by Frank Wynne
I WAS VERMEER
The Rise and Fall of the
Twentieth Century’s
Greatest Forger
Frank Wynne
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
Prologue: Amsterdam, 7 July 1945
A Portrait of the Forger as a Young Artist
1 The Lion Tamer
2 The Alchemy of Painting
3 The View of Delft
4 A Shadow of Divine Perfection
5 The Drinking Party
6 A Careful Choice of Enemies
The Renaissance Man
7 The Forger’s Art
8 The Price of Ultramarine
9 A Superior Picasso
10 The Plastic Virtues
11 The Hobo Who Was Christ
12 A Question of Attribution
13 A Most Stupid and Malignant Race
14 Altercation with a Museum Guard
15 Gross Habits/Net Income
16 A Confederacy of Dunces
Accidental Hero
17 The Line of Least Reluctance
18 Glory’s Small Change
19 A Dirigible Arbitrament
Epilogue: London, 7 July 2004
Appendices
I The Dwindling Vermeers
II The Two Last Suppers
III The Appliance of Science
IV Van Meegeren’s Forgeries
V Where to Find Your Nearest Vermeer
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
A Note on the Author
Imprint
For my mother, for her love and her
unfailing, often bemused, support.
To the memory of Ric Shepheard: filmmaker,
fraudster, friend, for his brilliance and inspiration.
La vie étant ce qu’elle est, on rêve de vengeance.
Paul Gauguin
INTRODUCTION
The best way to learn about fakes
is to get in touch with a forger.
Thomas Hoving, False Impressions:
The Hunt for Big-Time Art Fakes
I am sitting in Het Molenpad, one of the oldest and most gezellig* of Amsterdam’s ‘brown cafés’. The few tables on the pavement overlook the sweeping curve of the Prinsengracht, all the more beautiful on this early summer morning as dappled green sunlight spills through the leaves on to the still waters of the canal. I sip my beer and wait to meet my first convicted forger.
Forgery is a booming industry – though not perhaps one a career-guidance counsellor will recommend to your gifted child. The former director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Thomas Hoving, estimates that 60 per cent of all the works offered to him during his sixteen-year tenure were ‘not what they appeared to be’; the New York Times has suggested that 40 per cent of all major works offered for sale are forgeries. This is not a recent development: as long ago as 1940, Newsweek alleged that ‘of the 2,500 authentic works painted by Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot, 7,800 are in American collections alone’.
Forgery is art’s shadow-self, the vice without which virtue is impossible. For as long as mankind has coveted objects for their history, their beauty, their proximity to genius, the forger has been there with a mocking smirk ready to satisfy the demand. Art is the business of selling fetishes, sacred relics once touched by genius: what the forger offers the gullible buyer is not art, it is ‘authenticity’, something John Groom argues ‘is the abiding perversion of our times. It is indulged as a vice, worshipped as a fetish, embraced as a virtue. [. . .] Everything it touches turns to gold – or at least is burnished with a scrape of lustre – and in that sense it is the mark of genius, the Midas touch, the apotheosis of capitalism.’
For an artist with a little talent and few scruples, forgery offers not only riches, but a clandestine celebrity. To know that one’s paintings hang in the Louvre, the Met, the Tate – even if no one else can ever know – is the finest revenge. Once in a gallery, there is little chance that the forger will be unmasked: as Théodore Rousseau pointed out, ‘We should all realise that we can only talk about the bad forgeries, the ones that have been detected; the good ones are still hanging on the walls.’
Forgery, said Orson Welles, ‘is as old as the Eden tree’. By the time the ancient Greeks arrived to begin the looting of Egypt which would continue for two thousand years, Phoenician and Sumerian forgers skilled in the making of ‘ancient Egyptian’ artefacts were waiting for them. In Rome, when Caesar Augustus commanded Virgil to create an epic to rival those of Homer and the empire struggled to forge for itself a history that might rival the Greeks, the statues of the greatest of Greek sculptors of the fourth and fifth centuries BC – Phidias, Praxiteles and Lysippus – changed hands for exorbitant sums. But the statues which graced the homes and private temples of senators and wealthy merchants were forgeries carved in sweatshops outside Rome. Pasiteles, one of the most gifted forgers of his generation, even wrote a sensational exposé of his forgeries. The manuscript, sadly, has been lost, but the myth of its existence may one day tempt a skilled forger to invent it.
In Renaissance Italy, at the height of perhaps the greatest flowering of human endeavour, the young Michelangelo, in an attempt to impress his patron Lorenzo de Medici, forged Roman sculptures and buried them in the gardens of the Medici palace, later arranging for these ‘ancient’ artefacts to be discovered. According to Vasari in his Lives of the Artists
He also copied drawings done by various old masters so closely that they were not recognised as copies, for by staining and ageing them with smoke and various materials, he soiled them so that they seemed old and could not be distinguished from the originals . . .
Michelangelo would borrow works of art in order to copy them, but he returned the copies, keeping the originals for himself.
Forgery can lay claim to being the second-oldest profession, and so it seems somehow appropriate to be waiting for a forger here in the stilly, greeny summer of Amsterdam’s genteel western canal belt, barely half a mile from where lissom women in picture windows practise the oldest profession: both, after all, know something about faking it.
Geert Jan Jansen arrives, a short, stocky man with a shock of white hair pushed back from his balding pate. In my finest Dutch I order two beers, and the barman inevitably answers in perfect English. The casual incredulity the Dutch reserve for those of us foolish enough to try to learn their language is matched only by their conviction that we have no hope of mastering it.
Soft-spoken and gracious, Geert Jan Jansen makes an improbable master criminal, and yet he admits to having forged thousands of paintings, drawings and watercolours by a Picasso, Matisse, Dufy, Miró, Jean Cocteau and Karel Appel. I look down, but the only question I have pencilled on my notepad is ‘why?’.
The why of forgery is thornier than the how. To art critics, the forger is a mediocre artist seeking revenge; to the media, a conman interested only in money; to the apologist, he is the equal of the masters he has forged; to the public he is often a folk hero. Where the common thief or the mugger is despised, it is difficult not to admire the forger, not to feel a surge of joy at the thought of a critic waxing lyrical over the glories of a seventeenth-century masterpiece on which the paint has barely dried. ‘Even when forgeries are badly done, they highlight the capacious self-delusion that must have been necessary for anyone to be fooled,’ writes Cullen Murphy; ‘When they are superb, they represent a triumph of the human spirit.’
For Geert Jan Jansen, the ‘why’ was simple. Having studied art history, he worked for the fashionable Amsterdam gallery Mokum. Later, he set up his own galleries, Jacob and Raam. His fellow-dealers were fulsome in their praise of his impressive feeling for art. ‘Bu
t when I was running my galleries, my best customers were the bailiffs – I couldn’t make enough money to survive and I didn’t want to lose the shop.’ Jansen began modestly, transforming humble posters with a pencilled number and the simple flourish of the artist’s signature and selling them as limited-edition lithographs. With the proceeds, he could fill his gallery with the paintings he truly admired. It was only a matter of time before he was tempted to go beyond forging signatures, to faking the paintings themselves.
‘My first forgery was a Karel Appel. I sold it to a famous Dutch architect and later I heard him boast to another dealer that he’d seen the painting on an easel in Appel’s studio. I thought: if everything goes this easily . . .’ His second forgery, also an Appel, he offered to a London gallery. Since he had scant documentation for the work, the auction house decided to verify the painting before sale and sent a photograph to Appel himself, who stated categorically that it was genuine. Child with Toy set a record price for a work by the artist.
‘I took no pleasure in the deception itself. Personally, I’m against forgery . . .’
I splutter nervously, but his face is deadly serious. Then, I see a shard of a smile, an ‘emotional leak’, a manifestation of what psychologist Paul Ekman calls ‘duping delight’: the pleasure of lying for its own sake.
‘. . . unless it’s well done. Let’s be honest: people don’t buy a painting because they think it’s beautiful, they buy it for the signature, they buy it to have a Warhol to hang on their wall. It’s like the traffic in sacred relics in the Middle Ages: if you took all the splinters of the one true cross, you could build a fleet of ships.
‘No – for me, the excitement was in mastering an artist’s style, and I’ve mastered the entire alphabet of twentieth-century artists: Appel, Chagall, de Kooning, Matisse, Picasso. But I discovered that there was a real thrill in the “magic wand effect” – you scribble the right artist’s signature in the right place and suddenly doors open. Even I find it crazy to think I’ve created genuine Picassos. But every time I look in the catalogue raisonné of his work, there they are.’
Works of art are rarely authenticated simply by provenance – the chain of documents which trace a work from the artist’s studio to its current owner. For old masters (anything painted before 1850), such documentation has rarely survived and even in the case of modern art, provenance will not exist for works given as gifts, or kept in the artist’s private collection. In the twenty-first century, most works of art are still authenticated by experts, whose years of study have given them invaluable insights into an artist’s mindset. ‘All experts operate largely on bluff. They don’t want their cover blown – they don’t want us to know how often, and how easily, they have been duped,’ according to Cliff Irving, biographer of Elmyr de Hory, the forger who was, to quote Robert Anton Wilson, ‘Jailed For Committing Masterpieces’. Wilson himself is less gracious: ‘Experts do not always know shit from shinola.’
Geert Jan’s career as a forger was not cut short by an expert’s eye, but by a simple misspelling. In 1994, introducing himself as Jan van den Bergen, he offers three paintings to the prestigious Munich auctioneers Karl & Faber: an ink drawing by Chagall, a Karel Appel and an Asger Jorn gouache. The experts in residence have no qualms about the authenticity of the art, but on one of the documents establishing the provenance of the Chagall, someone has typed ‘environs’ where it should read ‘environ’. The gallery contacts the Chagall Committee in Paris, who decide that the Chagall drawing is an exceedingly good forgery. While the auction house would be content to return the works to ‘Jan van den Bergen’ with an apology, one of their number is suspicious enough to contact the Art and Antiques squad of the German state criminal police. It takes several months running down mail drops and anonymous postboxes to trace Jan van den Bergen, whom police have identified as Geert Jan Jansen, to his farm in the village of La Chaux, south of Poitiers, where French police find 1,600 works by Picasso, Matisse, Dufy, Miró, Cocteau and Karel Appel. Jansen was immediately arrested and jailed.
‘I was pretty well treated compared to the other prisoners.’ Geert Jan smiles; ‘As soon as I got there, the board of governors asked me to dash off a couple of Picassos. And I got on well with the warders. When the prosecution was forced to drop most of the forgery charges because none of my victims would come forward, one of them came to give me the news and said: “Obviously you only had satisfied customers.”’
Despite the vast cache of forgeries found by the police, the case against Geert Jan took six years to come to trial, principally because none of the forger’s victims was prepared to give evidence. At first, French authorities called on art dealers and collectors worried that they might have bought one of Jansen’s forgeries to come forward. When not a single person did so, the Procureur de la République threatened to charge the buyers as accessories after the fact if they refused to press charges. Still, no one responded. Even those the authorities managed to trace were un-cooperative: one declared that he loved the painting and did not care whether or not it was genuine; an art dealer who had bought a Joseph Beuys, insisted that he was certain it was genuine. ‘There are a lot of forgeries in circulation,’ Geert Jan says. ‘Art dealers know that, but they’re hypocrites – they don’t tell the buyers: if a dealer thinks he’s bought a forgery, he salts it away for a year or two and then sells it at auction.’
In 2000, the French authorities finally succeeded in mounting a case against Jansen. In this, they were more successful than the Dutch attorney general, who ten years earlier, faced with the fact that he had no complainant to press charges, offered Geert Jan immunity from prosecution if he would undertake not to produce forgeries ‘for three years’. At his trial Geert Jan’s most unlikely ally was Rudy Fuchs, the director-general of the Municipal Museum in Amsterdam. In a written statement, Fuchs argued that the paintings confiscated by French police should not be destroyed, since he considered many of them to be genuine. Of the thirteen charges originally preferred, Geert Jan Jansen was found guilty on only two counts. Despite the state prosecutor’s plea for leniency, recommending a five-month suspended sentence, the magistrates’ decision was six years’ imprisonment (five of them suspended); his girlfriend received five months as an accessory.
I ask Geert Jan what he intends to do now. ‘At the moment, I am suing the French government for the return of my paintings.’
‘Do you think there’s any chance that they’ll give the paintings back?’ I ask.
‘I hope so.’ He smiles. ‘At least one Chagall and one Picasso are genuine. Besides, they have to return any painting they cannot prove is a forgery and their experts can’t seem to agree on which ones are fake.’
He is philosophical about the possibility that the paintings will not be returned since he estimates that the haul represents barely 5 per cent of the forgeries he has created in twenty years. In the meantime, he regularly leafs through catalogues raisonnés of twentieth-century artists to see how many of his works are still numbered among their masterpieces. There seems little chance now that any of these will be exposed as a forgery. As he explained: ‘Most forgeries just get sold from one person to another and in the process they become more genuine: the more often they’re sold, the longer they hang on a gallery wall, the more genuine they are.’
As I pedal my rickety standard-issue Dutch bike back towards my apartment, dodging cars and pedestrians along the canal banks, I realise he is probably right. After all, it was not an expert’s instinct which exposed him in the first place, but a spelling mistake on a document spotted by a meticulous intern. On the Keizersgracht, I stop in front of number 321, now occupied by the Guild of Dutch Architects. I stare up at the magnificent five-storey voorhuis, imperious in its time-honoured Amsterdam livery of red brick and white. As I lean on my bicycle, one of the never-ending procession of tourist barges that ply the canals pauses briefly – as it did on my first day here, when I took the tour. I listen as the tour guide, mangling a dozen different languages in
the same jaunty tone, explains that this was once the residence of the most famous forger in history, a man whose paintings hung in the Rijksmuseum, the man who swindled Hermann Göring: Han van Meegeren.
PROLOGUE AMSTERDAM, 7 JULY 1945
Death is Nature’s remedy for all things,
and why not Legislation’s? Accordingly,
the forger was put to Death . . .
Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
‘When a man knows that he is to die in a fortnight,’ Doctor Johnson opined, ‘it concentrates his mind wonderfully.’ And yet Han van Meegeren was having trouble concentrating. The bewildered, ailing artist huddled in his dank Amsterdam prison cell, terrified at the knowledge that, if convicted, the death sentence was a foregone conclusion.
His nightmare had begun six weeks earlier when the two officers of the Dutch Field Service knocked on the door of the magnificent Keizersgracht house on a chill May morning. At fifty-six, van Meegeren was an imposing figure: he was tall and wiry, a hank of white-grey hair like hoarfrost was slicked back from his widow’s peak, a neat, faintly Fascist moustache was trimmed and waxed. He looked a full ten years older than his true age, his high cheekbones jutted over sunken jowls, his heavy-lidded eyes had bags in which the worries of the world might be stored but his long aquiline nose conveyed a certain hauteur. Usually he exuded a wry, sardonic charm, favouring tailored suits in dark blue serge or casual jackets over cashmere sweaters or flamboyant shirts, but when he answered the door that morning, van Meegeren was still padding around in slippers and a worn bathrobe, his face gaunt, his hair wild, looking slightly mad. He chatted easily and glibly with the officers in spite of his fear. The senior man, Joop Piller, asked if they might come inside. They needed to speak to him about a painting. As he ushered the officers into his opulent studio, Han offered them a drink and was surprised when they accepted. If he was playing for time, the officers hardly noticed. Han was relieved to see that they were suitably awed by the lavishly appointed room. Piller strolled through the vast wood-panelled drawing-room, admiring Han’s small but perfect collection of old masters.
