Should Stolen Art Be Returned—Even If It Hurts the Innocent?

The Thief’s Gambit—A Patriot’s Heist or a Crook’s Crime?

Vincenzo Peruggia slipped into the Louvre just like everybody else. Except he wasn’t.

It was Friday, August 11, 1911, in the middle of a week-long heat. Only two days before, the temperature in sunbaked Paris hit 100° F. Today, as the work week came to a close, local thermometers would read 36°. That would be Celsius. In Fahrenheit, that would be 96.8°.

The Louvre wasn’t merely one of the world’s most renowned art galleries. On this hot day, it offered a bit of cool shade from the bright yellow disk burning above in the clear blue sky. That wasn’t why Vincenzo entered the building. He had worked there. His job was to build a glass case that would display a particular painting. That painting was Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.

But ol’ Vinny didn’t happen into the museum for work. He calmly ventured in with all the other tourists to finish a job. He wanted the Mona Lisa. An Italian patriot, he felt the work of art belonged in an Italian gallery.

While the museum remained open, Vincenzo snuck into a custodian’s closet and hid. Once the museum closed, he parted ways with the brooms and swept away with the painting. The Mona Lisa was stolen.

In the confusion that followed, Peruggia got away. French police rounded up the not-so-usual suspects, including a young Pablo Picasso. All leads turned into dead ends. For two years, Vincenzo kept the Mona Lisa in his apartment. Authorities caught him only after he tried to sell the painting to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence.

The courts sentenced Vincenzo Peruggia to six months in prison. Upon his release, fellow Italians hailed him as a hero for his valiant display of devotion to his country.

Peruggia’s actions ignite a fundamental question: In the realm of stolen art, where does patriotism end and theft begin? This introduces a rather provocative moral dilemma. Was Vincenzo Peruggia a calculating thief or a flag-waving patriot?

The Weight of Justice—Whose Art, Whose Right?

When it comes to stolen art (or anything else), is justice served by punishing the present for the sins of the past? Or is that just another kind of theft?

Clearly, the Mona Lisa belonged to France, having been obtained by King Francis I of France in 1519, two years after the death of Leonardo da Vinci. But da Vinci was Italian, and the painting represented an important relic in the ethnic heritage of Italy.

Of all the women’s portraits da Vinci painted, only four survived. Prior to August 11, 1911, only art historians cared about them. The theft of the Mona Lisa may have catapulted the painting into the lexicon of cultural fame we recognize today. Still, it is the theft of another da Vinci portrait of a woman that carries much more intense drama.

And Nazis.

Echoes of War—Stolen Art Spoils

Have you ever seen the movie Monuments Men? It’s the story of a real-life World War II mission to find and secure Nazi loot stolen during their military campaigns. The recovered pieces of art included da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine.

Prince Adam George Czartoryski acquired this painting in 1798, long after da Vinci’s death. We know nothing of its seller. In fact, the last known person to possess the painting was Cecilia Gallerani, the subject of the painting and the favorite mistress of the Duke of Milan. After she died, there’s no record of the painting’s whereabouts until Prince Adam “acquired” it.

Records carefully documented the whereabouts of Lady with an Ermine afterward. For a long time, the Czartoryski Museum in Kraków held it, until the Nazis stole it during WWII. There it moved with the tides of war, before finally being placed in the home of Hans Frank, the Governor General of (occupied) Poland. That’s where the Monuments Men found it and liberated it. They returned it to Kraków in 1946, where it has been on display ever since. Descendants of the Czartoryski family sold it to the Polish government in 2016.

Clearly, the Nazi stolen art should have been returned. But should it have been returned to the Czartoryski family or to the Gallerani family?

Now we’ve got a real conundrum.

When is art considered “stolen” as opposed to “sold”? How far back should you go when returning “stolen” art? Should innocent buyers be punished or compensated? What if you don’t know the original owners?

Returning Stolen Art—Culture’s Claim or Global Loss?

This last question comes up often when discussing ancient and not-so-ancient relics. For example, the Benin Bronzes decorated the palaces in the Kingdom of Benin. The creation of the metal plaques and sculptures spanned the period from the 1400s to the 1700s. When the Kingdom ambushed and killed over 250 members of a British diplomatic party, the Empire struck back with punitive force.

As happens in war, to the victors went the spoils. After taking over the Kingdom and freeing all slaves, the Brits brought the Benin Bronzes back with them. Now, being all proper, the British shared these prizes with the museums of the world. This allowed everyone to see the rich culture they had just erased from the Earth.

Today, the people who live on the same land as the Kingdom of Benin, who may or may not be the rightful original owners of the Benin Bronzes, have asked for them back.

Do you see how this moral dilemma begins?

Who really owns the Benin Bronzes—Nigeria or humanity? We don’t know because the Kingdom of Benin no longer exists. In its place, we have Nigeria. What if the current inhabitants descended from the Beninese slaves and not the royalty that possessed the Bronzes? Is that good enough? Does the culture own them, not any individual people?

Furthermore, returning stolen art like the Benin Bronzes to their more remote origins from populous centers worldwide means fewer people will share them. Is that fair?

And, if this is fair, what about Lady with an Ermine? Who are the rightful heirs? If you can justify the culture of Benin as the rightful heir of the Bronzes, shouldn’t you justify the culture of Italy as the rightful heir of Lady with an Ermine? After all, all we know is Prince Adam “acquired” it. Nothing said he paid for it.

But what if he did buy it? Was the seller legitimate? If someone stole Lady with an Ermine, any sale would be void. Should the Polish people, who paid the Czartoryski family €100 million for the painting, forfeit this da Vinci classic with no compensation?

Returning stolen art heals wounds. Germany’s 2021 Benin Bronzes pledge restores Nigeria’s pride, like the Monuments Men returning Lady with an Ermine to Poland. Peru’s Machu Picchu artifacts (2010) revived heritage. Yet, it punishes innocents. Poland paid €100M for Ermine, risking loss if Italy claims it. Museums lose access. For example, the Benin Bronzes drew millions in Germany, not Nigeria. Ancient claims, like the Akkadian stele (Louvre, 4,000 years), lack heirs. Holding modern holders accountable for past sins? Is that moral?

The question of returning stolen art isn’t as easy as it sounds. Is it fair or overreaching?

Beyond the Canvas—Land, Like Art, Stolen

Are you ready to complicate things further? Art’s not the only theft that poses philosophical questions. Land entails the same tangle. By the mid-fifteenth century, the Iroquois Confederacy had eradicated the Erie Tribe. The Seneca took over the Erie’s former land. The Seneca allied with the British during the American Revolution. When the British lost, they lost. As part of the post-war settlement, the Seneca sold their Western New York land to the Holland Land Company for resale to settlers.

Should Erie descendants reclaim the land? Or should the Seneca Nation refund the monies they received as a part of all treaties related to their “ownership” of the land to the Erie Nation?

On that last matter, what about the capital investment made by the Seneca to the Erie? Should the Seneca receive compensation for that? Or should they merely pay an annual rent for occupying the Erie land?

It’s hard to see the moral right or wrong in these questions. One of the biggest challenges is the potential precedent. On the plus side, returning stolen land, like stolen art, can heal cultures and instill ethnic pride. On the negative side, it can punish innocent people and benefit people with no clear ownership rights.

A Modern-Day Heist?—Binding the Future with Present Power

Now, one final monkey wrench to toss into this morass. We all like to think we live in a democratic republic where the voters rule. If we don’t like the direction of the current administration, we simply vote them out and replace them with a new administration.

Easy, right?

Here’s the kicker. Like museums hoarding Bronzes, can a lame-duck administration bind the future? What if, in its final days, the outgoing administration pledges billions of taxpayer dollars to favored groups, locking in spending that extends beyond its term? The voters elect a new direction, but promises they never endorsed—and may have specifically voted against—box their will in. Is that so different from a museum holding onto looted art? Should a successor administration undo those expenditures? Or do we honor the past regardless of its fairness?

The Long Shadow of the Past—Justice, Memory, and Our Legacy

The contentious issue of stolen art restitution, like the complex questions surrounding land claims and government obligations, forces us to confront uncomfortable truths about justice, memory, and the kind of society we choose to build.

Art, land, or taxes—who untangles yesterday’s heist?

These aren’t idle questions. They are practical challenges with real-world consequences. They’re also not easy to answer.

But if we don’t answer them now—clearly, courageously—our grandchildren may have to pay the price of our silence.