Episode #72: Art Auction Audacity-- Rothko's No. 6 (Violet, Green, and Red) (Season 8, Episode 4)
In our eighth season, we’re exploring examples of some of the most expensive artworks ever sold at auction considering why they garnered so much money, and discovering their backstories. Today: Mark Rothko’s No. 6 (Violet, Green, and Red).
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Episode Credits:
Production and Editing by Kaboonki. Theme music by Alex Davis. Logo by Dave Rainey. Additional writing and research by Jordan McDonough.
ArtCurious is sponsored by Anchorlight, an interdisciplinary creative space, founded with the intent of fostering artists, designers, and craftspeople at varying stages of their development. Home to artist studios, residency opportunities, and exhibition space Anchorlight encourages mentorship and the cross-pollination of skills among creatives in the Triangle.
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Recommended Reading
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Links and further resources
Artsy: “Mark Rothko on How to Be an Artist.”
The New York Times: “Art: The Painter As Professor.”
Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art: “Silence Is So Accurate”: Thinking about Mark Rothko.”
Forbes Magazine: “Steve Cohen's Modigliani In The Middle Of An Art Market War: Billionaire Rybolovlev vs Yves Bouvier.”
The New Yorker: “The Art-World Insider Who Went Too Far.”
Episode Transcript
Have you ever looked at a postcard of a destination and wondered if a place could actually be as beautiful in person as it is depicted? Geneva, Switzerland is one of those postcard-worthy places that not only meets but exceeds the expectations of the beauty advertised. Surrounded by a landscape of massive, snow-capped mountains reflected on a serene glassy lake, grazing cattle with oversized bells strung around their necks, and quaint shops lined up on cobblestone roads-- all of it makes you wonder if you fell into a fairy tale. But this prosperous and picturesque city also houses a place that starkly contrasts its scenic surroundings. Near the banks of Lake Geneva stands the Geneva Freeport, a compound made up of seven unadorned, beige warehouses and a large grain silo surrounded by a tall chain link fence. This rather unassuming eyesore has been in use as a storage facility for almost 150 years, since 1888, when it was a mere row of shacks. Since then, however, it has grown tenfold and claims an international elite clientele as its users, who move beyond the chain link fence and underneath its concrete exterior to house hundreds of billions of dollars worth of goods--including fine art. The Geneva Freeport is an untaxed territory, a tax haven eternally untouched by otherwise strict financial laws. For many, it just makes sense-- because the ultra-wealthy want to save money as much as make money, right? But even a quiet, low-key institution like the Geneva Freeport can get tied up in an international scandal involving--of course--one of the most expensive paintings ever sold at auction.
Some people think that visual art is dry, boring, lifeless. But the stories behind those paintings, sculptures, drawings and photographs are weirder, more outrageous, or more fun than you can imagine. In season eight, we’re going deep on the stories behind the most expensive works ever sold at auction, including this tale about the so-called Bouvier Affair and Mark Rothko’s painting No. 6 (Violet, Green, and Red). This is the ArtCurious Podcast, exploring the unexpected, the slightly odd, and the strangely wonderful in Art History. I'm Jennifer Dasal.
Mark Rothko’s reverent, relaxing, and entrancing color field paintings are probably one of the last works of art that one would assume would get caught up in a dirty art world scandal. If you have ever had the privilege to experience a Rothko in person--one of my personal favorite modern artists, by the way--then you would know the soothing and hypnotizing effect that one of his large, color-blocked canvases possesses. Much of the time, a work by this mid-20th century artist is shown in a dimly-lit room with benches arranged in front of the canvases. It creates a space that is quiet, contemplative, and restful. Although his color choices are occasionally bright, striking, or even discordant, the subtle blend of Rothko’s hues captivates and invites the viewer into a holy realm. I often feel something akin to a meditative quality when I view a Mark Rothko painting-- so for me, “holy” just makes sense, emotionally. And indeed, I’m not alone in this idea: in Houston, Texas Rothko was even commissioned to create works for a chapel that, just like any religious chapel, is set up with lines of benches as if for worship, but instead of stained glass, icons, or statues of saints or gods, there are instead several large color field paintings. And you either love or hate the Rothko Chapel (guess which side I’m on). For me, these paintings have the power to transport us, as viewers, into a sacred and elevated realm, to open the mind to the divine-- and indeed, this was one of Mark Rothko’s main goals: to create a modern vision of the ethereal, to arouse feeling and emotion in the viewer simply by an abstract rendering of color on a canvas. And Rothko’s painting, titled, No. 6 (Violet, Green, and Red), was no exception to this lofty ideal. It depicts exactly what the title infers- which are violet, green, and red fields of color, artfully spaced and blended to create an awe-inspiring piece. But this is no ordinary painting, because this painting would eventually be sold for a record-breaking price of $186 million dollars back in August 2014. Three colors. One canvas. $186 million dollars. How did this work garner such a huge amount, and why? And what is the art world scandal behind it?
Before we answer all of these questions, let’s get a little bit of background on the artist himself. Mark Rothko was born Markus Rothkowitz in Latvia (then under Russian control) in 1903 to Jewish parents, but grew up with a strained and complex relationship with religion. After his father died when he was very young, young Rothkowitz was heartbroken, and he vowed never to enter a synagogue again. But as we now know, the spiritual still called to this artist, and would play a central role in his art career later in life. After his family emigrated from Latvia to Portland, Oregon in 1913, Rothko struggled to find his direction, though he was an excellent student. He first worked at a warehouse under the supervision of his uncle before receiving a scholarship to attend Yale University, where he longed to study both science and the liberal arts. But when his scholarship was not renewed the following year, Rothkowitz dropped out. But art called to him still, and eventually he found himself in New York City, where he joined the Art Students’ League and enrolled at Parsons, The New School of Design. It was the Art Students’ League that made the most impression on the young artist, as it was there that he was instructed by both the abstract artist Arshile Gorky and by Cubist artist Max Weber, a fellow Lithuanian Jew who was part of the French avant-garde movement. With these artist’s influence and keen eye, Rothko began to view art in his own life as a way to feel emotion and open up the once closed world of religious devotion. His thirst for new, expressive art was quenched with the influence of the German Expressionist and the emerging New York art scene. He met artists such as Adolph Gottlieb, Barnett Newman, Joseph Solman, and John Graham, who were all part of a group surrounding the artist Miton Avery. It was Avery who heavily influenced Rothko’s own artistic style and who, according to biographer James E. B. Breslin, quote, “gave Rothko the idea that [the life of a professional artist] was a possibility.”
With his newfound artistic community connections, he began showing work at various galleries in New York. But these early works bear little resemblance to the works for which he is lauded today. Instead of his famous color field paintings, these works were muted, urban, and figural—scenes that emulated more childlike and minimal styles. It’s been noted that during this period, Rothko had begun teaching art to children at the Center Academy, Brooklyn Jewish Center where he remained until 1952. He may have been inspired by the juvenile artwork that his students were producing, possibly adapting his own artistic style to match their simple, natural styles. Simultaneously, he was motivated by the New York art scene that was growing up and around the Great Depression, where he joined forces with other progressive New York-based artists, like Ilya Bolotowsky, Ben-Zion, Adolph Gottlieb, Lou Harris, Ralph Rosenborg, and others. Together, they called themselves “The Ten” and produced experimental and modern work during an exceptionally difficult time in our nation’s history.
And it was a stretch of time that remained a difficult one for Rothkowitz personally, too. Like many during the Depression, he struggled to make ends meet, and when World War Two dawned, things didn’t improve for him, either-- and in fact, he feared that a tide of anti-Semitism was going to worsen his experiences in the U.S. So this is when Markus Rothkowitz officially changed his name to Mark Rothko to sound more “American.” Either it made a huge difference, or perhaps he didn’t have to worry so much, because the 1940s actually proved to be a turning point in Rothko’s artistic career for the better, because it was in the latter part of the decade that he developed what would become known as his “color field” paintings. To achieve an effect of illuminated color, Rothko would stain his canvases by applying thin layers of paint, one on top of the other. These gentle layers could then be seen through one another, creating a sensation of depth and luminosity, like the works were lit from deep within. And when produced in a larger format-- as many of Rothko’s works were, they can arouse deep emotions in us, the viewers. It’s mystifying, in so many ways, because these paintings are abstract-- washes of color, unbeholden to form or narrative. And maybe it is exactly this simplicity that makes his works so powerful: they are, as Rothko himself wrote in a letter to the New York Times in 1943, quote, “...a simple expression of a complex thought.”
Rothko was closely associated with the Abstract Expressionists’ ideal that basic shapes and lines and pure color could evoke intense emotion and feeling. But unlike other Abstract Expressionists of the time, Rothko did not violently splatter paint onto his canvases-- he was no Jackson Pollock-- nor did he carve thick slabs of paint around-- he was no Willem de Kooning, either. Instead, he was rather quiet, contemplative, and meditative when he would paint-- almost as if painting was a spiritual practice for him. And indeed, he also wanted to create a space within his art to allow for the viewer’s spiritual edification, too. As he once said, quote: “the people who weep before my pictures are having the same religious experience I had when I painted them.” Rothko did not want the viewers to interpret his works so much as to experience them; in response to his compositions filled with amorphous shapes and glowing hues, he noted, quote, “Silence is so accurate.”
Fast forward a few decades and silence was not only accurate but also proved to be destructive in the affairs between Swiss art dealer Yves Bouvier and his Russian oligarch client, Dmitry Rybolovlev, Yves Bouvier was a man who transformed his father’s business of art transport at the Geneva Freeport and turned it into an elite hub for storing and shipping artwork. Shipping art is not the most glamorous job in the art supply chain, but it is definitely an incredibly important one, one that not only requires the utmost in care and organization, but also the height of discretion. Picture this: you’re an art transit agent, and you’re privy to sensitive information on a daily basis about what art is being shipped in and out, how much it is insured for, where it’s going, and who is potentially acquiring or selling the work. Much of this, naturally, is private information, but its value is understood: your knowledge, then, makes you a hugely important cog in the art machine. And it is here that Bouvier, under his rather unassuming role of art shipper, began to envision bigger and better things for himself. He especially fancied himself to be a burgeoning art dealer, and in 2002, a meeting with a big fish proved to be a most lucrative catch. That’s coming up next. Stay with us.
Welcome back to ArtCurious.
Yves Bouvier first became acquainted with the billionaire tycoon Dmitry Rybolovlev after the Russian proved himself to be a bit hapless in terms of his knowledge of the art market and how to manage art transactions. He was a burgeoning collector, and he traveled down to the Geneva Freeport to pick up a Chagall he had recently purchased and that had arrived via Bouvier’s transit organization. Bouvier, obviously more well-versed in art matters than his client, generously offered his advice and expertise. Their camaraderie blossomed, and soon, Bouvier was the sole art dealer for the oligarch-- an oligarch who, it must be noted, had millions of dollars in disposable income to invest in art.
And so it began. Bouvier did everything he could to impress his new client by presenting him with the best art on the market and even sponsoring an art show in Moscow, the first of its kind in Russia. Rybolovlev became more well-versed in both art history and his personal taste in art, and in those first few years, he purchased works with Bouvier’s help, adding works to his collection by Gustav Klimt, Amadeo Modigliani, Paul Gaugin, and Pablo Picasso (the star of the first episode of this season). He purchased 28 high-value works of between the years of 2008 and 2013, and let’s just say that both men were happy: Rybolovlev grew a kick-ass collection, and Bouvier made a 2% commission on every purchase, which really adds up when each of your sales is in the multi-millions. In the meantime, Bouvier was also able to open more freeports to support his art transport business, establishing outposts in both Singapore and Luxembourg. But something was a little off here-- because Bouvier’s 2% commission, while not peanuts by any means, wasn’t enough to generate as much income as Bouvier was actually receiving--and neither could his art transport business. But whatever, Rybolovlev was satisfied with his purchases and with that little 2% commission he paid upon every deal. That seemed good enough, at least at the start. But what Rybolovlev didn’t know was that Bouvier cut out all the middlemen typically engaged in art transactions, especially when it comes to historical--or older--works of art. Bouvier didn’t work with lawyers, appraisers, advisors, or insurers, insisting that he managed all aspects of the transaction. While that must have been some kind of reassurance to Rybolovlev at the start--like, wow, this Yves Bouvier guy is a one-stop shop, and I love how he is simplifying things!-- it actually meant that there were no checks-and-balances on Bouvier’s actions. There was no art appraiser or advisor to alert Rybolovlev to the price range of a potential acquisition. No lawyers to help sign on the dotted line. No one was around to ask if a price was fair, or made any sense. And this was the ridiculously easy way that Bouvier was able to exploit his client. Take, for example, one of Bouvier’s most audacious sales-- the purported Leonardo da Vinci panel, Salvator Mundi--itself the most expensive work of art ever sold at auction, to date, and one that, I must confess, we will not be addressing in this season of the podcast, for one very simple reason: it is covered as an entire chapter in my new book, ArtCurious: Stories of the Unexpected, Slightly Odd, and Strangely Wonderful in Art History, available now! Bouvier originally bought Salvador Mundi, for $75 million dollars, and then did the equivalent of house-flipping and turned around and sold it to Rybolovlev for $127.5 million dollars. Quick math: this made him a $52.5 million-dollar profit. Definitely more than a 2% commission. As journalist Agustino Fontevecchia reported in Forbes, Bouvier waived off this markup as part of an array of, quote, “administrative fees” and “used offshore companies to disguise his interventions.” And apparently it worked, at least at the outset, and he kept going: on a Klimt painting, Bouvier made a $60 million dollar profit, on a Picasso, $21.5 million dollars, and this trend continued until Bouvier dreamed up some truly sizeable dollar signs for yet another work of art: Mark Rothko’s No. 6.
Rothko’s No. 6 (Violet, Green, and Red) had long been in Bouvier’s sights, but the problem was that he didn’t have access to it. The coveted color field painting was owned by the Moueix family, a famed French wine-producing dynasty. Knowing that this masterpiece--one of Rothko’s best-- was part of their collection, Bouvier had been secretly cultivating a relationship with the family for years by buying their wine and other artworks from collection, all in hopes of one day acquiring their Rothko. There’s nothing wrong with this, really, as it’s part of donor cultivation for lots of gallerists, museums, and art dealers. But it does show Bouvier’s dogged determination to get access to the Rothko through the family. And in 2014, it finally paid off, when the family agreed to part with No. 6 for an astonishing amount of $80 million dollars. For a 20th-century painting, this was huge. But what Bouvier did next was even crazier. He offered the painting to Dmitry Rybolovlev at a truly jacked-up price of $189 million dollars, more than $100 million over his own purchase price. The gall of this guy, right?
The only real problem is that this transaction didn’t run as seamlessly as either dealer or buyer had originally anticipated or experienced in their previous interactions. First off, Rybolovlev decided that he wanted to sell some of his collection in order to finance this newer, bigger purchase. So he paid Bouvier an up-front sum of $20 million in cash and promised the rest of the money once Bouvier was able to sell Rybolovlev’s cast-offs. This proved to be difficult, because Bouvier wasn’t actually a really successful and acclaimed art dealer outside of Rybolovlev and a few other clients, so he didn’t really have the reputation needed to make such huge sales. And then things got worse: Rybolovlev was diagnosed with cancer and put the ongoing Rothko transaction on hold. Rybolovlev eventually recovered, but one can assume that the time that he stepped away from considering the Rothko was one that he spent contemplating it--and his connection with Bouvier. He rightly developed a weariness about the authenticity and integrity of his sole art dealer. He discovered, through mutual acquaintances, that a Modigliani he had purchased from Bouvier had been marked up by $24.5 million. Similarly, when an article in the New York Times celebrated Salvator Mundi and noted its estimated value as established by appraisers and art historians, Rybolovlev was shocked to read that he had paid $50 million dollars more than the work’s purported worth. I imagine this as one of those lightbulb-above-the-head, breaking-out-into-a-cold-sweat moments: Dmitry Rybolovlev realized that his art dealer was fraudulently costing him millions of dollars per each sale of art. And he was going to do something about it.
On January 9, 2015, Rybolovlev’s lawyers filed a criminal complaint against Bouvier for fraud, noting that through his multiple transactions with Rybolovlev, Bouvier had amassed $40 million through his agreed-upon commission fee, but had amassed over $1 billion dollars on upcharges and other sneaky fees. But the biggest question wasn’t easy to answer: was this manner of doing business actually illegal? The art market is, famously, a rather unregulated world that does not have many set “rules” to live by. Instead, it is set up on a pedestal of support that is comprised of prominent wealth, personal connection, and cultural norms, with things like market comparison and accuracy coming in second place. Art dealing has long been called a “gentleman’s trade,” one that is built on clientele trust and support. But Bouvier, it was argued, exploited that trust and support in order to make the most money possible. And many wondered: was this really even a problem?
Yves Bouvier was arrested on February 25, 2015 in the lobby of the Belle Époque hotel in Monaco and taken into custody, but bought his own bail for 10 million euro the next day. But Rybolovlev wasn’t about to let the matter lie, so he expanded his legal assault, suing Bouvier in Singapore as well as Europe, and insisted on freezing all of Bouvier’s assets across the globe, including in Paris and Hong Kong. Additional allegations followed that two Picasso portraits that the dealer sold to Rybolovlev in 2013 had actually been stolen from the artist’s stepdaughter Catherine Hutin-Blay, casting further suspicion on the dealer’s shady ways. Eventually, the majority of the pieces from Rybolovlev’s collection were handed to French police, including Rothko’s No. 6, the piece that proved to be the end of the Bouvier/Rybolovlev connection. But the legal actions are still swirling, the investigation is ongoing, and Bouvier is still not behind bars, save that previous arrest back in 2015. Naturally, he protests and maintains his innocence, telling an author for The New Yorker, Sam Knight, that it was not him--Bouvier-- but rather post-Soviet Russian culture that made Rybolovlev paranoid. To Knight, Bouvier said, quote, “If I tricked him, I’m not only the best art dealer in the world, I’m also a genius. I’m Einstein.” (Pause for me to an insert an eye-roll here). Even after Knight declared that while Bouvier might be able to win in court, he’d surely not be able to recover his good name and reputation. Bouvier’s response to this declaration? A simple one: “That will be my next challenge,” he quipped.
Considered one of the biggest art scandals in history, the so-called Bouvier Affair exemplifies the ugly side of the art world corrupted by greed, gluttony, and dishonesty. These kinds of multimillion-dollar dirty art deals starkly contrast with the beauty, integrity, and creativity of the artworks and acclaimed artists themselves. And it’s even more shocking when something like Mark Rothko’s No. 6 (Violet, Green and Red) is at the center of such a scandal. d was created to be a meditative sanctuary, but instead became a line on a long list of investment assets, with its unexpectedly sordid provenance overshadowing its amazingness. All of it makes me thankful that although we can’t personally view No. 6, there are a bunch of incredible Rothkos available and on view in public collections around the world. There, we can enjoy that serenity, that emotion, the feeling that the National Gallery of Art calls a “near-mythic power”...without having to pay millions of dollars to do so.
Thank you for listening to the ArtCurious Podcast. This episode was written, produced, and narrated by me, Jennifer Dasal, with writing and research help by Jordan McDonough (CONFIRMED). Our theme music is by Alex Davis at alexdavismusic.com, and our logo is by Dave Rainey at daveraineydesign.com.. Audio production services are provided by Kaboonki, the silliest name in superb podcasts and video. Let them help you too at kaboonki.com. The ArtCurious Podcast is sponsored primarily by Anchorlight. Anchorlight is a creative space, founded with the intent of fostering artists, designers, and craftspeople at varying stages of their development. Home to artist studios, residency opportunities, and exhibition space Anchorlight encourages mentorship and the cross-pollination of skills among creatives in the Triangle. Please visit anchorlightraleigh.com.
The ArtCurious Podcast is also fiscally sponsored by VAE Raleigh, a 501c3 nonprofit creativity incubator. We’re a fully independent podcast, and we rely on sponsors and donations to keep us going, so if you enjoy this show and have the means, please consider giving $10 to help this show, and thank you for your kindness. And if you don’t have money to give, that’s okay! You can help our show as well by leaving a five-star review on Apple Podcasts or wherever you listen-- believe me, it makes a huge difference and helps new listeners tune in. For more details about our show, including the image mentioned in this episode today, please visit our website: artcuriouspodcast.com. We’re also on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram at artcuriouspod. Check back in two weeks as we continue to explore the unexpected, slightly odd, and strangely wonderful in the most expensive works ever sold in art history.
