already know this by now, the world is made up of passive bystanders and ferocious capitalists. We were the latter, and we raised you to be the former. I hope you come to appreciate our selfish intentions.
Please destroy this letter after you read it. There are some secrets better kept hidden forever.
Love,
Dad
For several years, Peter struggled with the legacy his parents left behind. They weren’t thieves or murderers, but what they did was deceptive. It was his hope to grow his fortune and use it for good. He knew his father was right about the failings of humankind; he also knew that his own legacy would one day be admired.
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A reminder that the story is a work of fiction.
A few more days in Oslo, Norway and then back to Faro for the rest of the summer. Krakow, Poland in the fall and Bristol, England in the winter — didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t be traveling as much this year. Faro in the fall will be glorious (I just have to get through August; hopefully with a cool breeze off of the Ria Formosa).
My first time using AI. I typed in Harris versus Trump for president and this is what I got. I think Trump looks more like Trump. Let the games begin!
Papagni Pages 