her aunt had liked it.
John Sandon then told her about English Delftware, and identified the Turk’s head model as an extremely rare and early example, probably dating from the late seventeenth century. Although tin-glazed figure models were not unusual in Italy, France or Holland, very few were made by British potters. A number were recorded, including figures of Charles I and Apollo, along with a curious comic character called No-Body, from a play called No-Body and Some-Body, published in 1606. Also popular were cats, both seated and lying down, with a version of the seated cat serving as a jug. John explained that the Turk’s head was particularly unusual and, though it had a maker’s mark on the base, he was not able to identify it.
A FAMILIAR MOTIF
The Turk’s head is a familiar decorative motif in British history, with its origins probably linked to the Crusades. All over Britain, and particularly in sea ports, there are pubs called The Turk’s Head. There is also a knot called a Turk’s Head, and decorative pottery and porcelain featuring Turkish-style figures was popular throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. This Delftware Turk’s head was probably inspired by a European model, and thus may have been made by a potter with European connections. Despite some chips and minor damage – not unusual with Delftware – John was confident that the Delftware Turk’s head would fetch £50,000.
Sometime later, the Turk’s head appeared in a ceramics sale at the auctioneers Phillips in London, but failed to sell. It was then sold privately to an American collector, via a leading London dealer who specialised in early English pottery, for a sum roughly equivalent to John’s Roadshow valuation. At the time, it was one of the most important examples of early English pottery to have been discovered by the Roadshow.
A PAIR OF REGENCY PEAT BUCKETS
An unexpected find at the Whitchurch Leisure Centre in 2001 concerned a pair of massive peat buckets, made in Dublin at the start of the nineteenth century. Christopher Payne was delighted to be able to examine the buckets and discuss them with the owners, because eighteenth and early nineteenth century Irish furniture is rarely seen on the Roadshow, especially in England. He explained, ‘Peat buckets weren’t made in England, Scotland or Wales and so these are rare and highly desirable. I love the swirling ribbing that goes all the way down the bucket; this is exceptional as the usual decoration is parallel ribbing. The brass bands show that they were made the same way as barrels. They are also the largest peat buckets I have ever seen.’
As Irish woodlands were steadily depleted from the sixteenth century onwards, the peat bogs became the primary source of fuel for both homes and industry. The gathering of peat turf was, therefore, necessary at all levels of society, although landowners generally had the right to cut the peat. Buckets such as these would have stood either side of the main fireplace in a grand house, topped up by the servants from peat stores in the outhouses.
These buckets had a lovely patina, the result of having been in the same family since they were made, and thus in regular use for decades. In their way, they were classic examples of Irish furniture, with distinctive details and styling that set them apart from English furniture of the Georgian period.
Christopher pointed out that their poor condition was part of their appeal. ‘They have been heavily used for nearly 200 years and, frankly, they were falling apart. One was held together with binder twine and the brass bands were loose. They needed a bit of work and a good polish but they were far more appealing and valuable in that condition than if they had been heavily restored.’ For this reason, he valued the pair at £50,000, a price that would be difficult to sustain today because of fluctuations in the Irish market.
‘What started out as a copy became a major Orpen discovery, and revealed a First World War mystery – the Roadshow at its best.’
Rupert Maas
In 2009 the Roadshow returned to Greenwich, a classic Thames-side setting framed by glorious architecture. The sun shone and people turned out in their thousands. It was a typically diverse day, with several items inevitably linked to the river and its history.
A gentleman brought in a striking portrait of a beautiful girl, which he believed to be a copy of a painting by William Orpen. At first sight, expert Rupert Maas agreed with him, but then began to have doubts. Before too long, Rupert realised that he wasn’t looking at a copy, but probably at an original painting by Orpen. The situation was further confused by Orpen having signed the painting in a coded way.
THE WAR ARTIST
Sir William Orpen was the most successful British artist of the early twentieth century and the most famous portrait painter of his age. Extravagant, outgoing and a lover of the high life in all its forms, Orpen was also a great painter with a distinctive style that combined modernism with a healthy respect for Vermeer, Velásquez and other European masters. During the First World War, he was appointed an official war artist, given the honorary rank of major and sent to France in the spring of 1917. He began with portraits – of Sir Douglas Haig and others – and then widened his brief to include battlefield scenes creating, in the process, some of the greatest works produced by the war artists’ scheme.
The owner knew little about the painting but liked it very much and, encouraged by Rupert, he warmed to the idea that it might actually be by Orpen. However, with the limited research facilities available to him at the Roadshow, Rupert was not able to confirm the Orpen attribution, so he valued it for £20,000 to £30,000, pending further research. In due course, Rupert established that the portrait was indeed by Orpen and also that it was a second, hitherto unknown, version of a famous painting in the Imperial War Museum. At that point he revalued it for £250,000.
In the winter of 1917, William Orpen met and fell in love with a young Belgian girl named Yvonne Aubicq, who was to occupy a major place in his life, and his heart, until 1928. He immediately painted her in the direct and provocative manner for which he was famous, planning to show this portrait of Yvonne in an exhibition to be held at Agnew’s in London, early in 1918. He then remembered that, as an employed official war artist, he was only allowed to paint war pictures or those with war themes. In addition, the contract issued to official war artists stated that all paintings completed while ‘on duty’ were to be offered to the government, which had first refusal, and had to be submitted for censorship. As a result, no private work could be undertaken. To overcome this difficulty, he titled the painting The Refugee. He then went even further down a dangerous route by renaming it The Spy, and inventing and widely distributing a story about a glamorous German spy named Frida Nater, captured and shot by the French, whom he had been able to paint shortly before her execution.
After the filming the second version of Yvonne's portrait was briefly reunited with
