The Grand Theft of Two Antique Books
The international service of Iran Book News Agency (IBNA) – Elaheh Shams: The main problem with stealing rare books is not the theft itself; anyone with a bit of agility and a suitable bag can seemingly pull it off. The real trouble is converting this loot into cash. The antique book market is so closed and limited that almost all sellers know each other and are aware of each other’s holdings, especially when there are high-profile editions involved. For newcomers, there’s also the International Database of the Antiquarian Booksellers’ Association, which regularly publishes a new list of stolen books; a simple yet effective system that minimizes the chance of selling stolen goods to a colleague.
Sometimes, when I report from rare book exhibitions and galleries, I think to myself that perhaps this database is the only thing preventing me from slipping into a life of crime. I understand the temptation; books are beautiful, pleasant to touch, and their exorbitant prices fill the mind with dreams of owning things that have always been out of reach.
Last June, two titles were added to the list of stolen books: a treatise on chiromancy by Antioci Tiberti, published in 1528, and dialogues by Symphorien Champier and Hadrian Barlandus, published in 1519 and bound in stamped leather by Jacob Clercx de Geel from Antwerp. Their combined value was estimated at around twenty thousand dollars, and inquiries for both titles pointed to Fabrizio Govi, a renowned bookseller in Modena and New York.
The database, however, did not answer who or why committed the theft. The story might have ended there, had a few images not been released in New York.
On September 12, the 19th Precinct of the New York Police Department released four still images from CCTV: they showed a man flipping through books at the PRPH Rare Books gallery on 64th Street, near Central Park. The man wore slim red trousers and a button-down shirt, with glasses hanging from his collar; attire suitable for spring in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The NYPD message stated that this man was wanted for “grand larceny of two antique books,” and urged the public to report any information they had.
A few weeks later, after reports accompanied by sarcasm in the New York press, the man’s identity was revealed: Gavriel Hundiashvili, an Israeli fashion photographer residing in Queens. According to the Post newspaper, Hundiashvili had tried to sell the books at another rare bookstore but encountered the same problem I mentioned earlier: a closed world where all sellers know which items are “hot.” In distress and under pursuit, Hundiashvili (reportedly) returned the books by mail to the same PRPH gallery where the crime occurred. Nevertheless, New York police arrested him in October and charged him with felony larceny.
The recent history of book theft is replete with double agents, knowing opportunists, and corrupt aristocrats. In 2004, Anders Burius, then head of the manuscript section at the Royal Library of Sweden, was found to have stolen and sold over fifty rare volumes from the library’s collection. In 2005, E. Forbes Smiley, a reputable map dealer, was arrested at Yale University’s Beinecke Library with an X-Acto knife. It turned out he had for years abused his professional reputation and generous donations to cut out valuable pages from historical maps and take them out. And perhaps the most infamous case was Marino Massimo de Caro, the self-taught director of the Girolamini Library in Naples, who systematically stripped his own library and others of their most precious works. He also confessed to using his access to rare editions to establish a lucrative network for forging works; a network that eventually implicated even the Vatican Library and several top experts in antique works.
There are other examples, bold and even captivating. Those who wanted to be the next “Thomas Crown.” At least at first glance, Hundiashvili doesn’t seem to be one of them.
In early autumn of that same year, I headed to the New York City Criminal Court at 100 Centre Street in Chinatown. Hundiashvili was scheduled to appear in Part F; a section dedicated to criminal cases awaiting a jury and indictment. Courtroom F is a tidy, bustling place: cell phone use or entry for children is prohibited, and over the course of a morning, the judge, prosecutor, clerks, and court officers review dozens of cases.
In court, I saw Hundiashvili; at the end of a row of wooden chairs. His shaved head and stylish clothes were just as we had seen in the surveillance footage. His legs were tightly crossed, and his head was down. He looked like he was having one of the worst mornings of his life. I wanted to say something to calm him, but his lawyer approached and reminded him not to speak to anyone, saying this while looking at me. I tried to find a trace of Smiley or de Caro in Hundiashvili’s face. That spark of literary deception that could make such a story, to put it better, “different.” Despite his shaved head and well-made shoes, I found nothing.
The world of rare books is filled with informational imbalance. In fact, this inequality is the driving force of the trade. Sellers spend years researching to prove a book’s provenance and its valuable characteristics, then release just enough information to pique the curiosity of professional clients and passionate collectors. This often involves traveling to cities like Nîmes, Padua, Paris, Rome, and Lisbon, where experts examine the binding industry, paper type, ownership marks, and blue labels. It also requires caution and sometimes behavior that appears “secretive” to some and “shrewd” to others.
So it was no surprise that reaching Umberto Pregliasco and Filippo Rotundo, the owners of PRPH Gallery—the scene of the theft of the two rare Champier and Tiberti books—was difficult for me. Suddenly, I received a call from an Italian woman: Francesca Biffi, the gallery’s assistant director. She said a small party would be held at the gallery next week and asked if I would like to attend.
At their invitation, I went to a small party at the gallery. The modern, white space of the gallery was full of light; amidst surrealist mannequins, a gathering of wealthy clients—a mix of Upper East Side socialites, university professors in tweed jackets, and Italians in well-tailored black suits—stood in conversation. In the display cases, a 1617 edition of William Brewster’s “Ten Commandments” and Galileo’s “Il Saggiatore” (The Assayer), published in 1623, gleamed; both with six-figure price tags.
The star of the night was the 1516 edition of Ludovico Ariosto’s “Orlando Furioso.” A book that collectors call the “Black Tulip.” A copy that everyone believed to be the lost Cavalieri specimen. However, there was no sign of the Champier and Tiberti books.
At the end of the night, I spoke with Professor Neil Harris from the University of Udine. He wore an orange jacket and his lecture possessed a detective’s fervor and wit. I asked him about the difference between a “typographical reproducer,” a forger, and a thief. He smiled and said, “A reproducer is what he is. If someone is a forger, the book owner makes him a forger.” He paused and added, “Ethics change from one century to another.” This sentence stayed with me. I thought of Hundiashvili, of the two twenty-thousand-dollar books, and the anonymous New York courtroom. Perhaps in another century, these stories will be judged differently.
The essence of all these cases can be summarized in one sentence: a market filled with passion, sophistication, and blurred lines between art, deception, and the desire for ownership.
When I walked out of the building, the air had cooled; a breeze swirled down 64th Street. I walked in the dark and felt that I had left something behind—not a crime, but a human temptation that still lingered in the air.
