by Steve Martin

Earlier this year, a Michelangelo was discovered on Fifth Avenue in New York City. Last week, in Los Angeles, I realized that the birdbath in my garden is by Raphael. I had passed it a thousand times; so had many producers, actors, executives, and the occasional tagalong screenwriter. No one had ever mentioned the attribution "Raphael." No one had bothered to attribute it at all, which surprises me, since I've noticed that most of guests spend a lot of time discussing this birdbath. I try to steer the conversation around to my films, my television appearances, and my early work, but when I raise these subjects I often hear "What a charming birdbath!" To me this is further evidence of its being a Raphael: one just can't look away.

Much has been made of the fact that Raphael was not a sculptor, but it is little known that he designed many utilitarian objects that we now take for granted, including the portico, the candygram, and Olestra. A birdbath is completely within the oeuvre of the Master. Mine is stylistically characteristic of his work, including triangulation (inverted), psychologically loaded negative space, and a carved Madonna holding an infant who looks about fifty. Identical birdbaths appear in thirteen of his paintings; there is a Vasari portrait of Raphael painting a birdbath; and there is a scribble in his last diary which in translation reads, "Send my birdbath to Glendale," which is where I bought it at a swap meet.

In every person - even stupid ones - there lies an art expert, and I'm sure the one in you wants some proof of authenticity, especially in this age, when every day a Rembrandt van Rijn is being demoted to a Rembrandt Yeah Right. There are two ways of confirming a work of art: Scholarship and Intuition. Scholarship proves some things, but it can never take you the last mile. It is Intuition that confirms attribution every time. How many times had I sat in my garden with the cordless, sipping on a cocktail ice of Prozac and Halcion and ignoring the masterpiece that stood before me? There comes a moment for us all, however, when our censor slips away, when the city slips away, when the volume of hour head noise is turned down low and we realize we are sitting in front of Raphael's birdbath. It was then that I decided there was only one way to confirm my intuition to the rest of the world. I was to visit the tomb of Raphael at the Pantheon in Rome.

I stood before the vault where Raphael has lain for over four hundred and fifty years. Before I relate what happened next, I have to tell you a little bit about the Pantheon. It has one of the largest domed ceiling in the world. A domed ceiling might be a big deal in the world of architecture, but in the world of whispering it's lousy. Everything comes back you three times as loud, and even your diction is cleaned up. So when I whispered "Did you make my birdbath?" everybody in the place heard me except for Raphael, who was dead. I whispered again, louder, "Did you make my birdbath?" A few minutes later, a man came up to me, whispered, "Yes, and the Wide Man wants a green lawn," handed me an envelope containing five hundred million lire, and slithered away. The voice of Raphael did not come to me until several hours later, as I sat in sight of the Pantheon sipping a synthetic lowfat coffee mixed with a legal (in Italy) derivative of Xanax and melatonin. The voice emanated from the Pantheon and walked over to where I was sitting. It confirmed that the birdbath was his and that he enjoyed my work in "The Jerk," but nothing since.

The Martin Birdbath, as some scholars are now calling it (I objected at first), is still in the garden and is attended by a twenty-four-hour armed guard, whom I have grown to like. I don't think Charlie knows what he is guarding, but it doesn't matter as long as he keeps the birds away. This is tricky, because to a bird a birdbath is a birdbath, be it by Raphael or by J.C. Penney. Sometimes my nights are punctuated by gunfire. I love animals and hate to kill them, but if a pigeon landed on the Mona Lisa - well, goodbye pigeon.

I'm not going to sell the Raphael. I'm not even going to mention it to my guests unless I feel it will get me somewhere. I suppose if I see someone staring at it as though a boom had just lowered on him I'll take him aside and fill him in. I will tell him he is standing in the presence of a master, that he is in touch with the power of the ages, and that he deserves the overused but still meaningful hyphenation "sensitive-type." Then I will direct him to sit back in my Gaugin-designed lawn chair and enjoy the view. How do I know it's a Gaugin? It is -- I just know it is.

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This article appeared in The New Yorker magazine on April 22, 1996.