Big art heists are
rarely successful, but the story out of New Mexico about one decidedly
unprofessional job is worth retelling.
In 1985, the day
after Thanksgiving, a painting by Willem de Koonig was stolen from the Museum
of Art at Tucson’s University of Arizona. Guards remembered, belatedly, a
couple who came in just after opening. The woman chatted with the guard, while
the man went upstairs. After only ten minutes—an unusually short time to spend
in an art museum—they left. Too late for license plates or other data to be discovered,
guards realized that “Woman-Ochre” by de Koonig was missing, cut out of its
frame. The painting was then valued at $400,00.
Years passed with
no sign of the painting, though museum officials hoped it would turn up one
day. Meanwhile in a small New Mexico town, an unremarkable couple went about
their daily routine. If I have the story right, he was a high school teacher,
and they lived modestly. Here’s the kicker: their names were Jerry and Rita
Alter.
Jerry Alter died
in 2012; his wife in 2017. A nephew, who sold their belongings at auction, said
the painting was hanging in a cheap commercial frame behind a door in the
bedroom. The only way to see it was to be in the bedroom with the door closed.
Nobody has mentioned motive, though it seems to me the couple must have been
fascinated by the painting. They did want to sell it or share; they just wanted
to gaze at it. Beats me, but I’m not a fan of abstract expressionist art.
When the Alters’
possessions were sold at auction, among them was this bold painting, vivid
colors and broad brush strokes, of a woman. A local furniture merchant bought the
lot at auction, because he was fascinated by the painting. But something about
it worried him. He did some online research and, finally, hesitantly, called
the museum. Confessing that he had little knowledge of fine art, he didn’t know
if he had a fake, a copy or what. Museum officials investigated: it was the
original, a bit small because it had been cut out of the frame, a bit cracked
because it had been rolled—presumably to get it out of the museum that long-ago
morning.
Long story short:
the painting, now estimated to be worth $100 million, was repaired, reframed,
and restored to its rightful place. The furniture dealer was hailed as a hero.
Of course, my
interest in the story came from the fact that the couple was named Alter. I
wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed by the couple’s boldness or appalled. I quick
called New York relatives, but they denied any knowledge of such a branch of
the family. And then I remembered the story my ex- told me. When his
grandfather came from Poland, his family name was so complicated and difficult
immigration authorities asked what he did for a living. He said he was a
tailor, and they said, “Okay, we’ll call you Alter.” Joel, a surgeon, later
capitalized on that by having a T-shirt made that read, “Alterations by Alter.”
So there is was—our
brush with notoriety. I guess I’m glad there’s no connection. Who wants to be
related to art thieves, major or minor.
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