Monkey see, money do
Whether you take your time or buy them all in one lot, you’ll love these quirky collectibles
LIKE some diehard collectors, you could spend a lifetime seeking out and securing all 21 of these whimsical, so-called Monkey Band figures (and if you’re a real purist, they’d each have to be 18th century).
Or you could do what one collector did in a sale I witnessed this month and buy them all in one fell swoop – if you had the readies to back your bid with hard cash. There’s no fun in that, though. After all, part of the joy of collecting is the thrill of the hunt.
The downside of this particular set was its age: good as it was, every piece was comparatively new, having left the Meissen factory where they were made as recently as the 20th century, according to the sale catalogue.
The set, complete with the conductor’s music stand making 22 pieces in all, sold spot on its presale estimate for £7,000. Add the auctioneer’s charges – buyer’s premium, plus VAT on the premium – and the lot cost £8,680, or £395 apiece.
A quick online search proved it was something of a bargain: one US dealer currently wants $18,999 for a set, admittedly 19th century, plus £346.75 postage to the UK, and $2,850 (plus £50.78 p&p) and $699 (plus £38.53) separately for the conductor and music stand respectively.
It’s only money, and they do make an amusing addition to a cabinet of curiosities that every music-loving collector should consider creating.
That’s probably how the band got started. Today, it’s one of the most enduring – and pirated – images in German porcelain of all time, unsurprisingly given what a comical yet endearing crew they look.
Take the conductor: he’s convinced he’ll get the best from his colleagues by waving his arms around and seemingly screaming at them at the top of his lungs.
There’s a hurdy-gurdy player in there, one of the rarest single 18th century band members to find. She’s standing on the front row of the group illustration, in the centre, while on her left is the keyboard player who has problems of another kind: he must play his portable piano (or is it an organ?) while seated on the back of a fellow monkey.
I can’t think of a better gift for a music lover or musician than a
A full set of 20th century Meissen Monkey Band figures which sold for a hammer price of £7,000 or £8,680 with buyer’s premium and VAT Meissen monkey band figure. The very first to be manufactured appeared in 1753 but the chances of finding such early examples, let alone affording them, are remote.
Since then, countless European manufactories have copied the figures and still do. Naturally, Meissen themselves continue to produce the figures, while other German, French, Russian and even Japanese examples can be found. Prices are considerably cheaper.
Copies were also made by English firms, including a rare and valuable set of nine musicians from the Chelsea factory and others from Derby in the late 18th century and Rockingham in the early 19th century. Fine as they are, none reaches the standard set by Meissen.
What is not clear, though, is why Meissen started manufacturing them.
One theory is that the first appeared in 1753, made for Augustus III, King of Saxony, after a guest at one of his lavish banquets made fun of his orchestra saying they played like performing monkeys.
Another kinder reason followed the fashion at the time for depicting animals engaged in human pursuits. The official terminology is called “anthropomorphism” and it fascinated the European aristocracy who kept exotic monkeys as pets and studied natural history as a pastime.
A feature of this was the “singerie”, the French term for “monkey trick”, which originated from the murals by the French designer, Jean Berain (1640-1711). They showed monkeys dressed in the fashions of the day and other artists were quick to follow.
Working probably from a set of coloured prints featuring the singerie interiors in the Chateau of Chantilly and the Hôtel de Rohan in Paris by Christophe Huet (1692-1765), Meissen’s Modellmeister, Johann Joachim Kaendler (1706-1775) translated them into porcelain figures, to instant public acclaim. Madame Pompadour was among his customers.
Kaendler trained as a sculptor but on his appointment to Meissen in 1731, he quickly grasped the possibilities that the new medium – porcelain – offered the industry. That, combined with his gift of acute observation from nature, made him one of the most important modellers of the period.
His work took Europe by storm. Supported by Meissen’s director, Count Heinrich von Bruhl, Kaendler produced magnificent court table services and monumental vases and sculpture in porcelain, but also found time to revolutionise small figure making. His earliest pieces, dating from 1736, were, ironically enough, peasants playing musical instruments.
The theory that the monkey band was a satire on Count Bruhl’s Dresden Orchestra is without foundation. Any similarities were purely incidental.
Kaendler’s most famous figure modelling, however, was of performers in the Italian Commedia dell’ Arte whose vivid characters were perfect for the medium. Kaendler was also inspired by them to produce several groups poking fun at aristocratic court figures.
Meissen’s monkeys were, no doubt, an amusing and innocent development from that. In all his satirical work, Kaendler was careful to not portray individuals.
Whatever, such was the success of the monkey musicians that Kaendler’s original moulds began to wear out. Production was interrupted during the Seven Years’ War (17561763) but soon afterwards, Kaendler and his assistant, Peter Reinicke, made replacements, the figures from which are almost impossible to differentiate from the originals.
Collectors with all but the deepest pockets will be more than satisfied by mid to late 19th century examples, which turn up from time to time in the saleroom. Bidding is likely to start at around the £500 mark for one of these, while an older chap in good condition might get £1,500-2,000.
Interestingly, the same sale in which the full set was offered also included a group of six 20th century figures, each marked with a scissors or crossed swords trademark in underglaze blue, imitating the Meissen mark, but made by an unidentified German factory.
They were estimated together at £100-150 and sold for £100, plus premium, serving to underline their lack of quality.