On March 18, 1990, two thieves stole over a half billion dollars worth of artwork from Boston’s Isabella Stewart Art Museum. Today this remains the world’s largest unsolved art robbery.
Podcast: Play in new window | Download
Subscribe: RSS
On March 18, 1990, two thieves stole over a half billion dollars worth of artwork from Boston’s Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Today this remain’s the world largest unsolved art robbery.
Podcast: Play in new window | Download
Subscribe: RSS
In 1961, an unemployed cab driver, Kempton Bunton, pulled off one of the most remarkable art thefts of the 20th century. Or did he?
Bunton’s mother named him Kempton Cannon Bunton after a British jockey, Kempton Cannon, who won the Epsom Derby only days before her son’s birth, June 14, 1904, a victory she financially backed. When asked about his unusual name, Bunton also always replied, “It’s Kempton as in Kempton Park racecourse,” as if to underscore his interest in such an edgy activity.
Arthur Wellesley, the First Duke of Wellington, became one of the most prominent military and political leaders of the British Empire during the first half of the nineteenth century. Despite spending approximately fifteen years in military posts that included the Netherlands and especially India, Wellesley remained an obscure commanding officer until his 1808 assignment to the Peninsula War, an extended conflict on the Iberian Peninsula combating Napoleonic occupation. This grueling struggle, combined with Napoleon’s disastrous 1812 invasion of Russia, depleted French military strength, and lead to France’s eventual capitulation. One of the key moments of the Peninsula War occurred when Wellesley, then the Earl of Wellington, achieved a decisive victory at Salamanca, which lead to the liberation of the capital, Madrid and the flight to Valencia of Joseph Bonaparte, titular king of Spain, and brother of Napoleon Bonaparte. The Earl entered the capital on August 12, 1812, at the head of his troops, the British hailed as liberators by Madrid’s grateful inhabitants. The Peninsula War dragged on laboriously until 1814 and the final collapse and abdication of Napoleon Bonaparte, but after Salamanca, Madrid was never reoccupied by French forces.
As a celebrity, Wellington, in the capital, crossed paths with Francisco de Goya, the Spanish Court Painter and a prominent member of official society in his own right. Goya was able to get the British commander to sit for a sketch and two other eventual paintings, an equestrian study and a remarkable portrait of Wellington, in scarlet uniform, festooned with numerous colorful decorations and a remarkably lifelike expression. Over time, as the historical prominence of both men grew, this portrait achieved a special stature denoting the interaction of one of Europe’s greatest artists with one of the continent’s most accomplished statesman and military leaders, a truly rare collaboration.
The initial controversy and subsequent national retention of such a uniquely British artifact generated massive publicity and anticipation when it was announced that the painting would be placed on display at London’s National Gallery, beginning August 2, 1961. For two and a half weeks, crowds averaging well over five thousand patrons daily, an unusual increase over the normal number of the museum’s visitors, flocked to see the newly acquired painting. To accentuate the stature of and to insure maximum accessibility for the throng of visitors eager to see the portrait, Goya’s Duke of Wellington was displayed on a portable easel, not in one of the museum’s rooms with other paintings but by itself, in a common area, in the North Vestibule of the Gallery. It also was loosely secured on the easel to allow for immediate removal in the event of fire or some other calamity. Then, on August 21, the painting vanished.
Podcast: Play in new window | Download
Subscribe: RSS
In 1961, an unemployed cab driver, Kempton Bunton, pulled off one of the most remarkable art thefts of the 20th century. Or did he?
Although Bunton was initially only charged with one count of larceny, the prosecution submitted an indictment that was much more severe. He was now charged with two counts of larceny, one for the painting, one for the frame, that was never recovered, and one charge of menacing for submitting letters to Lord Robbins demanding money. In addition, he was charged with creating a public nuisance by depriving citizens of their right to see the painting and with additional menacing, implying the potential threat to permanently keep or even destroy the artwork in his letter to the Mirrror. Breaking out the frame and the portrait theft charges separately and prosecuting Bunton for inconveniencing the public, certainly seemed like a case of overcharging, however the prosecution might have been concerned about a jury’s reaction to an oddball like Bunton, especially where charity was supposedly involved and they may have wished to underline the gravity of the offence.
On November 4, 1965, in the Central Criminal Court, Kempton Bunton’s trial began before Judge Carl Aarvold, a distinguished jurist eventually knighted for his public service. The court was known by its nickname, Old Bailey, the site of numerous famous and sensational court cases involving many famous defendants. Its marble floors, ornate décor and fine wooden walls evoked the image of a British courtroom popularized throughout the world in film and television.
Although Bunton was initially only charged with one count of larceny, the prosecution submitted an indictment that was much more severe. He was now charged with two counts of larceny, one for the painting, one for the frame, that was never recovered, and one charge of menacing for submitting letters to Lord Robbins demanding money. In addition, he was charged with creating a public nuisance by depriving citizens of their right to see the painting and with additional menacing, implying the potential threat to permanently keep or even destroy the artwork in his letter to the Mirrror. Breaking out the frame and the portrait theft charges separately and prosecuting Bunton for inconveniencing the public, certainly seemed like a case of overcharging, however the prosecution might have been concerned about a jury’s reaction to an oddball like Bunton, especially where charity was supposedly involved and they may have wished to underline the gravity of the offence.
Kempton Bunton had a spontaneous manner of testifying that incorporated unintentionally hilarious comments that convulsed the entire courtroom, including the judge, with raucous laughter. When asked if he had ever told his wife about the theft, Bunton replied emphatically and without hesitation,
“No, then the whole world would know, if I told her.”
When Cussen attempted to challenge Bunton’s assertion that he always intended to return the Goya, Bunton was practically exasperated,
“Absolutely, it was no good to me otherwise. I wouldn’t hang it in my own kitchen if it was my own picture,” the comment again bringing down the house, an unemployed cab driver deriding one of the art world’s most esteemed paintings. Again and again, Bunton’s oddball demeanor and ability to stonewall the prosecution not allowing Cussen to portray him in a diabolical light.
Podcast: Play in new window | Download
Subscribe: RSS
Material used to compose this podcast included the book:
“Kidnapped: The Incredible, True Story of the Art Theft that Shocked a Nation,” by Alan Hirsch.
Also, the newspaper article: “The Man Who REALLY Stole Goya’s Priceless Duke of Wellington,” by Kevin McDonald, The Daily Mail, June 14, 2021.
The outro for part one and part two is, “Wedding Invitation,” by Jason Farnham.
And a very special thanks to William Haviland, for his permission to use his solo piano version of “Jerusalem,” for the intro in parts one and two. You may review additional information and performances by Mr. Haviland at his website. A link is provided below:
