To Restore or Not to Restore a Rare Einstein Photo—It’s All Relativity

(PART II OF A CONUNDRUM)
A further delving into the fate of a signed photo of the iconic 20th-century physicist

By Ian Strasfogel

Lotte Jacobi’s legendary photograph of Albert Einstein, 1938; and Margaretta K. Mitchell’s photo of Jacobi viewing that Einstein photo many years later, in 1978.
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December 9, 2024
The time had come to sell Lotte Jacobi’s lovely little portrait of Albert. Neither of our two daughters had much interest in it, and my wife, Judith Norell, and I aren’t really collectors. In fact, now that we’ve reached our 80s, we’re trying to simplify our lives. Our apartment is full of stuff—much of it beloved and essential, but much of it not. The Einstein photo clearly belonged to that second category.

(To see Part I of this two-part tale, click here: Einstein, Cast Aside and Tossed in a Closet)

I thought we might do pretty well selling the photograph on the open market. Our Einstein image is a famous one that’s been reproduced and exhibited countless times. What’s more, art photography is currently very much in vogue, and prices for Lotte Jacobi’s photos are higher than ever—thanks to a recent cultural shift that finally values the work of female artists.

Though it can be quick and convenient to dispose of works of art through internet services like eBay and Etsy, those websites are quirky and unpredictable. But if you contact a licensed dealer or auction house, you reach experts who constantly interact with the art market; they know whereof they speak.

Since we’d recently had a good experience selling some Warhol marginalia with Doyle’s, a small auction house here in the city, I decided to contact them. Their response was prompt, noting that this work was very much in demand. They’d send me an estimate as soon as they also obtained a picture of the back of the photograph.

Its back? Isn’t the whole point the image itself? Not really. A famous shot exists in multiple prints of varying quality and immediacy. The better its condition, the greater its value. At Sotheby’s recent showing of the collection of Paul G. Allen, Microsoft’s cofounder, I was struck by a print of Edward Steichen’s famous 1912 photograph of the Flatiron Building rising from the mist and towering over Madison Park. I’d often seen the picture in books and on museum walls, but no print was as beautiful as Mr. Allen’s. The work sold for more than $11 million.

Obviously, our three-by-four-inch shot of Einstein couldn’t possibly scale such exalted heights. But still, it was a famous image by an esteemed photographer, admired by collectors. The auction house had every right to be concerned about the condition of our copy.

I carefully removed it from its silvery wooden frame, the product of a local shop I liked for its convenience and fair prices. But when I tried to take the print out of the passepartout, it wouldn’t budge. I gave it a little shake, then a vigorous jiggle. I even tried peeling it away—very cautiously, of course. The last thing I wanted was to make matters worse. No luck. The damn thing was stuck.

Suddenly I was swamped with guilt. A lover—no, a worshipper—of visual art, I always believed that those of us who were fortunate (and prosperous) enough to own beautiful objects were also their stewards. We had a moral obligation to preserve and protect them.

I’d obviously let our photo down. I’d been far too casual when I took it for framing. I’d used our neighborhood shop happily on many occasions, though always for simple things like family mementos or posters. When I brought in our Jacobi, the owner seemed deeply impressed. Flattered that he valued my property so highly, I let my guard down and never thought to insist that he hinge the image for easy removal. I didn’t think that was necessary; it’s standard operating procedure.

Oh, yeah? My Aunt Gert in Cincinnati owned a magnificent 17th century Chinese silk painting of a bodhisattva that entranced me every time I saw it. Gert’s mother had purchased it from a dealer in Hong Kong at the end of the Second World War. This supposedly reputable dealer decided he could best protect the fragile painting for its long journey to America by sticking it to a sheet of plywood. By the time I came to know it, the glue had seeped through the fabric and scarred the image. No dealer or auction house would touch it; it was ruined.

Fortunately, our image wasn’t ruined, at least not yet; it just needed to be freed from its backing.

Art conservators are the unsung heroes and heroines of the art world. They work miracles. The Salvator Mundi, a supposed Leonardo, had been a dark, muddled mess until Diane Modestini, a renowned American art restorer, brought it back to life. She revived it so well (some felt perhaps a bit too well) that the renewed canvas recently sold at auction for $450 million.

On a far more modest scale—think hundreds of dollars, not millions—Judith and I had already had a positive experience with professional conservation. Years earlier, we purchased a beautiful ceramic Art Nouveau vase from an antiques dealer in Amsterdam. The gallery promised to ship it to us but packed the fragile object in an unreinforced cardboard box. It arrived at our apartment in sorry shape, part of its base chipped off.

A pottery restorer in Brooklyn spent several months repairing it, and for a very modest fee, especially considering the high quality of her labors. She so perfectly and discreetly restored the vase that we couldn’t tell which part of the base had been damaged. Fortunately, she also gave us an illustrated report, describing every step of her meticulous work. Thanks to it, we could pinpoint where she had worked her magic.

We had to find a comparable magician for our Lotte Jacobi. A good friend of mine from high school days possesses an important collection of European drawings. Each of his treasures is elegantly framed and in impeccable condition—no tears, no yellowing or creasing. He obviously would know the right person to unstick our picture. He recommended a photographic conservator at a distinguished museum who occasionally took outside clients. The moment I reached her, I knew I’d found a committed, experienced professional. Her fee of $130 an hour seemed quite fair, considering how difficult and specialized her work was. She would examine my photograph and make a proposal for its liberation.

A week or so later, she sent me a highly detailed outline of the path to our work’s salvation. She planned to employ only state-of-the-art equipment, such as micro spatulas and crepeline erasers. I was obviously in excellent hands.

But the price—$2,500—astounded me. How could the ungluing of our picture cost so much? The image is small, just three by four inches. Would it really require nearly 20 hours of work to remove and stabilize it?

The answer is almost certainly yes; I’m sure that the restorer wasn’t pulling a fast one. She was a true conservator with an impeccable body of work. I had to confront the grim reality that we were way out of our league in the current art market. If you collect today, you need pots of money.

To add insult to injury, when I went online to check the current market value of our little gem, I discovered that it had recently sold for $600. That’s right, $600. It doesn’t take a genius to do the math. The restoration of our small print for $2,500 would cost us four times its market value. (Ouch!) Judith and I are middle class. We don’t have that kind of spare change.

So, what do I do? Treat the Einstein photo as a family treasure, commit to a pricey restoration, and give up a much longed-for vacation in Iceland, or write the whole thing off as a lousy investment—which means failing my duties as the steward of a lovely piece of art and feeling guilty?

You tell me. I’m too wrung out to decide.

By the way, in thanking the conservator for writing the report, I offered to reimburse her.

I got off lightly. She only charged $350.

Ian Strasfogel is an author, opera director, and impresario who has staged over a hundred productions of opera and music theater in European and American opera houses and music festivals. His comic novel, Operaland, and his biography of his father, Ignace Strasfogel: The Rediscovery of a Musical Wunderkind, were both published in 2021.

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