Why do you collect?
It’s a disease. They haven’t founded Collectors Anonymous yet, but I have the disease.
Describe your collection in three words.
Eclectic, colorful, fun.
How has your taste changed through time?
When I was at Harvard in the early ’70s, I used to go to galleries in New York on the weekends. I started buying things—a Clemente, a Warhol, a LeWitt—until I had the collection of a good dentist. In 1989, I went by chance to an exhibition called “Magiciens de la Terre” at the Centre Pompidou. I thought African art was what you saw at the Met or the British Museum—beautiful wooden or gold sculptures—but this contemporary exhibition was different. It mixed Western works with art from Africa, Indonesia, India and the Pacific. I contacted the organizers, who introduced me to André Magnin, the curator of the African section. I hired him and, for 23 years, André went up and down sub-Saharan Africa and together we assembled a collection. At over 10,000 pieces, it’s the largest collection of contemporary African art in the world. I have a collection of contemporary Japanese art, too.
Do you have any rules for collecting?
For my African collection, the artists had to be Black, living and located in sub-Saharan Africa. I bought contemporary because there’s so much fake historic art. To avoid this, in nearly every instance, I knew the artist and I paid them directly. This way, I also knew that they were not being forced to sell. For my Japanese collection, they had to live in Japan, though I bought a little from diasporic artists, and they had to be born after 1985.
Favorite artistic medium and why?
Paintings make up 90 percent of what I own, but I collect the Congolese artist Bodys Isek Kingelez, who made incredible models of futuristic cities out of found packaging materials.
What is your favorite art fair and why?
Art Basel. It’s like walking into a museum.
Which museum would you like to be locked in overnight?
The Met. It covers it all, from Egyptian art to furniture from Versailles to photography, so you would never be bored. People used to lock themselves in the toilets and then wander around until they got caught. I think the museum is wiser now.
Who is the most unjustly overlooked artist?
I’m mainly interested in contemporary art, but now that I spend a lot of time in Rome, I’m starting to go see paintings done 400 years ago. They have so much imagination—they’re so twisted, weird and intense. I went to the Caravaggio show this spring, like everybody else. The works are well known in art history but, for me, it was a discovery.
Best art gift, given or received?
Around 1978, I bought a small Ed Ruscha drawing called “Museum on Fire,” showing LACMA. It came in a very bad wooden frame. Years later, Ed came to my house, and I pointed out the atrocious frame. “Yes, it’s bad,” he said, “but you should keep it. I made it.” For me, that was a gift from Ed. I loaned the drawing to the big Ruscha show two years ago, which went to LACMA. When the curator came to see it, he said, “Jean, you know we love this. But can we change the frame?” I told the story and he immediately put on white gloves.
Most important art historical figure?
Picasso. From the age of 10 until he died, he changed style 20 times. I don’t think any artist in any art form—rock ’n’ roll, dance, architecture—has ever been so dominant and for so long.
How do you live with your collection?
I like mixing high and low. I’m amazed when you go to someone’s house and they have nothing on their walls. It doesn’t have to be Warhols, you could have Jimi Hendrix posters, but I’ve never had a bare wall.
Which collectors do you admire?
Charles Saatchi taught me everything. He goes deep with what he likes. A lot of collectors won’t take a chance, but he wasn’t nervous about putting on a show for a 22-year-old kid straight out of art school. It’s much harder to collect unknowns.
“I like mixing high and low. I’m amazed when you go to someone’s house and they have nothing on their walls. It doesn’t have to be Warhols, you could have Jimi Hendrix posters, but I’ve never had a bare wall.”
Favorite work of architecture and why?
La Cité Radieuse in Marseille by Le Corbusier. It’s an incredible design constructed in 1952 with the crazy idea of building everything in—a supermarket, a school, a restaurant, a hotel. In 2023, there was a show of Rigobert Nimi, a Congolese artist I collect, at the MaMo Arts Center on the building’s rooftop.
Which piece doesn’t ‘fit’ in your collection but still works?
I have about 300 photographs by Weegee. This guy was not afraid. He would go to murder scenes and take pictures of gangsters. It wasn’t like being in an air-conditioned studio with seven assistants and a beautiful model.
How has your career influenced your collecting and vice versa?
My main business is investing in tech companies. I’ve attended many high-tech funerals, but some of them did well and gave me enough money to buy paintings. I always took chances, and I’ve done the same thing in my collecting. I never considered it an investment, and I’ve rarely paid more than $10,000 for any artwork.
What’s the piece that got away?
In 1982, I bought a Basquiat from his first solo show at Annina Nosei Gallery. It cost $1,250. Like an idiot, I only bought one but I sold it many years ago for a lot of money. Later in the ’80s, when he’d become friends with Rei Kawakubo, Basquiat called me up and said, “Johnny, I’d like to buy a suit from Comme des Garçons. Come to the studio.” I went and he told me the suit he wanted was $520, and offered me a painting. It was made using color Xeroxes, so I didn’t buy it. I saw the same work a year ago for $32 million.
What’s the one piece you’ll never part with?
The Robert Frank photograph, “U.S. 90 En Route to Del Rio.” It shows a car, focusing on one headlight, with a woman sitting inside. I’d keep it even if everything else had to go.
What ‘tools of the trade’ do you use to keep building your collection?
I’ve been to quite a few artist studios. If it’s a friend, I love it, but it’s a difficult experience if you go in blind. I’ve been to a million galleries and to every art fair—there are more fairs than cities in the world. At auction, I usually leave a fixed price, and I’ve won some good things because my taste is odd. About 20 years ago, I bought a supermarket cart called “Less Than Ten Items” by Maurizio Cattelan. The estimate was $50,000 or so, and it didn’t sell, so I called up and offered $30,000. The woman who answered said, “Your offer is vulgar.” I replied, “I’m sorry, that’s my price.” A day later, she called back and said, “We accept your vulgar offer.” I still love the piece, and actually my first job was selling carts.
Who is your collecting wingman?
When I spent more time in New York, I would go to every gallery in the city each Saturday with my friend Cary Leitzes. In Paris, I go alone. In London, I used to go with Charles Saatchi. He used to get a black cab and we’d drive around for hours. I remember watching the meter.
What tips do you have for collectors just starting out?
The classic: buy what you like. People also have to realize that art is not very liquid. It’s not like buying IBM shares.
What non-art object do you find most beautiful?
I’m obsessed with nature. I spend three months each year on my island in Panama. I knew nothing about it until 30 years ago—going to Central Park was nature—then I got a boat and I started respecting the sea and the wind. They’re the boss, not you. Then I bought the island and learned about leafcutter ants, monkeys, snakes and birds. I’m becoming less and less urban.
Favorite art-related book?
I’m dyslexic, so although I have thousands of art books, I never read the texts. The most important is the “Magiciens de la Terre” catalog because it reflects the time spent canvassing the world to find interesting artists, from Aboriginal Australians to people in Alaska. Things have changed with the internet. People find incredible artists on Instagram.
Best impulse buy?
My photographs by Seydou Keïta. I discovered an exhibition in New York in the early ’90s. In a corner, there were two black-and-white photos, labeled “Unknown photographer, Mali.” I faxed the catalog pages to André and told him to try to find the photographer. He arrived in Mali, hired an old taxi and after two days of driving around, a lady said, “The guy is down there. He’s repairing motorcycles.” When André went into Keïta’s shop, he found a trunk containing 10,000 negatives. Many were rotten due to the humidity, or eaten by rats, but about 2,000 were in good shape. I feel I have preserved this stuff. Among the work of artists and curators, that’s my contribution.
What’s the most difficult aspect of collecting?
Editing. When you become obsessed, you eventually run out of either money or space. There was a myth that S.I. Newhouse only owned paintings that would fit in his house. If he wanted to buy a new one, he’d have to get rid of an old one. I asked him and it wasn’t true—he had a warehouse—but it’s an interesting idea. The collection would get better and better.
What artwork or object have you restored back to life?
Lots of wooden sculptures arrived at my warehouse infested with insects, so we had to send them to be irradiated. Otherwise the creatures would have eaten everything.
What’s the best compliment someone has paid to your collection?
In 2019, when I gave 45 pieces to the MoMA, Glenn Lowry wrote me a letter that said, “This is a transformative gift.” That’s a big word for him. We worked together for one year, and I told the museum, “You know what people want to see, you know how this would fit with your other stuff. Go to my warehouse and choose what you want.”
