“This is an extraordinary tale from my secret life as an art consultant,” began Professor Kenneth Bartlett, facing a group of wide-eyed history students in a dimmed Sidney Smith classroom. Ten years ago, Bartlett was sitting in his office when he received an ominous phone call from Montréal. A stranger with a British accent said, “We have something that might interest you.” This was a colleague of Paul Biro, an art restorer who received worldwide media coverage when he contentiously determined that Teri Horton’s five-dollar thrift store find was an original Jackson Pollock worth $50 million. Intrigued, Bartlett immediately hopped on a plane to Montréal. He was about to undertake a secret quest that would send him on a cross-continental hunt for answers.
The saga began in the United States in 1990, when brothers Paul and Lazlo Biro purchased a masterful reproduction of Raphael’s Madonna della Sedia (Madonna of the Chair) in a gilded circular frame (a tondo). Although it was sold to them as an 18th century replica, the Biros immediately recognized it as a product of the 16th century. The frame measured five by five feet, weighing a hefty thirty-five kilograms. The painting depicts Mary holding the child Christ while John the Baptist looks on devoutly. These figures are the same size as those in the original, but surrounded by more negative space, with a slight difference in tone.
Contrary to what they had been told at the time of the purchase, the Biros discovered that the frame was in fact a 16th century creation, re-gilded in the 19th century. “There are very few 16th century frames that survive, and the only ones that do survive tend to be on circular pictures,” explained Bartlett. “The tondo frames are so expensive to make that they rarely get replaced.” The dealers may have had a talent for finding valuable artifacts, but they could not conduct the research. Professor Bartlett was called to lend his expertise, after signing a confidentiality agreement.
There are some indications of who painted the replica. An x-ray showed that the image was not made by tracing, meaning that the artist must have had extensive knowledge of Raphael’s original painting. Ultraviolet and laser light was used to examine the surface. Astonishingly, a unique monogram appeared once on the back, and a second time on the front, masked within the right armrest of the Madonna’s chair. This was the monogram of Raphael’s youngest pupil, Perino del Vaga.
The best was yet to come. Ingeniously hidden in secret compartments surrounding the massive frame were five artifacts, some older than Raphael. After being kept a secret for centuries, they were about to be revealed.
The first object was discovered at the very bottom of the frame’s back. Within a tightly packed space, the Biro brothers discovered a Roman glass beaker from Syria or Palestine, dating back to the 1st or 2nd century.
Strangely, the glass showed no signs of efflorescence (brown stains typical of old glass, due to a chemical reaction). With traces of colour at the bottom, the obvious assumption was that the beaker was used to hold paint. But a forensic examination came to an eerie conclusion: the colour was from ultramarine, a complex mineral pigment used as an antidote for poison.
The find was made even more confounding upon discovery that this exact beaker is featured prominently in Raphael’s painting, The Mass at Bolsena, centrally placed at the base of a candelabrum at the altar. Where did this object come from? And why was it hidden within the frame?
Paranoid of theft, the financiers insisted that the objects be kept in a bank vault. Frequent location and temperature changes could easily damage the antique frame, they argued, but their efforts to persuade Bartlett were unsuccessful. Eventually, their fears became a reality. A gold acorn was detaching from the front of the frame. Rather than waiting for it to break or get lost, they decided to surgically remove it. Hidden underneath was a luxurious 16th century silverpoint pen.
Covered in gold, the pen was too expensive to be a simple artist’s tool. And most significantly, scribbled on its shaft was the Medici coat of arms. This was the emblem of the powerful banking family that had ruled Florence for centuries.
“The first object was found purely by accident, and the second was largely as well,” Professor Bartlett explained. “But then we realized that the frame probably contained other things.”
At the top of the frame was a T-shaped hanger. They discovered that the nails in the hanger were too short to support thirty-five kilograms, so the device must have had another purpose. While prodding the hanger with a surgical probe, they uncovered a tightly-rolled paper from the 16th century. Inside was a lock of light brown hair.
The paper had an ink drawing on it. It was a young boy wearing a 16th century cap. Excluding the eyes, all facial features were anatomically correct. Bartlett suggested that this could be a self-portrait: “Whoever drew this probably had to look in a mirror. His eyes kept shifting from the paper to the mirror, making them more difficult to draw.” The boy bore a remarkable resemblance to a young Raphael. “We might have one of Raphael’s earliest drawings, if he drew it as a child.”
Realizing that the frame could be a treasure trove, it was sent to the Canadian Conservation Institute for further x-rays, where another breakthrough was made. A tear vial, containing residue from sand and blood, was extracted from the frame. Like the beaker, it is from the 1st or 2nd century. “We asked if it was human or animal blood, but they could not tell us.”
Determined to look within the frame, the scholars drove to various institutions to find the right x-ray and sonogram machines. Each time, they were turned away. But Paul Biro would not give up, even if he had to build a machine himself. So that’s exactly what he did.
The Perinoscope is a small magnetized device highly sensitive to sound—so sensitive that it can only be operated at four in the morning. For weeks Biro examined every inch of the frame.
“It was 4:30 in the morning, I was sound asleep and Paul called me, extremely excited,” recalled Bartlett. “He told me he found a cavity and that he was going to drill into it! ‘No!’ I said, ‘Don’t drill! Call the police! Do anything else, just don’t drill!’ Paul may be a genius, but patience is not his strong suit. He located a point and drilled a hole into the frame.”
Underneath was a white piece of paper that had not seen light in 500 years. It was a letter, dictated by Raphael to a scribe, dated April 5, 1520. Written in Italian, and addressed “from Rome” to an unknown destination, he writes that his “enemy has won,” and ends the letter with “it is finished,” similar to the last words of Christ. The document also makes reference to the blood of Saint Longinus: the first century martyr who pierced Christ’s side while he was hanging on the cross. Could this be the blood in the tear vial? A smudge at the bottom of the page indicates a failed attempt to sign his name. Raphael was dead the next day.
What was Raphael trying to say in this cryptic letter? “This could be an insight into a complex and brilliant mind,” suggested Bartlett. “Or it could be the incoherent ravings of somebody on his death bed.” Even more mysteriously, no one seems to know where his pupil Perino was on the night of his death. Presumably, this letter would be addressed to him. Did Perino receive the letter? Is he the one that put the objects in the frame as a tribute to his master? Reluctant to believe this, Bartlett searched for an alternative explanation.
Three hundred years after his death, the myth of Raphael took hold of romantic Europe. Aristocrats fell in love with the artist during the 19th century and rapaciously collected his work. “The cult of Raphael was huge,” Bartlett explained. “This could be a 19th century compilation of materials; a romantic honouring of Raphael and his young pupil. The whole thing could have been an imaginary relationship that somebody took to the next level.” Planting ancient artifacts in a frame for your own amusement? Is this the work of a rich, crazy genius?
There was only one person who might have known the answer: 19th century Florentine gilder Luigi Ceccherelli. He was the last man who had access to the frame, and would certainly know how to take it apart. Ceccherelli was listed as one of the jurors in the Italian National Exhibition of 1861. Other than that, there exists no record of him. “So we got a telephone book and phoned every Ceccherelli,” recalled Bartlett. “They all thought we were crazy. We could find nothing.” Regardless, there is no evidence that the frame was ever taken apart.
Sadly, the project’s financier has passed away, and the project has been put on hold. “The whole situation became very complicated, having to do with the publication of the results,” Bartlett confessed. There remains a level of secrecy and many unresolved issues that need to be determined by the owner before they can move on to the level of publication.
Instead of getting answers, Bartlett is stuck with more questions: Why were these artifacts hidden in the frame? Are they meant to pay tribute to Raphael? Where were they until the 19th century? What “enemy” is Raphael referring to in his letter?
All of these questions are enough to overwhelm any historian, and Professor Bartlett jokingly admits that it left him “in a state of constant hyperventilation.”
With the frame alone valued at upwards of six figures, one might consider a conspiracy driven by profit. But then wouldn’t the artifacts be easier to find, and the letter easier to interpret? It is unlikely that any of these items were ever meant to be found.
