Bastianini’s imitations are of such excellency that they are now held

in high esteem by collectors and are bought by museums at extremely

handsome prices. The Victoria and Albert Museum has one of the most

complete collections of Bastianini’s art, where the whole range of this

genial imitator of the Renaissance can be seen almost _au complet_.

Signor Ferrante Zampini, whose imitations deceived the museum of Munich

and many good connoisseurs and specialists, worked with different

methods.

The Pietà--the large lunette which together with other works deceived

the art authorities of Munich so completely--had passed in Florence

from the studio of Ferrante Zampini to the well-known atelier of Signor

Bonafedi, a painter of uncommon talent whose ability in colouring

and in giving a proper patina to clay is unrivalled. This work was

afterwards sold (for the sum of 1200 francs), as modern, to Professor

Paolini, a violinist, who also sold it for modern to a German, and

finally, through a string of collectors, the Pietà landed in the Munich

Museum for 14,000 francs.

It is said that the discovery of its modern authorship was due to a

successful antiquary of Florence, a collector who has sharpened his

natural alertness after a sad experience when he bought a bronze by a

living German artist as Quattrocento work, and who is in a position to

know more than one _histoire_ through a regular network of informants.

On this occasion his informant, it seems, was close to hand in the

person of his packer.

As for other antiquaries who had had no forewarning from kind

informants, they have been more or less taken in by Signor Zampini’s

works which have appeared now and then on the market since the year

1904. Less exception seems to have been taken to the work of the other

modern imitator, Signor Natali. His imitations, made previously to

his best one, bought by the Louvre Museum, appear to have travelled

very far; some of them are still in undisturbed enjoyment of honour as

Renaissance work in private collections.

Ferrante Zampini’s first work was a portrait of a lady, a finely

executed head evidently made under the direct impression of those busts

attributed to Laurana, those that Courajod insisted upon calling death

masks. This piece, however, had no fortune in the world of antiques,

it travelled from place to place, and finally, as faithful as a

carrier-pigeon, returned to the man who had bought it from the sculptor.

A strikingly fine clay head followed. It closely resembled the portrait

of Colleoni, though giving the general of the Venetian Republic a more

aged appearance than that of the equestrian statue in Venice: it was

readily bought as a Verrocchio.

Since then Zampini has produced several works of his peculiar art.

Although they have realized large sums of money his own gains were but

small.

A curious proof of Zampini’s excellence in imitating the Quattrocento

is given by the following incident. A French collector bought from

a Florentine dealer a genuine piece of Renaissance, and a work by

Zampini. After taking the two purchases to Paris the collector sent

back the _real_ article as a fake, keeping the Zampini bust as a

recognized authentic object of art. A Munich princess possesses one of

the finest works of our sculptor which still defies all evidence--even

now after the Munich disclosures have enlightened the Bavarian

connoisseurs.

Professor X. of Florence, a connoisseur whose ability is beyond

question and whose experience is highly esteemed among art lovers,

bought a clay bust by Zampini, believing it to be work of the

fourteenth century. Some time after he had transferred the object

to his collection the clay began to peel off and show signs of the

progressive scaling usually called _sbullettare_.[1]

[1] “Sbullettare” signifies the scaling of terra-cotta by

which it becomes full of little holes, as though pitted by

small-pox. The word is derived from _bulletta_ (a nail or

tack), the poor victim looking as though nails had been

roughly drawn out.

Zampini, it must be said, often uses Impruneta clay (that used by della

Robbia), and he was not aware that to prevent scaling--a phenomenon

that may set in months after the work is baked--this peculiar earth

must be moistened as soon as it leaves the oven. Had this been done the

work would have been saved that curious scaling which in the end told

the truth about the bust. But for this unforeseen circumstance the work

might still be playing its part in the world of antiques.

Professor X., however, knew that antique busts are not liable to

suffer from this peculiar kind of small-pox and called the go-between

who had helped in the conclusion of the business and a friend who had

shared his admiration and to them he confided his suspicions. The

bust then disappeared for some time. Later, however, the same friend

of Professor X. who had admired the bust before it began to scale,

was called in to admire it again in the collection of Professor Y.,

another noted connoisseur, who had bought it as antique. For reasons

of his own, possibly so as not to spoil the new owner’s pleasure, the

friend did not reveal the secret of the make-up. But Impruneta clay

seemed determined the truth should become manifest to all, in spite

of circumstances. Within a few days the work that had already been

attributed to Verrocchio by the new owner, began to peel once more, and

the secret of its modern date was revealed a second time. Professor Y.,

who is an honest dealer and a connoisseur of such ability as to be able

to afford a blunder without loss of a well-deserved reputation, laughed

at the clever joke played upon him and buried the Verrocchio in his

cellar--the Erebus to which all honest antiquaries relegate their bad

bargains.

The bas-relief which has been bought by the Louvre at a larger figure

than any other recent acquisition of this nature, is the work of a

young sculptor, Natali, a Florentine who has lately emerged as a clever

imitator of the Renaissance. The newspapers have already spoken of the

last part played by the supposed Verrocchio in the Museum, and the

magnificent sum paid for it. What is not generally known is that the

curator’s eyes were opened--wisdom and knowledge are often wakened

in this way!--by an anonymous letter written from an aggrieved

would-be partner in the affair who had been, as it were, “cut off with

a shilling” in the handsome transaction.

* * * * *

Though Bastianini, Zampini and Natali seem to exploit a common field

and to work with identical aims, they so essentially differ in the

quality and character of their work as to deserve a brief comparison.

Bastianini, who flourished when connoisseurship was yet without the

powerful aid of photography, appears in some way at a disadvantage when

compared with the others, and this although his qualities as a modern

sculptor, even though academic, were perhaps of a more solid character

than theirs.

Apart from his Benivieni, his Savonarola bust and a few heads of aged

people in which the sculptor reveals his best and strongest qualities

as an imitator of the Quattrocento, his work is of a perplexed and,

consequently, weaker nature. We very much doubt whether some of his

female heads now in the Victoria and Albert Museum could deceive in

these days even a mediocre connoisseur.

In Bastianini’s minor works one is likely to find the explanation

of this curious artistic temperament--he was a lover of modern life

and prided himself upon cooking macaroni fit to make a Neapolitan

blush, he claimed to be the best ball player (_giocatore di pallone_)

of his day and could pass from modern art to antique imitations

with a facility that astonishes us. In his less important works an

oscillating mind is evident, swinging like a pendulum between modern

and antique art. It is clear that the two artistic personalities

worked alternately in Bastianini’s mind, leaving no deep or permanent

impression. This artist’s imitations, consequently, bear every symptom

of immediate suggestion--fugitive impressions cleverly caught and

blended into a surprisingly harmonious whole, thanks to his uncommon

skill in modelling. It is this happy _tout ensemble_ (summing up of

qualities and circumstances) that raised the artist above the level

of the obvious imitator, more especially when modelling certain

heads the character of which would seem to tally with the original

impression--some early souvenir or first work in copying maybe--he had

received from the masters of the Renaissance.

With Ferrante Zampini the artistic evolution is somewhat reversed.

A man of taciturn disposition, inclined to dream and of mystic

tendencies, he must have cogitated, loved and longingly caressed his

idea before giving it form. Rebelling against any academic yoke it was

not long before he began an intercourse of sentiment with the work of

the past, questioning those old masters as to the reason why their

sentiment should clash with scholastic tuition. He must have actually

saturated his mind with old forms before taking up the modelling stick.

To see him working without a model, without a suggestion even to aid

his creation, made one almost believe that through some mesmeric power

the soul of an old master had passed into his own, and that he was

enjoying at the moment all the glorious freedom of irresponsibility.

Thus while Bastianini worked in a well-lighted studio, filled with

plaster-casts of the creations of Verrocchio, Pollajuolo and other

great masters, Zampini models in a small room, working in the faintest

of lights, surrounded by bare grey walls. With blinds almost drawn,

this sculptor holds that he can dominate the masses with security and

be in closer touch with his vision. Perhaps the great unity of his work

really is due in part to this unusual method of modelling, a method

which, while it permits him to detect errors of mass, and to correct

the general lines of composition, at the same time harmonizes into a

happy ensemble the characteristics of the older style he imitates.

It may be said also that while Bastianini rarely attempted compositions

in bas-relief, confining his main work of imitation to heads, Zampini

boldly attacks the difficulties of large bas-reliefs and grouped

figures. Though Zampini’s works vaguely suggest reminiscences--either

in composition or in form--this sculptor must be credited with an

unusual power of synthesis, and we are not surprised that the Munich

authorities were deceived by his art.

Natali’s workmanship is of a different nature. This young artist--the

author of the Baptism, the lunette bought by the Louvre as a work of

Verrocchio--shows great versatility even when not imitating the old

masters, and he is, above all, a virtuoso--a true product of Latin

facility.

But it must be added that while the lunette of the Louvre shows

happy composition, with charming details here and there in its

interpretation, it does not possess the intimate qualities, the

essential unity, of Zampini’s work. The latter may be taken for

Verrocchio or not, according to the ability or appreciation of the

critic; but Natali’s lunette might be modernized as “Verrocchio and

Co.,” or (since in the angels the manner of Andrea Robbia alternates

with Verrocchio) we might even go a step further and describe the

composite result as “Verrocchio, Robbia and Co., Ltd.”

Not only because Natali occupies a room in Bonafedi’s studio, and

appears to work under this artist’s supervision--at least it was so

when we had occasion to study the work of this excellent imitator--but

direct from the work in the lunette of the Baptism one feels inclined

to look on this young artist as endowed with the defects and good

qualities of a painter indulging in plastic work. The composition, for

instance, harmonious and rich, with a happy suggestion of light and

shade, lacks the directness of form peculiar to sculptors, and the

modelling shows here and there--and this even considering the task the

artist has imposed upon himself of imitating Quattrocento work--the

flatness and dryness of a painter who models without plastic insight or

preoccupation. These characteristics, these pictorial qualities which

are not to be seen in Signor Natali’s modern work, are perhaps the

disguise with which he sometimes veils his touch--the touch of a modern

sculptor. Though admiring this excellent imitation, we must say we are

surprised at the fact that it was not sooner detected as modern work.

From Bonafedi, a painter possessing great facility in execution and

uncommon versatility as an imitator, the mere association of ideas

easily leads one to the Siena imitators who have for years held the

privilege of being the strongest imitators of early Quattrocento work.

Joni and others have, unwittingly, deceived more than one connoisseur.

One of these Sienese products was bought by Mr. Salting for twenty

thousand lire.

There is no doubt that the imitation bought by Mr. Salting as work of

the old Sienese school is one of the best that modern Siena has ever

produced. Yet anyone already acquainted with that kind of work, and who

had seen at least one specimen out of the many that have met with good

success among unguarded collectors, would not have found it difficult

to detect the first-rate imitation that so triumphantly entered the

Salting collection. It is said that Mr. Salting got his money back, and

the painting was returned to the dealer; a remarkable occurrence and a

proof of good faith, as usually when the collector finds he has been

duped and is not disposed to keep it quiet, the vendor is either not to

be found or he has taken prudent measures and good care to be on the

safe side legally.

In our opinion the drawing of the Sienese imitator is too caligraphic,

it reproduces too closely, namely, the forms of well-known originals,

and this while the composition is not always free from plagiarisms that

are too easily recognizable. Some of the later artists of Florence, and

elsewhere, have broadened the technique, appearing less servile because

better versed in the qualities of the old masters, and through this

deeper insight their work is more convincing and synthetic.

One of these characteristic workers is Professor Ezio Marzi of

Florence, an imitator of the Dutch school, who has never sold his

panels as antique, but whose work, it is said, through others, has

penetrated into more than one collection, where it is held to be

genuine and above suspicion. His Teniers, now honoured as such, are

many, and if Marzi instead of being stationary in Florence like most of

his compatriots who, generally speaking, never travel, should indulge

in one of those erratic trips of which Americans are so fond, visiting

collections here and there, he would have good cause to laugh in his

sleeve.

Like many of his Italian brothers of the brush, Ezio Marzi has eclectic

tendencies and a most versatile workmanship. But what places him apart

from his confrères who also imitate the art of the past, is the fact

that when he chooses to be Ezio Marzi in his painting, that is to

say to paint something of his own, giving a true expression of his

own personality, he can do so without infection from reminiscences

of his workmanship as an imitator. In a word, Marzi is a painter of

mark, extremely original and fully temperamental--a rare thing

among imitators of other people’s art. As regards his plagiaristic

indulgences, he has tried the most varied and dissimilar schools of the

past, successfully too. His preference, however, for Dutch or Flemish

art has finally prevailed. Possibly at his first essays Marzi was

the obvious sort of imitator, servile to direct suggestion of form,

disguising artistic thefts from old masters by the usual well-matched

mosaic, but now this inevitable preparatory period is dismissed and

surpassed. When imitating Teniers this artist is really composing Dutch

scenes without a scrap of suggestion in his studio.

[Illustration: PORTRAIT.

An imitation of Dutch School by Prof. Ezio Marzi an Italian artist,

who does his work with no apparent sense of plagiarism, but who is so

versatile in Dutch School that but for his honest dealing he might

prove a danger to amateurs.]

While Marzi affords us a good type of the imitator in painting and

Bastianini and Zampini show us the best possibilities of assumed

characters in sculpture, Professor Orlandini of Florence imitates

Quattrocento ornamental sculpture with capital results. We can repeat

here the same comment passed on Marzi’s art: his works, too, are sold

as modern, but, alas, how many ornamental chimneypieces and would-be

aged _lavabos_ now decorating rooms, are Orlandini’s work, although

ostentatiously shown as pure productions of the Renaissance. Not so

pure, though, always, for Professor Orlandini is at times forced to

fall in with the customer’s ambition and thus allows himself to give

full play to over-ornamentation, producing a sort of Quattrocento _usus

Americanus_.

Still, when left to his own artistic bent we know of no one who can

turn out of the Fiesole stone an aristocratic-looking chimneypiece more

closely resembling the work of Desiderio da Settignano.

As a brief observation it may be added that Professor Orlandini is a

sculptor of the old school who deals chiefly with hard materials. This

fact greatly contributes to give his art that stern sobriety of line

that is a characteristic mark of the Renaissance artist.

In the present flood of imitations it has been urged that honest

artists should put their signatures to their modern antiques, thus

preventing the danger represented by imitations when launched on

the market by able imposters. There are a few who do sign their

productions, but we must say such an act does not win the deserved

success. The buyer seems to demand a certain amount of illusion which

would inevitably be destroyed by a signature in full sight. Besides,

supposing that to prevent any possible fakery all imitators should

decide to sign their work, what guarantee would such a movement

represent? Nothing is easier to erase than a signature on a painting,

and so far as a sculptor is concerned it is a baby trick to cover the

artist’s mark.

Commerce has its risks, risks placing an elective stigma on any

enterprise, rendering it more difficult and eliminating the incapable.

In our artistic _milieu_ such risks are doubled, thus while

“imitation,” and its black sister “faking,” represent a formidable

danger, they also, through the said magnified risk, confer upon the

elect ones, the true connoisseurs, the exclusiveness of an aristocratic

caste.

And yet, unlike the beginner, these superior beings who have in a way

learned through experience how to cope with dangerous odds repeat with

Bonnaffé:

“Do not trust the collector who never makes a mistake. The strongest is

he who makes the fewest mistakes.”

CHAPTER XVII

FAKERS, FORGERS AND THE LAW

Faking and fakers--Views of art forgers--Too great a

productiveness aids the exposure of fakers--The chink in

the armour of silence and mystery--Collector’s view of the

dangerous trade in counterfeited objects--Laws and tribunals--

Grotesque cases in court--M. Chasles’ autographs--A collector

who lacks a Rameses--The faker for gain and the one for fun--

Some moral considerations on fabricators of modern antiques.

Moral considerations apart, the faker of objects for collections is

far more interesting a personage than some of his duped victims.

His artistic personality separates him from the commoner class, the

peculiarity of his trade, while not redeeming the disreputableness of

his conduct, confers upon him the poetical nimbus of art and mystery,

just as an undefined feeling of heroism or chivalry may, to an

imaginative mind, turn an old-fashioned brigand into a classical type

of buccaneer.

These mute workers, who actually earn their money by false pretences,

deluding and deceiving with callous energy in what a commercial mind

might call “their line of business,” are not infrequently people of

scruples and probity in all other respects, men to whom credit might be

given with safety.

As we have stated before, the collector is partially responsible if

excellent imitators sometimes turn into fakers. Ask the forger how it

was that he became such, and nine times out of ten you will either

hear that he was tired of seeing others make indecent profits out of

his work, or that he was prompted by the consideration that there were

fools ready to pay ten times the value of his work, provided he did not

claim authorship, and would pretend his work was antique. Curiously

enough, when questioned about the beginning of their fraudulent

profession, some will speak of their transition from honesty to

dishonesty with the reticence of a woman gone astray; others, perhaps

the larger number, are boastful and inclined to glory in the success

accorded to their fakes.

La Rochefoucauld has written in his _Maximes_ that it is easier

to deceive oneself than others. The vaunting class of fakers have

somewhat reversed the terms of this saying, their common tenet being

that it is easier to cheat others than to cheat oneself. This maxim,

however, gives the faker undue confidence and a too prolific activity

in creating sham masterpieces, and eventually contributes to the

exposure of his fraud and the final ruin of what he considers, and what

has proved to be, a most remunerative business. Many discoveries of

falsified _chefs-d’œuvre_ are due to over-productiveness of the faker.

His self-confidence augmenting his activity to alarming proportions, it

naturally increases the probability of discovery.

However, the faker is perforce a close-mouthed fellow, always on

his guard and very rarely taken, as one might say, by surprise.

Nevertheless he too possesses what might be called in fanciful metaphor

the Achilles’ vulnerable spot where his silence may be attacked: it is

his pride that must be tickled.

It was an aim of mine in the past to trace forgery in art to its

origin. Not exactly as a hobby but in the belief that in these days it

is important to know how works of art are imitated and faked, that it

is part of modern connoisseurship in fact. To-day one must learn how to

detect forgeries just as one must learn how to admire genuine art.

Forgery museums, intelligently organized, would be far more

interesting--and more original--to-day than the various galleries of

fine arts.

On more than one occasion after having traced the forger, the above

system of flattering his vanity has extorted an unexpected confidence.

To give an instance: some time ago the Italian market began to be

infested by good imitations of bronze figures of the type of the Paduan

school. An antiquary, from whom I have the story, traced the forger

to Modena and called upon the fellow whom he held in suspicion. At

first he had no clue, but finally, becoming friendly, he happened to

surprise a confession from him under the following circumstances. It

must be noted that a faker will talk freely on the subject of forgery,

never presuming to be discovered and always as an outsider. Speaking of

imitations, the antiquary expressed his surprise at the sure modelling

and most convincing patina of some recent imitations he had seen.

He explained that the imitation was really so good that he himself

had been deceived by a small group representing a nymph and satyr.

Circumstances alone had saved him at the last moment from being taken

in and giving his opinion by attributing the bronze to Andrea Briosco.

The piece to be sure was convincing enough to pass for one of the best

works Briosco ever conceived. It was really worth the extravagant sums

collectors are willing to pay for Briosco’s piece, called _il Riccio_,

even though it was modern.

“Perhaps it was worth it,” remarked the artist with the characteristic

rebellious accent peculiar to successful fakers.

This first burst of self-pride, properly nourished by the other with

eulogies of the great artist who had modelled the group, drew forth the

desired disclosure. When the antiquary remarked:

“That group ought to bring a big price. If collectors were not,

generally speaking, so utterly deprived of true artistic sense, if they

were not----”

“Such a pack of fools and snobs,” interrupted the artist.

The chink in the armour of silence was now discovered. Though

without giving a hint as to his craft or the recipe of his wonderful

patina, upon promise of silence with regard to his name, he proudly

acknowledged authorship of the bronze group supposed to be of the

school of Padua, and finally offered to show other pieces ready to

enter the world of fakes, finished and ready to go and play the part

of masterpieces of the Renaissance.

When the artist was asked how he managed to dispose of his faked goods,

he averred that that part of the business belonged to the dealer. A

specialist like himself, he said, had nothing to do with that side. The

only compact he had made was with his own conscience, being perfectly

aware that he was handsomely paid and that his agent realized three

times as much.

According to him, even museums were buying spurious works of art, and

labelling them with pompous attributions, knowing all the while that

they were not authentic.

We quote this as a mere incident to show the view and supercilious

attitude taken by the faker with regard to his art.

Incidentally and from the same source came the information that

some well-imitated octagonal tables that had fetched high prices in

the antique furniture market as real Quattrocento work were made in

Bologna, and that the old patina and blunt corners were acquired by

real use, the tables being lent for a time to cheap restaurants and

the shops of sausage-dealers. The bronze faker of Modena possessed

one of these tables which showed a casual knife cut and the abuse of

age. To make the piece more handsomely suggestive, upon the top of the

table there had been roughly scratched with a nail a square of the

geometrical lines of the old game of “Filetto.” One could easily work

up one’s fancy before that perpetrated abuse and imagine crowds of

lansquesnets or inveterate dice-throwers.

When asked why he did not put his signature to such excellent work as

his, that it would certainly be valued on its own merits, he shook

his head and repeated the refrain so often heard from successful

fakers that the time of the old-fashioned intelligent and art-loving

collectors had passed, that collecting was nowadays nothing but a

fad, that the modern collector is only a pretender. In proof of his

assertion he referred to the then recent incident.

“See what happened to Donatello’s _puttino_ in London.”

For those who may have forgotten the incident, we will recall how a

little bronze statue by Donatello was vainly offered for sale to the

London dealers. This statue was missing from the baptistery of San

Francesco of Siena. The statuette represented a _puttino_ (boy) and,

hardly a foot high, had been stolen from the church at Siena in the

beginning of the nineteenth century. It mysteriously found its way to

London, where it was in all probability buried and forgotten in some

private collection for three-score years or more. When the forgotten

statue suddenly emerged from its nook of oblivion it was offered for

sale simply as an old bronze, but being taken for a modern imitation

it fetched no decent price. A Bond Street specialist refused it at two

thousand francs. The Donatello was finally bought for 12,000 francs by

the Berlin Museum, this being about the fiftieth part of its present

value.

It is curious to hear the various opinions entertained by collectors

and art lovers concerning faking and its alarming and increasing

success. An old collector who had, no doubt like so many of his

colleagues, learned his lesson through being duped, unhesitatingly

declared that faking is a grand art with a reason for existence as it

seems to meet a real need of society, the need of being, as it were,

deluded and cheated by elegance. Queer ethics answering to the Latin

saying: _Vulgus vult decipi, ergo decipiatur_ (The crowd likes to be

deceived, let it be deceived!).

A former curator of the Victoria and Albert Museum used to pay due

tribute to the art of good imitators and fakers, who had succeeded in

deceiving the vigilant eye of the guardians of museums, by stating

that imitations are really too good to be mistaken for antiques, much

better, indeed, than some of the examples of the art they would falsify.

The really experienced collector is inclined to look upon faking as

a huge joke to be played on greenhorns and the inexperienced, even

although some of the silent torpedoes of faking do triumphantly succeed

in hitting people who are iron-clad with knowledge.

Novices take two opposite views of the matter. One class is positively

ashamed of having been “taken in,” and hides the fact by concealing

the proof of his ignorance in a dark corner of the house; the other,

viewing the deception in a more business-like way, has recourse to the

courts with more or less happy results. The latter class is naturally

inclined to favour the greatest possible severity of the law.

In some of the cases in which the tribunals are called upon to pass

judgment, one is inclined to wonder whether in pronouncing a severe

sentence on the culprit, the magistrates do not feel like laughing up

their sleeve at the supine foolishness of the plaintiff.

The case of M. Chasles, a celebrated and highly esteemed mathematician

and member of the Paris _Institut_, furnishes us with proof of how a

man can be great in his own speciality, yet likely to be taken in under

peculiar and rather astonishing circumstances.

Monsieur Chasles had apparently taken to autograph-hunting, one of the

most dangerous pursuits a mere _dilettante_ can dream of. His career at

the beginning was perhaps that of any other neophyte, and except for

the astonishing sequence, might belong to the trite record of daily

happenings on the unsafe side of curio-hunting.

The celebrated mathematician had hardly gathered his first autographs

when to his misfortune he met with a certain Vrain-Lucas, an imposter

whose talent fitted to perfection the over-trusting mathematician.

But for the documentary evidence of the trial (quoted by Paul Eudel

in his book, _Le Truquage_), it would be utterly incredible that

anyone, particularly a learned man, could be gulled to such an extent.

Yet on the 16th of February, 1869, Monsieur Chasles appeared before

the Paris Court of Justice as a plaintiff, and the public discussion

of the case--which ended in the condemnation of the defendant,

Vrain-Lucas, to two years’ imprisonment and a fine of 500 francs with

costs--clearly divulged how the eminent professor had been the victim

of _le sieur_ Vrain-Lucas, a semi-learned man of unquestionable talent

and a stupendous and fertile power of invention. For the total sum of

140,000 francs he had sold to his client would-be authentic autographs

and pretended indisputable original manuscripts--really the most

extraordinary pieces a collector ever dreamt of!

Among other things there was included: a private letter of Alexander

the Great addressed to Aristotle; a letter of Cleopatra to Julius

Cæsar, informing the Roman Dictator that their son “Cesarion” was

getting on very well; a missive of Lazarus to St. Peter; also a lengthy

epistle addressed to Lazarus by Mary Magdalen. It should be added

that the letters were written in French and in what might be styled

an eighteenth-century jargon, that Alexander addressed Aristotle as

_Mon Ami_ and Cleopatra scribbled to Cæsar: _Notre fils Cesarion va

bien_. Lazarus, no less a scholar in the Gallic idiom, and to whom,

maybe, a miraculous resurrection had prompted a new personality, writes

to St. Peter in the spirit of a rhetorician and a prig, speaking of

Cicero’s oratory and Cæsar’s writings, getting excited and anathematic

on Druidic rites and their cruel habit _de sacrifier des hommes

saulœvaiges_.

Mary Magdalen, who begins her letter with a _mon très aimé frère

Lazarus, ce que me mandez de Petrus l’apostre de notre doux Jesus_,

is supposed to be writing from Marseilles and thus would appear to be

the only one out of the many who can logically indulge in French, the

_jargon-bouillabaisse_ that Vrain-Lucas lent to the gallant array of

his personages.

[Illustration:

_Photo_] [_Alinari_

CHILD.

By Donatello, whose taste in statuary was chiefly formed in Rome.]

After such a practical joke played on the excellent good faith of

M. Chasles, some of the other autographs seem tame. The package,

however, also contained scraps jotted down by Alcibiades and Pericles,

a full confession of Judas Iscariot’s crime written by himself to

Mary Magdalen before passing the rope round his neck; a letter of

Pontius Pilate addressed to Tiberius expressing his sorrow for the

death of Christ. Other astounding pieces of this now famous collection

were: a passport signed by Vercingetorix, a poem of Abelard and some

love-letters addressed by Laura to Petrarch, as well as many other

historical documents down to a manuscript of Pascal and an exchange

of letters between the French scientist and Newton on the laws of

gravitation, the Frenchman claiming the discovery as his own.

The latter manuscript caused a memorable polemic between the savants

of London and Paris, a regular tournament of clever arguing among the

scholars of the two countries, which finally led to the discovery of

the huge fraud of which M. Chasles was the assigned but unresigned

victim.

The chance way the imposture was exposed makes one wonder how it

was possible for the case to have the honour of serious discussion

among scientists. Among other historical blunders is the supposition

that Newton could have exchanged letters with Pascal on the laws of

gravitation. The former being but nine years old when Pascal died, he

had certainly not yet given his mind to the observations bringing about

his marvellous discovery. Further, as an example of gravitation, Pascal

relates that he has noticed how in a cup of coffee the bubbles are

attracted toward the edge of the receptacle. It is known that coffee

was imported into France some nine years after the death of the great

French philosopher and mathematician.

Leaving the man who does really artistic work we are now introduced to

the majority of the class, mere fabricators of artistic _pastiches_,

which notwithstanding complete absence of meritorious qualities are

nevertheless effective decoys for unwary art lovers.

To this legion belong, of course, the most mediocre painters and

sculptors, those whose chief cunning lies in the transference of age

to their modern fabrications. They are guided in their work mostly by

a considerable amount of practice in restoring old paintings, marbles,

stuccoes, and so forth.

There is also a peculiar type of impostor who plays his tricks solely

for the fun of it, a curious type who for the joy of having cheated

some one, will deny himself the pleasure of revealing his name and

glory in his success.

To this stamp must have belonged M. A. Maillet, a distinguished

chemist who in 1864 took the trouble to publish a book on antediluvian

excavations, for no other purpose evidently than to fool scholars

given to that particular study. Needless to say the volume met with

astonishing success. Among reproductions of genuine antediluvian

relics, the eminent chemist interspersed his writing with spurious and

fantastic illustrations of pretended finds of his own invention. They

consisted of carved bones with figures, symbols and mysterious writings.

To say that no polemic or learned appreciation of the volume followed

its publication would be to slander the too easily kindled enthusiasm

of learned specialists. As usual the polemic revealed the true

character of the volume, but before reaching its conclusion there was

more than one reputation sullied and more than one scientist who lost

caste. The perplexity and chaotic confusion caused by the publication

was felt by M. A. Maillet to be ample recompense for his labour and

expense.

The jovial faker, who is out solely for the fun of making game of

some one, is no modern invention. Notably in Italy it is not uncommon

to find a Greek or Latin inscription, traced centuries ago, with no

apparent purpose than that of puzzling posterity, or putting historians

off the scent. This would seem to be a still more remarkable form of

faking, as the author not only derives no profit whatever from his

trouble, but is not at all likely to be present to enjoy the result of

his dupery.

Even among these mysterious helpers of the trade in curios--those who

work for their living--they are rarely deprived of that facetious

spirit that gives them a relish for some brilliant case of deception.

Their joy is not wholly permeated by venal considerations.

There is no question but that some fakers go to work like true

sportsmen. Hearing them boast, or describe some of their successful

comedies in which they have been author, actor and manager all in one,

it is not difficult to deduce that the only genuine thing to spur their

imagination and activity is the desire to cheat any and everybody

willing to be convinced by them or their work.

The chief characteristics of some of these comedies, which often

necessitate the help of the faker’s bosom friend, the dealer or

go-between, are pluck and an uncommon knowledge of the psychology of

collectors. In more than one instance psychology would appear to have

actually made the impossible become possible.

The story of the forged Rameses is still floating as a tradition in the

gossipy world of antiquities in Paris. In his work, _Le Truquage_, Paul

Eudel relates the anecdote in all its amusing detail.

A Parisian collector was, it seems, the happy owner of the most

complete collection of Egyptian fine art objects. Not a specimen was

missing apparently. But, as Eudel observes, “Is a collector ever ready

to call his collection complete?” A collection is like a literary work

which never seems to go beyond the “preface,” and there is no limit to

it.

The collector in question had, however, set his limit, deciding that

his collection might be considered complete as soon as he had secured

one of those serene-looking, colossal Egyptian statues with which

to ornament and complete the courtyard of the mansion housing his

collection.

To be rich, to have a fixed desire and to blazen forth one’s particular

hobby is a dangerous combination of ingredients in the world of

curio-dealing, especially with the ever-ready and active faker close to

hand.

To gratify this collector’s hobby an informant turned up one day to

report that near Thebes a splendid statue of heroic proportions had

been discovered. It was said to be the effigy of a Rameses in all its

impassive beauty. Having knowledge of the collector’s penchant the

informant’s agent in Egypt had kept back the secret of the discovery.

In this way the collector was given the first refusal, the statue was

all ready to be shipped, the whole at the reasonable price of a hundred

thousand francs.

As usual the proposal was accompanied with convincing documents,

stamped letters, descriptive memoranda and so forth. Within view of a

long-desired ornament, the collector was easily induced to take part

in the transaction to be carried on with the usual secrecy, upon the

condition that the statue should be taken straight to his house on its

arrival, and in such a way as to preclude all knowledge on the part of

others.

Anyone unacquainted with the psychology of collectors--something

that never happens to fakers--might be inclined to imagine that

the schemer would try to hasten the conclusion of the business so

elaborately planned, for fear the buyer might change his mind or have

his eyes opened in some way. But our man knew that the collector

would speak to no one, lest he might lose the rare chance offered

him, and also that the longer the delay, the more obstacles met with

or surmounted, the keener would he become to possess the exceptional

“find.”

Finally, when the arrival of the statue was announced and it reached

the Paris railway station in due time, the collector, suspicious and

afraid like all true art lovers, insisted that it should be conveyed to

his house by night.

After so much picturesque mystery the _dénouement_ came, as usual, too

late and in the most banal manner. The fraud was exposed on the very

day of the exhibition, and the enraged collector started an energetic

search for the culprits, but the birds had flown--he only found the

empty cage, namely the atelier in a neighbouring street where his

Rameses had been given birth. The debris of the would-be Oriental

granite still strewed the floor.

“_Sic transit_----”

The faker and the forger are not prone to repentance. Vrain-Lucas, who

had made himself notorious by cheating M. Chasles, had hardly regained

his liberty after serving his term before he was again called to answer

for another fraud. For a poor provincial priest he had falsified a

whole genealogical tree.

Paul Eudel relates of one Oriental faker who proved himself as

impenitent as resourceful. Clever and gifted with the peculiar

shrewdness of the Oriental, he made his first _coup_ by selling to the

German Emperor some Moabite pottery which had certainly never been on

the shores of the Jordan nor on the coast of the Dead Sea. This clever

piece of trickery was recently discovered by the eminent Orientalist M.

Clermont-Ganneau.

Back in Jerusalem and silent for a time, he next appeared in Europe

offering the savants a most astonishing relic. Quite unabashed by the

exposure of the Moabite pottery, he went straight to Berlin to offer

some old passages of the Bible of most authentic character. They were

written on narrow strips of leather supposed to have been found on a

mummy.

Scholars examined the precious relics with care and silently concluded

to decline to enter into the bargain. The precious document, though

evidently forged, had been falsified on a piece of very old leather,

the only part unquestionably aged.

The surprising part was that the culprit was not at all discouraged by

the first collapse of his scheme but went to London, where he offered

his Biblical find to the British Museum for the trifling sum of a

million pounds sterling.

The plan very nearly succeeded. Daily papers became excited over the

discovery of the rare Moabite manuscript, a document dating from at

least the eighth or ninth century before Christ.

The learned Dr. Ginsburg, who set himself to the task of deciphering

the obscure and indistinct characters of the worn-out leather strips,

recognized in them a fragment of the fifth book of the Pentateuch. When

M. Clermont-Ganneau came to examine the document he declared it for

many reasons to be a daring forgery.

Apart from the fact that the strips could not have enwrapped a

mummy, as neither Hebrews nor Phœnicians had the custom of embalming

their dead, the leather said to have been found in Palestine could

hardly have withstood for so long the action of a damp climate. Such

preservation would only be possible in the dry climate of the desert

or some one of the favoured parts of Egypt.

It was discovered at the same time that the strips of the famous

manuscript had been cut from a piece of leather some two centuries

old--the erased original characters still being traceable--upon which

the Biblical fragments had been copied in the Moabite alphabet.

The artist with a vaster range and wider scope for duping is, without

doubt, the one working on artistic frauds, as the proportion stands

at one collector of manuscripts to a thousand art collectors. It is

immaterial to him whether he meets specialists or eclectics in this

large field--they are all good game. The facility with which he is

thus able to dispose of his wares makes him still more refractory

to reform. Silent, often obscure, always mysterious, he claims for

his activity what must appear to him a noble justification: he

paradoxically believes himself to be a real factor of his client’s

happiness. But for him some of the collectors would find it

tremendously difficult to possess masterpieces, and if they die happy

without realizing that they have been fooled, where is the difference?

After all, in this fool’s paradise they are happy and undisturbed--so

very few realize either that they have been totally duped by a fake or

partially cheated by over-restoration. Most of the modern collectors

too often resemble that type of art lover:

... Qui croit tenir les pommes d’Hesperides

Et presse tendrement un navet sur son coeur.[2]

[2]

.. : Who thinks he holds the apples of the Hesperides

Whilst pressing tenderly a turnip to his heart.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE FAKED ATMOSPHERE AND PUBLIC SALES

The art of producing a faked atmosphere--Private sales of faked

objects of art--Real and spurious noblemen as elements in

creating the desired atmosphere for an antique--The various

and endless possibilities in private dealing--Public sales--

Auction sales--Various characters among frequenters of public

sales--_La Bande Noire_--The trick of the sale catalogue as a

proof of authenticity, etc.--The part played in public sales by

Peter Funk and the transformations of this helpful personage.

In most cases the art forger is provided with an indispensable

accessory in the person of a co-worker who helps to dispose of the

artist’s questionable product advantageously. This may be done by one

agent or by many, according to circumstances, but the spirit of the

mission is always the same, to steep faking, namely, in another kind

of fakery, no less illusive and delusive, the deception that serves

to misguide judgment through false information about some particular

object of art, or to create a misleading suggestion around the work

of art offered for sale. The trick might be termed “producing a faked

atmosphere,” in plain words the creation of a false atmosphere of

genuineness is an additional fakery to the success of a faked object

of art or curio, and it is a most multiform species of imposture and a

very dangerous adjunct to the already deceptive trade. So multifarious

is the deception practised that an attempt to classify it in its

diversity would probably fail to illustrate in full the metamorphoses

of this supplement to the art of faking.

As this support to faking is chiefly concerned with the sale of objects

of art, our investigation can be broadly divided according to the kind

of sale, private or public, the latter generally taking the form of an

auction.

In private sales the limit is not so much set by the seller’s

conscience as his inventive powers, and his more or less fertile

imagination. His method relies mainly on the power of suggestion

brought about by false information or, as we have said, by the

silent misleading glamour of a pseudo-environment. The former works

principally with the decoy of invented documents calculated to lend

certain objects an appearance of historical worth, or wrongly to

magnify their artistic importance. It is not always the documents that

are fitted to the faked art, sometimes the case is reversed and the

artist creates work to fit a genuine document. The same is done with

signatures, more especially in painting and sculpture.

There are all kinds of specialists in the world of faking who can

imitate artists’ signatures, marks and so forth, but, alas, it is

not said that to a genuine signature our versatile and imaginative

artist cannot supply a genial piece of fraud the only genuine part

of which is represented by the signature. This is often performed

by painting over works that have been defaced, either partially or

completely, and yet by some chance still bear the artist’s signature in

one corner--generally the least abused spot of a painting whether on

canvas or panel. The same trick is carried out with equal facility in

sculpture. To illustrate what at first sight would seem more complex

than fitting a painting to a signature, it is sufficient to recall the

false Clodion group, sold in perfectly good faith by M. Maillet du

Boullay to Mme. Boiss, also a dealer, whose experience, like that of

many others, had a noisy sequel in Court.

M. Maillet du Boullay had bought the clay group some years previously.

The subject, a satyr with a nymph, was of the kind that the French

call _un peu leste_. For five years Mme. Boiss found no buyer. It was

after this long period of actual possession that she discovered the

clay statuette to be not by Clodion but in all probability the work

of a noted faker of Clodions, Lebroc, and that a small bit bearing

the signature and date, both by the hand of Clodion, had been cleverly

inserted at the side of the group. The line of the join had been

concealed by colour and patina.

The purchase money, however, was not refunded as the Court accepted the

theory advanced by M. Senard, acting for M. Boullay, that Mme. Boiss

had after all enjoyed the possession of the group for five years and

had perhaps put forward her claim because she had not been able to sell

it on account of its objectionable character.

In the cases when the documents are the original ones and the work of

art is not, the artist naturally creates his work in accordance with

the indications given in the documents. The occurrence is not common,

but it has nevertheless taken place. We have heard of a man ordering

a portrait to be painted to fit a detailed description of one of his

ancestors given in an old letter. The Florentine “Prioristi” and old

diaries can well be used for the purposes of such suggestion. An old

family chronicle recorded a marriage with some detail, sufficient at

any rate to inspire an art counterfeiter to model a small bas-relief

representing the scene. When the work was suitably coated with old

patina, put into a sixteenth-century frame and an old worm-eaten board

fastened to the back, the authentic document was carefully pasted on as

proof of genuineness.

Possible combinations of this sort of scheme are endless and can be

applied to almost every expression of curio-dealing.

What we have styled “faking the _milieu_,” in order to enhance

the value of a genuine article or to give additional effect to a

falsified one, trades upon the fact that a collector prefers to buy

from a private house rather than a shop. This often appeals to him as

convincing proof that the article is genuine, and it also appears to

confer a higher value by comparison with the surroundings in a shop.

To humour this peculiar trait in the collector, environments have

been faked as well as objects of art, and in the evil grand art we

are illustrating they furnish to-day more often than not the proper

dignity which aids highly profitable sales effected through private

transaction.

When a work leaves the faker’s hands there are many ways in which

to give birth to the false and illusive dignity designed to lend

importance and an air of genuineness. One of the simplest methods is

to provide the work with a respectable passport in the person of a

patrician, real or faked, according to opportunities. This decoy is

prepared, of course, to swear that the object has been in his family

for centuries. When the mansion is really old and the family of ancient

lineage, success is practically assured. How a man of noble birth can

lend his name to such deception can only be explained by a form of

degeneracy which, unfortunately, is not extremely rare in our times. It

is known to be practised with both genuine works and with forgeries.

In the former case it helps the command of an extravagant price, that

would never be reached in a shop or through the hands of a dealer;

in the latter, working through suggestion, it serves to dispel any

lingering doubt from the buyer’s mind. When it appears difficult to

bring off the deal, in the case of forgery, the object is taken to the

country by preference and placed in some old villa or mansion with

the connivance of a genuine nobleman, who will receive a secret visit

from the purchaser--all acts in the antiquarian world, it must be

remembered, savour of mystery and secrecy--and play the dignified

part of a member of a time-honoured family who collected works of art

in years past. A sham nobleman may also give himself out as Count

So-and-so and safely act the part for a day or even a few hours. It

must be borne in mind that this course of working by suggestion is very

dangerous to the purchaser; by its silent and convincing method art

antiquaries of skill and veteran connoisseurs have been deceived.

Another application of this deceptive scheme, that relies on a

favourable environment to help fraud, is the sending of counterfeit

objects to remote country places supposed to be unexplored. This also

is based upon a psychological peculiarity of some collectors, who still

hope and believe that there are yet unsearched regions in the world of

antiques, oases that have escaped the ever-vigilant eye of the trader.

As a matter of fact if anything like neglected corners exist where

one may hope for a “find,” they are in large cities, such as Paris or

London, particularly the latter, where even Italian antiquaries go

at times to hunt for what it would be hopeless to seek in their own

country.

Be it understood, the above two ways of disposing in private of

pretended genuine antiquities are likely to be combined. The nobleman

who charitably houses the masterpiece that the amateur is after,

completes the stage-like effect of the hatched environment, with sham

documents, etc.

Among public sales it is, as we have said, the auction sale that

offers the greatest possibilities to those who falsify an “atmosphere”

to put the client on the wrong track so profitable to the faker. As

may readily be seen, a false environment and any tampering with the

elements that go to the formation of a right opinion as regards an

_objet d’art_, invariably lead not only to the acquisition of the wrong

thing but to the payment of an exorbitant price for its worthlessness.

Much that is amusing and that would bring home this point could be

written on public sales. Enough to fill a bulky volume could be culled

from what has taken place at the _atrium auctionarium_ to the modern

Hotel Drouot or the historical sale-room still extant and busy in

London.

Cicero tells us that one of the first auctions to be held in Rome was

the sale of property that Sulla had seized from proscribed Romans. He

also tells us with his usual rhetorical emphasis that all Pompey’s

property was put up to auction and disposed of to the highest bidder

by “the _præco’s_ lacerating voice.” This great sale included a large

portion of Mithradates’ treasure, the catalogue of which cost thirty

days’ work to the Roman officials who took the objects in charge. “At

this sale,” adds Cicero with redoubled emphasis, “Rome forgot her state

of slavery and freely broke into tears.” It may be, but Mark Antony, to

be sure, took advantage of this supposed public emotion and had all

the valuable lots knocked down to himself at ridiculously low figures.

Some of them, it is said, were never paid for at all by this audacious

triumvir.

Another famous auction sale in Rome was that of Juba, king of Numidia,

who left his treasure to Rome in the time of Tiberius. Caligula was his

own auctioneer, and in this way disposed of furniture in his imperial

palace that he considered out of fashion. His example was followed by

Marcus Aurelius who sold in the public square dedicated to Trajan the

jewels and other precious objects forming part of Hadrian’s private

effects. In order to pay his troops, Pertinax put up to public auction

all Commodus’ property, a most confused medley of imperial effects,

an _omnium gatherum_ ranging from the deceased emperor’s gorgeous

robes to the gladitorial array he used in the circus, and from his

court jester to his slaves. Perhaps the most remarkable part of the

sale was Commodus’ original and interesting collection of coaches, an

odd assemblage that should have been capable of stirring even Julius

Cæsar’s blasé mind, who, it is said used to attend sales in quest

of emotion. They afforded him a certain stimulation, for Suetonius

speaks of him as rather a rash and unwise bidder. Caligula’s coaches

were of all kinds and shapes, there were some for summer with complex

contrivances to shelter from the sun and cool the air by means of

ventilators, and some for winter devised in such a way as to give

protection from cold winds. Others were fitted with a device that would

now be called a speedometer, a contrivance for measuring the distance

covered by the vehicle.

The mania for sales went so far with the Romans that at the death of

Pertinax, the empire itself was put up to auction and knocked down to

the highest bidder, Didius Julianus.

Although not so complex as the modern houses of public sale, the Roman

_atrium auctionarium_ was not simplicity itself. The original auction

sales of the Romans consisted of the disposal of war spoils to the

highest bidder, in the open air on the battlefield or in a square of

some conquered city. In order to indicate the spot where the sale was

to take place a lance was driven into the ground. The name of _sub

hasta_ was therefore given to these rudimentary auction sales, which is

the etymology of the Italian word _asta_, still used for auctions. The

_tabulæ auctionariæ_, giving daily notice of the number and description

of objects offered for sale, were in some way the forerunners of

the modern catalogue, just as the _præco_ must be considered as the

ancestor of the auctioneer or, maybe, the _crieur_. There were also

amanuenses who wrote down prices and purchaser’s name as each lot was

sold.

Martial tells of a curious incident at an auction in which a girl

slave was offered for sale. When the bidding failed to elicit a higher

offer, Gellianus, the celebrated auctioneer, ended his eulogy of the

beauty of the human merchandize by giving the young slave a couple of

kisses. “What happened?” says Martial in conclusion. “A buyer who had

just made a bid of 600 sesterces on the girl, immediately withdrew his

offer.” Times are changed. It is no longer a question of selling slaves

in our modern _atrium auctionarium_, but the auction room itself has

nevertheless remained about the same, a great place of interest, an

assemblage of types such as old Tongilius, Licinius and Paullus who,

revived and modernized, gather in our sale-rooms, elbowing the crowds

of bidders, among whom are shrewd, clever buyers, true, impassioned

collectors, cool and self-possessed customers.

The auction room is no less freakish than in olden times. There may be,

in fact, reason in the refusal to bid for young slaves that the buyer

considers defiled by the kisses of the auctioneer, even if he were a

Gellianus, the man _à la mode_; but we can find none, for instance, in

what happened some years ago at the celebrated Castellani sale in Rome.

On account of Castellani’s high reputation among collectors and the

fine things offered, this sale gathered to Rome a cosmopolitan crowd of

connoisseurs. While a fine Cafaggiolo vase was under the hammer, the

employé who was exhibiting it to the public dropped it and it broke to

pieces. At the moment of the accident the object had just been sold

to the last bidder, who naturally enough, immediately declared his

offer cancelled, as he had made a bid on a sound vase and not a heap of

debris. The auctioneer then proposed to put the fragments of the vase

up to auction and a fresh start was made. Strange to say the second

bidding reached a higher figure than the vase had fetched when offered

to the public intact and in all its faultless beauty. But for the

consideration that the second sale may have tempted some who regretted

that they had let slip the chance to bid on the fine Cafaggiolo, one

would be inclined to deduce that in the world of curios an object

acquires more worth the more it is damaged.

It is true that while a broken china vase is practically worthless, a

piece of faience does not lose value by being broken and put together

again, if it does not actually rise in value, as in the case of the

Castellani Cafaggiolo.

Though to an outsider, the auction room may doubtlessly appear very

simple in mechanism, it is rather a complex affair; its atmosphere has

engendered any amount of side speculation. This is the more marked in

such sale-rooms as have, by reason of the importance of the sales held

in them, in a way fertilized, as it were, every kind of speculation.

Rochefort, whose passion for bric-à-brac took him to the Hotel Drouot

almost daily, has a good deal to say on this subject. In his amusing

book on auction sales in the celebrated Parisian sale-room--a book,

by the way, which is now almost out of print--the witty Frenchman

deals at length with the odd characters and silent speculations that

have, all unnoticed and unmolested, grafted themselves upon the popular

institution of the Rue Drouot and other auction sale rooms.

As for the types of frequenters, they are of all kinds and the most

nondescript character. First comes the collector in all his most

interesting and amusing personifications. Rochefort divides the

amateurs hanging about auction rooms into three distinct classes, which

he subdivides into _genres_ and _sous-genres_, to use the writer’s own

terms.

According to Rochefort’s classification, the first class consists,

broadly speaking, of persons who pay more for an object than it is

worth; the second is composed of collectors who generally buy a thing

for what it is worth; the third and last comprises those who pay less

for a thing than it is worth. Rochefort aptly observes that the three

divisions resemble the classes of a school, the students passing from

the lowest to each of the more advanced classes.

The collectors of the first group, all freshmen without exception,

are separated by Rochefort into sincere art lovers and mere

_poseurs_. Speaking of the sincerity of collectors and premising that

sincerity does not always imply an intelligent knowledge of art,

Rochefort wittily remarks: “There are people who with the greatest

self-confidence buy a daub for a Titian.”

“Suffice it to say,” adds the writer, “that at the sale of M.

Patureau’s collection, a Virgin of the Flemish school, possibly a

Eckhout or Govært Flinck, was sold for a Murillo at the price of

45,500 francs.” In this foolish acquisition insincerity is out of the

question, _poseurs_, snobs and the like rarely carry their foppishly

garbed insincerity to the length of paying such high prices for mere

parade.

In reference to real connoisseurs, to quote Rochefort again, who was

certainly most well informed on the subject, he says that they are so

rare that it is scarcely worth while to speak of them.

The most genuine living exponent of the species is already a fake among

faking: becoming, namely, the owner of expensive curios not for art’s

sake but chiefly in order to be able to ask his friends: “By the way,

have you seen my collection?” or “the last masterpiece I have bought,”

etc.

The _poseur_, however, in his flippant and manifold attitudes, may be

certain that schemes of deception are multiform and always a match for

any incarnation of this type. He is the prey, and there are all kinds

of snares waiting for him, just as there are many ways of catching

birds.

A collector who does not belong to the general class of collectors

is the private dealer, who all too often joins forces with the “black

band” of the sale-rooms.

Among the buyers at the Hotel Drouot, there are to be found, says

Rochefort, all manner of originals. Take for instance the _maquilleur_,

who is a regular godsend to restorers of paintings. The _maquilleur_

is a purchaser of paintings who can never bring himself to leave a

canvas in the state he bought it. If it is the portrait of an old

woman, he is sure to take the work to a restorer to see if the wrinkles

can possibly be smoothed out, if it is a landscape he invariably has

changes to suggest. When the canvas has been duly _maquillé_ he often

takes it back to the auction room to try his chances with some novice.

By the side of this character is the “cleaner,” the man who insists

upon cleaning every painting that falls into his hands. On coming into

his possession the work may be as bright and fresh as the varnish of a

newly painted motor-car, it makes no difference, he will clean it all

the same.

“Cleaning spells death to pictures, just as spinach spells death to

butter,” wisely says the French writer in conclusion, laying down a

humorous aphorism implying that to clean paintings practically means to

ruin them.

The very antithesis of the cleaner is the defiler of pictures.

Diametrically opposed to the former, who worships soap, dye and other

cleansing materials, he no sooner becomes the owner of a painting than

he proceeds, as he says, to confer the proper age upon the work, by a

coat of dirt, the would-be patina of age, which he ennobles and honours

with various names: harmonizing, toning, etc.

Curious as it may sound, from among all the queer legion of auction

room questionables, this member is less dangerous to art than many

others, especially his pendant, the cleaner. This is readily understood

when one considers that a skilled hand may remove any artificial

patina, which is frequently separated from the pigment of the painting

by a hard layer of old varnish, without any serious damage to the work

of art, while the cleaning of an old painting proves more or less

ruinous to its artistic qualities. In fact, the use of strong chemical

means either to remove aged dirt or centennial varnish brings away

some of the colour as well. The damage done by cleaning with spirits,

or other strong methods, is exceedingly great to some of the Dutch

paintings, finished to a great extent by veiling with delicate layers

of transparent pigment diluted in varnish. Venetian works, the colours

of which do not always withstand the dissolvent properties of reagents,

suffer irreparably from cleaning.

According to the author of _Les Petits Mystères de l’Hôtel des Ventes_

it is by no means impossible that the manipulations of these two art

fiends may bring it about that a work be bought and cleaned by the

cleaner, then put on sale again and bought by a defiler, to reappear at

the auction room covered with fresh but soiled and old-looking patina.

These two characters, like the _maquilleur_, are chiefly hobbyists

and rarely associate. There are other oddities, such as restorers,

providers of documents, simple intriguers and unscrupulous business

men who club together. One of their common schemes is to create

pseudo-collections, supposed to have belonged to some noted person.

Such collections are often composed only a few days before the auction

sale and labelled as the property of Conte X. or Baron D., or styled

anonymously, as having belonged to a “well-known collector,” or more

often uncompromising initials designate the pseudo-owner of the works

of art put up to auction.

The profits to be gained by commending one’s own goods and running

down those in competition with them is accountable for other strange

professions that flourish in the stuffy atmosphere of auction rooms.

The competition between genuine collections belonging to genuine

collectors and these faked ones impels the schemer to extol the

importance of the latter, which has doubled and disciplined the

activities of many strange helpers and queer professions.

One of the most important personages of this unnumbered company of

frauds is the _ereinteur_. He is, as the French word indicates, a

man whose part in the business is to hang about auction rooms, and

run down works from which he has nothing to gain, or, impersonating

the character of a disinterested outsider, to praise works the sale

of which will bring him profit, whether directly or indirectly. This

defamer or praiser of works of art according to orders, puts himself

in the way of possible clients, makes their acquaintance, and cleverly

manages to influence their opinion as though incidentally. He may pass

himself off as a simple art lover, a dealer, or any other suitable

character. It must be added that the _ereinteur_ is not always so venal

as to sell his praises or defamation, he is not always what might be

called professional. There exist a number of people who slander merely

for its own sake, urged either by jealousy, evil disposition or a

tendency to gossip.

At important auction sales this over-courteous personage is far more

dangerous than the man who does his work systematically and as a

profession, likely to be spotted by the public.

One of these art slanderers came very near inflicting a deadly blow to

the successful sale of a Donatello bronze put up to auction in London

at a well-known art sale-room. On the day the objects were on view, the

work--which by the way belonged to an Italian antiquary who enjoys the

reputation of being one of the best of connoisseurs--was much admired

by English art lovers and possible buyers. A French art writer and

connoisseur posed before the bronze and remarked that it was a clever

fake, possibly an imitation of the eighteenth century. The comment

passed from mouth to mouth, and as the French critic was known to

understand the Italian Renaissance, those present expressed doubts as

to its authenticity. To counteract this unexpected check the antiquary

hurriedly threw himself into a cab and visited the most serious

frequenters of the auction room during the few hours preceding the sale

and thus had time to convince them. A new atmosphere soon prevailed

and the Donatello reached the record price of £6000. It was afterwards

discovered that the French critic had had a quarrel with the Italian

antiquary, hence the spiteful comment.

Some of these misrepresenters are not content with going about the

sale-room in search of opportunities to injure by running down a work

or praising rubbish to the disadvantage of good things. They pass

judgment, favourable or the reverse, at the very moment a certain

object is offered for sale, an act which, strictly speaking, is against

the law--but the hidden practices of auction room intriguers are more

or less baffling to protective laws, like all the worthy members of

the “black band,” whose chief purpose in attending auction sales is to

promote what is called the “knock-out.” This is a scheme of combined

forces to hamper the natural course of bidding and to oblige the unwary

to renounce competition or to pay an exaggerated price.

In its simplest and most schematic form the knock-out works as follows.

A certain number of dealers, go-betweens or other promiscuous plotters,

band together in a secret society for the purpose of discouraging

buyers not belonging to their set. Though secret because of the law,

the society is in fact notorious among many of the regular frequenters

of auction rooms as being both imperious and obnoxious.

This is not only carried on in Paris but in other cities too, where

auction sale parasites manage to evade regulations and escape the

vigilant eye of the law.

By this system the way is opened to any member of the society to “cure”

an outsider of ambition or hope to buy advantageously at a sale. If

X., a new-comer, offers for some object its value, or even a trifle

more, he will nevertheless lose the object or be forced to bid to a

foolish figure, as one of the conspirators will bid against him and if

he happens to be obstinate he will pay dearly, but if by mischance the

object is left to his opponent after the fever of bidding has inflated

the price, the society makes good the loss sustained by its member.

Dividing the money losses among the members of the society,

considerably lessens the loss of the bidder who has run the price up

to an extravagant figure, in order to “punish” some one they consider

an invader.

The division of “damages” is generally effected as follows: After the

sale all the objects bought by the partners are put up to auction a

second time among the members of the society. At this second sale the

goods are likely to be disposed of at their real commercial value. If,

as is sometimes the case, the total returns of this second sale are

inferior to those of the auction room, the difference, paid to keep in

force the rule of “punishing,” is jointly borne by the co-operators,

and thus the cost of this “chastisement” game amounts to a small tax

that each partner of the “black band” very willingly pays. The “black

band,” as it is called in Paris, is so powerful that many not belonging

to the society often consent to deal with the members. Sometimes they

ask one of them to buy on their behalf. There may, of course, be a

trifling commission to pay, a certain percentage, but in the end it

comes considerably cheaper. Such transactions are naturally against

the disposition of the laws on auction sales, and are invariably made

without the consent or knowledge of the directors of the sale-room,

and it must be understood that if discovered there may be repression

and an unexpected and brusque recall to the strict observance of the

law. Hence the fluctuating success of such societies, which, however,

notwithstanding the trammels of regulations, appear to prosper.

One way of faking reputations, as it might be called, by which an

object is sold at a higher price than it would reach under ordinary

conditions, is to list it in the catalogue of a forthcoming sale of

some noted collection. The “faked reputation” here consists in the

fact that the name and reputation of the collector who had formed the

collection bestows lustre upon the object inserted in the sale. This

illegal proceeding, which well-known and reputable sale-rooms will not

countenance, has occasioned endless lawsuits with the usual uncertain

results, as the illegitimacy of the object is not always easy to prove.

Another method of faking the reputation of a certain work of art is

the following. Suppose a dealer possesses a very mediocre picture of

little value and wishes to have documentary proof that the work has

cost him a good price, instead of a low sum, he has only to send the

painting to the auction room and ask his comrades to run the bidding

up to a certain figure, then by buying in his own property and paying

the percentage due to the auctioneer he withdraws the picture with the

receipt, the document he desired. By this trick, when an opportunity

presents itself to sell the work, he is able to produce what looks like

a convincing proof of his honesty and square dealing. “You see, sir,

I am going to be very candid and sincere with you. Here, let me show

you what I myself paid for this painting,” he will say, and show the

receipt of the public auction sale.

Not infrequently the responsibility of the attribution is left to the

owner of the work of art, by which means _objets d’art_ are often

christened with names of a most fantastic paternity. This is easily

done; take for instance a canvas that might or might not be righteously

baptized “School of Leonardo.” The work is presented by the owner to

be sold by auction and declared as a Leonardo da Vinci, and in the

catalogue it will naturally be put down to Leonardo. When the owner

goes to buy in his own canvas, he has, of course, no interest to run

the price up to a fancy figure, his sole aim is to be able to show to

some future buyer a catalogue with the attribution printed--and,

curiously enough, printed attributions would appear to carry undisputed

weight! It is nevertheless a bait only for greenhorns, with whom its

effect rarely fails.

To prevent objects put up to auction from being knocked down at an

unreasonably low figure it is an accepted system to place a reserve

price upon them, to write down when consigning the goods, namely, a

certain sum representing the lowest figure at which the object may be

sold. The auctioneer keeps this price _in pectore_, on his private

list, that is to say. When the article is put up for sale it is either

offered straight away for the price quoted or the latter is led up to

by by-bidding. If this proves to be impossible, the object is bought in

and the owner has merely a slight percentage to pay on the last bid and

can withdraw his property. Thus while an auction sale always presents

hazards, the reserve price is a guarantee against the risks of flagging

moments. The room may chance to be deserted of its best public through

unforeseen circumstances, enthusiasm may suddenly cool unaccountably,

and for these and other reasons a reserve price is therefore a

legitimate defence.

Strange to say, even this honest and recognized safeguard has been

turned to cunning abuse. The principle of the reserve price, at least,

has brought into being that questionable personage nicknamed in English

auction rooms Peter Funk, a most undesirable “faker of situations.”

The fact that the reserve price given to the auctioneer is often

disclosed to interested collectors, and that it may be divulged by

auction-room clerks and so become known, induced collectors with

_objets de virtu_ on sale to send friends or agents secretly, in order

to run up the bidding to a certain figure. The name long since given to

this complacent, secret partner shamming the art buyer is Peter Funk.

“Funkism,” if one may be allowed to coin a neologism, certainly has

its right to existence and originated in the legitimate desire to

protect objects from falling at ridiculous prices in depressed moments

of the sale, but it has now become a regular curse, especially at

first-class auctions, where by reason of the great interests at stake,

the system can be worked to its full magnitude and no expense spared.

As an example--and one that to our knowledge worked greatly to the

advantage of the seller and not at all to that of the buyer, from

whom “funkism” robs all chance of the “fair play” which should be

the dominant note in auctions--we may quote the sale of an Italian

collection at Christie’s at which, certainly without the knowledge or

even suspicion of the auctioneers, Peter Funk played havoc under every

form and guise. To make sure that the keen-eyed collectors should not

discover the pseudo-collectors, the latter were all imported from the

Continent and given strict injunctions to buy at the stated price,

to bid without comment and to indulge in none but commonplaces in

conversation with the public, the dealer employing them knowing how

impossible it is for a non-collector or a feigned art lover to say

three words about a work of art, without giving himself away. A good

appearance, natural bidding without emphasis or theatrical pose, an

occasional “yes” or “may-be” or “hem” when questioned, and a whole

string of uncompromising banalities, these are the stock-in-trade of an

improvised Peter Funk, who may not be so capable as the professional

one but has the advantage of being less easily detected.

A clever Peter Funk knows the right moment to run up a price, judging

from his competitor’s enthusiasm up to what sum he can safely bid

before abandoning the game, and by counting on his opponent’s rashness

and impulsiveness runs him up to bids which he afterwards regrets.

Risky as it is, rarely does an object remain in the hands of Peter

Funk, and if it does, the owner will supply him with the money and

withdraw the article, paying the auctioneer’s dues, a comparatively

modest percentage.

These combined forces in the auction room secretly working as a

sequence of traps caused a well-known French collector to propose as

an inscription to be put over the door of one of these dangerous dens:

“_Ici il y a des pièges à loups_.”

It is not meant by this that all auction rooms are infested by

brigands, who leave no chance for fair-play, and that all who ever

enter them come out regretting the attempt to buy by a system that

appeals to the public for its square dealing. Not at all, the best

artistic investments are often made at public sales, but rarely, alas,

by the inexperienced novice who has but a limited knowledge of art, and

is besides wholly unfamiliar with the ways of auction rooms.

This double form of ignorance needs the warning that there are traps,

so that coolness and wisdom may enter the brain of the enthusiastic

beginner, two necessary items in gaining experience at a reasonable

price.

PART III

THE FAKED ARTICLE

CHAPTER XIX

THE MAKE-UP OF FAKED ANTIQUES

Paintings, drawings, etchings, etc.--How the art of faking

necessarily borrows technique and experience from the restorer--

Old and modern ways of imitating the technique of painting--New

pictures on old canvases and old paintings repainted and doctored

--Suggestions for imitating the preparation of panel or canvas

--Imitating characteristic paintings in impasto--Veiling and

varnishing--Imitating the cracking of varnish--Old drawings

--Technique of the proper abuse to give an appearance of age to

drawings--Etchings--Fresh margins to old prints, etc.

Opinions as to the restoration of objects of art are of a most varied

character; more especially in the case of painting, an art of rather

complex technique. The various opinions about the restoration of

paintings may, however, be classified into three distinct categories.

One might be said to be entirely in favour of the process, one entirely

discountenancing it, and between them one which is permissible as it

has to do only with mechanical methods calculated to reinforce pigment,

or the canvas or panel, and is not concerned with what might be called

the artistic side of the art, such as retouching or filling in the

missing parts of a painting.

Speaking of certain restorations of his time, even Vasari remarks

in the Life of Luca Signorelli, that “it would be far better for

a masterpiece to remain ruined by time than to have it ruined by

retouching by an inferior hand.”

Baldinucci tells us how Guido Reni objected to the retouching of old

paintings, more especially the work of good masters, and that he

invariably refused to do it himself, no matter how much a client was

disposed to offer for the work.

Milizia, the architect and writer, says that to retouch an old

painting, particularly a fine work of art, is to pave the way for

future and wider destruction, as in the course of time the retouching

will show itself and then another act of barbarity will have to be

perpetrated.

According to the opinion of a well-known Florentine antiquary and

famous restorer of paintings for the American market, a picture has

nothing to gain from the hand of the restorer. On the contrary, his

opinion is that: “As soon as a restorer lays hands on a painting he

ruins it.”

The class we have placed between the two extremes, the one using a

certain discrimination, accepting such methods as are intended merely

to preserve the work without encroaching upon its artistic merits,

such as furnishing a fresh panel or canvas to a painting, removing

old and deteriorated varnish, etc., being the wise one is, of course,

represented by the minority.

Needless to say, the main forces of the class supporting restoration in

its extreme form are drawn from the ranks of restorers or authors of

works teaching the grand art of resuscitating masterpieces, such men as

Merimée, Vergnaud, Prange, Deon, Forni and Secco Suardo. The latter, in

fact, does not hesitate to call restoration a magic art and depicts the

restorer as a regular miracle-worker.

We do not propose in this chapter to follow the various methods of

restoring paintings according to the character of the work, fresco,

tempera or oil, but simply to indicate some of the restoration

processes that are useful to fakers in deceiving inexperienced

collectors.

In the case of faking up an old painting of weak or defective

character, into the delusive suggestion of a work of good quality, the

process consists principally of bringing the form into proper shape by

veiling and toning the crude parts of the colouring. This work, the

success of which chiefly depends upon the skill and versatility of the

forger, is generally effected by first removing the old varnish with a

solvent. There are many kinds of solvents which can be used, according

to the quality of the varnish, the most common, however, is alcohol. It

must be very pure, containing the minimum of water. Ordinary alcohol

is likely to produce opaque, white patches, a phenomenon called by the

French restorer _chanci_, and very difficult to obliterate once it has

appeared. Being one of the strongest solvents and of dangerous and too

rapid action at times, the alcohol is generally mixed with turpentine

to the proportion of half-and-half to start with. Then, according to

the greater or lesser solubility of the varnish, the proportion of

alcohol is gradually increased. This mixture, called _la mista_ by

Italian antiquaries, may be substituted, as we have said, by various

solvents--potash, soda, ammonia, etc.--according to the nature or

hardness of the varnish to be dissolved. Some restorers also resort

to mechanical methods to remove old varnish. These methods, too, are

various. If the varnish is hard it can be cracked by pressure from

the thumb, a long operation requiring no small amount of patience

and skill. If it possesses sufficient elasticity to withstand this

process, it is generally removed with a steel blade in the form of an

eraser. The latter operation is not only very difficult but very slow,

particularly when the painting possesses artistic qualities that must

not be impaired by the removal of the varnish.

This first operation successfully accomplished, the artist steps in and

proceeds to help the work, say of such and such a school, to resemble

the painting of the master of this school as much as possible. The

process is naturally executed by the aid of a more or less complete

collection of photographs of the work of the master the faker intends

to imitate. The retouching may follow the most varied methods. To

take the most common case, that of oil painting, the new work can be

carried out with oil colours previously kept on blotting-paper to

drain off the oil which is then substituted with turpentine to give

the colours their lost fluidity; it may also be effected with tempera

colours or with colours the fluid element of which consists only of

varnish. The use of tempera is preferred by restorers because, although

it presents the extreme difficulty of changing hue when varnished and

consequently demands no little experience to judge the requisite hue

or tone, still once laid down it is not likely to change with time as

oil retouching on old paintings generally does. The mixing of colour

with varnish alone has the advantage of keeping the proper tone from

beginning to end. This method is extremely useful not only in the

painting of missing parts but also to veil and tone what has been

painted in tempera if this is not entirely harmonious with the rest

after varnishing. Needless to add, those colours the fluid part of

which is supplied by varnish are unalterable as they do not contain any

oil whatever. One of the difficulties in handling these pigments is the

lack of fluidity, hence turpentine may be added with advantage.

However, as the above methods of retouching are not proof against

chemical tests, alcohol being the proper solvent with which to do away

with added touches to old paintings which have been done with either

oil or varnish colours, the shrewder fakers either mix amber varnish

with the colours or give the fresh touches a solid coating of this

varnish, which when well prepared is supposed to be insoluble and not

easily acted upon by solvents. Although more than one special work on

the art of restoring gives recipes for the preparation of this varnish,

in practice very few know how to prepare it in the proper way.

We have here presupposed that the picture was in good order, that

there were no missing parts of importance, or rather that, with panel

or canvas unimpaired, the work only required to be retouched by the

artist, a rare case, as when the paint has vanished the preparation of

the panel or canvas has generally vanished with it, on account of its

adhesiveness.

We do not propose to give the various recipes for the plaster dressing

forming the preparation of the panel or canvas. They are different

according to time and country and can be found in special works on

painting. Under ordinary conditions it is very easy to substitute the

missing preparation, just as it is easy to give it the proper surface

either by pumice or skilled coating with the brush, but in the case of

a painting on canvas it is very seldom that there are not big holes

right through it. The first operation in such cases is to recanvas the

work, to line it, namely, with another canvas which is pasted to the

old one and flattened with an iron till perfectly dry. The missing part

must then be filled in, imitating the weave of the canvas on which

the work is painted. No easy matter this, as the different weaves of

canvases are as characteristic as signatures: no two are ever alike.

The new canvas showing through the hole is therefore either covered

with a patch of canvas taken from some comer of the painting to be

restored, or it is given the same appearance by pressing a piece of

the old canvas upon the fresh preparation of the part missing, thus

moulding the texture of the threads. This must be done skilfully in

such a way that the parallel lines of the threads match. There are

some clever fakers who imitate the old canvas by strokes of a hard

brush upon the fresh preparation of the new pieces, reproducing the

characteristics of the canvas by actually copying from the original

part.

When a painting is finished there are various methods by which an

appearance of age may be given or restored to it. From asphalt to

liquorice hundreds of things are used, either dissolved in turpentine

or water, glue, albumen, etc. Veiling with varnish, coloured with the

proper pigment, generally gives the finishing touch.

The imitation of old and cracked varnish is simple enough. First one

must give the canvas a coat of diluted glue, then varnish before the

glue is quite dry. As the underlayer of glue dries quickly and has

a shrinking capacity disproportionate to that of the varnish, it is

easy to understand that the result will be a cracking of the varnish.

A close or a coarse network of cracks is obtained by increasing or

decreasing the inequality of shrinkage between the two layers, or by

hastening or retarding the drying of the upper layer by artificial

means. Although comparatively easy, these operations nevertheless

demand no little experience to be crowned with due success.

If a painting has been repainted only in the parts that were missing,

and the old varnish has not been removed from the rest of the picture,

it is a question of not only giving the varnish of the new spots cracks

like the old varnish, but these must imitate as closely as possible

those of the original part of the painting. In such cases a needle is

used to make the cracks on the newly varnished parts. When the grooves

have been made in the varnish they are filled in with water and colour

or soot to give them the desired appearance of age.

Such, roughly, is the method mostly in use for oil paintings. With

the necessary variations, and the use of the proper medium, the same

method also answers for tempera. It is rare that frescoes are imitated

or retouched, but in such cases fresh cheese is used as the vehicle

for the colour, and when dry it not only acquires the quality of

insolubility but also the opaque hue of the fresco.

As far as technique is concerned, the imitator does not find it easy to

imitate the work of those artists who paint in impasto, that is to say

with a thick layer of pigment, the consequent characteristic strokes

of the brush requiring no little experience for reproduction in all

their force, character and characteristics. Through long study and

practice some finally succeed in imitating the work of such painters as

Rembrandt or Frans Hals, but such cases are extremely rare. Forni, who

has written a work on the restoration of paintings, suggests a method

of imitating impasto painting with its characteristic brush strokes

which, in our view, can only be applied in the case of repairing a

part missing in some old painting. Forni’s method consists of first

reproducing the peculiarities of the brush strokes in a plaster

composition closely resembling that of the preparation of the canvas,

and then giving the proper colouring. According to Forni this method

has the advantage of giving the impression of a frank and vigorous

style of painting such as is usual with the impasto technique, and yet

it has been achieved slowly and patiently.

One of the side-businesses of picture faking is the providing of

suitable signatures. When one considers that paintings generally bear

the artist’s signature, more especially in recent times, it would be

strange if this branch of the shady trade did not number specialists

who can imitate signatures to perfection, as well as reproduce artists’

special monograms.

It is easy to understand how old drawings and sketches may be imitated.

Just as in the case of faking a painting, the artist tries first to

become familiar with the work he wishes to imitate. It is then usually

executed on old paper and when finished soaked in dirty water, dried

and scoured with pumice to give it the apparent abuse of age. Some

imitators, however, do not give themselves the trouble to find the

proper paper, and it is not unusual to see imitations on modern paper,

or would-be sixteenth-century, work on paper bearing the mill-mark

of two or three centuries later. But these of course are the gross

imitations only intended to dupe the most naïve of beginners.

Prints are also imitated, and nowadays to perfection with the help of

mechanical aids, when they have to reproduce an excellent original.

The ageing process is the same as that used for drawings. There is one

difference between them to be noted, it is that in the case of old

prints or etchings the presence or absence of the margin counts for

much. An etching with its original paper margin is far more valuable

than one that has been cut to fit a frame or for any other purpose.

Hence one particular branch of faking of the prints is to refurnish

paper margins to those specimens that have lost them. The work is more

or less successful according to the skill of the faker, but is usually

effected in the following manner: The etching is cut all round the edge

reasonably near the printed part, then a large piece of old paper is

cut to fit the etching as a frame and the two edges are brought and

held together for some time by a paper lining at the back. The crack

of the join between the old etching and the new margin is filled in

with paste of the same composition as the paper and smoothed even by a

mechanical process. It is of course needless to add that such a method

is not likely to take in a true collector, but the faker knows that

foolish clients are sometimes numerous and his best supporters.

Miniature work is easy to imitate, not only on account of its

technique, in which originality has a comparatively small rôle to play,

but because it needs hardly any patina or ageing.

Pastels and water colours, more especially the latter, appear to be

a little out of the forger’s line. Yet pastel, with its peculiar

technique, affords possibilities for faking.

Copies of noted originals have not escaped the speculative spirit of

the counterfeiter. They are generally sold as contemporary copies or

antique copies, and they seem to command higher prices, even if an old

copy is at times far inferior to a modern one.

In the faking of modern, or semi-modern art, the technique intended to

confer age and venerability to the work finds no place. In such cases,

it is easy to understand, the main craft lies in imitating the style of

the master counterfeited.

Speaking of such imitations, we may note that fakers contemporary with

the artist are perhaps the most dangerous to the neophyte, and as

imitations have always existed more or less, and are by no means only

the product of the greed of modern fakers and dealers, a collector

is often taken in by a false Corot or a false Rousseau, in which the

only legitimate thing is perhaps the date, the forgery having been

perpetrated during the master’s lifetime.

Naturally, the imitation is not always made for the purpose of

cheating, but almost always with the hope of becoming as popular as a

certain master by imitating his style. It is very often the work of

pupils, as in the case of the Watteau imitations by Lancret and Pater.

It is known that the work of Paul Potter has been imitated by Klomp,

that Jacob van Huysum has counterfeited the work of Breughel and of

Wouwermans, that Constantin Netscher made plenty of money copying

Vandyke Charles I portraits, and that Teniers the Younger sold false

Titians.

To go back to prints and etchings before closing this chapter one must

make a distinction between old imitations and modern ones. A good

connoisseur is never at a loss to detect signs of counterfeit, but

there is an essential difference of criterion needed in judging old

imitations of etchings and modern imitations. In old prints involuntary

discrepancies are sure to occur as they have been reproduced by hand,

and the connoisseur must therefore be acquainted with them. These

variations are more or less known to experts, whereas in the case of a

modern purely mechanical reproduction, a magnifying glass and technical

experience are the chief requirements. Marco Dente’s reproduction of

Marcantonio’s work and the copies of Callot’s etchings by some of his

pupils are examples of the imperfections of old imitations, details

having been omitted.

CHAPTER XX

FAKED SCULPTURE, BAS-RELIEFS AND BRONZES

Faked sculpture--Clay work--The false Tanagras--Imitation of

Renaissance work--Bas-reliefs and busts--Baked clay and

_stucco-duro_--The Clodions--Bronzes--The importance of

patina--The patina of Pompeiian bronzes and excavated bronzes

--Renaissance patina and that of later times--Gilded bronzes

--Marble work and its general colouring--Sculpture in wood and

ivory--The Ceroplastica.

We must repeat that in sculpture also, faking borrows largely from the

art of restoring. Indeed it is no exaggeration to say that nearly all

branches of the faker’s art turn for help to the restorer’s methods.

And here again, as in painting, we are also immediately confronted

by two forms of trickery; one is the creation of a modern object in

imitation of the antique so as to deceive the collector, and the other

the reconstruction of some fantastic piece of forgery from an inferior

object, or one greatly damaged by over-restoration. To speak of

over-restoration is in such cases to use a euphemism. We can offer an

example showing how this over-restoration of objects is nothing but a

form of faking highly flavoured with different varieties of deception.

A rich American bought a marble statue some years ago representing a

famous Roman empress. It was bought not only because the Roman art

appealed to him but as the portrait of that particular Roman empress.

As a matter of fact, the whole statue had been faked by the addition

of new portions to a headless, limbless torso, which was the only

genuinely antique part. We must say, however, that the new head given

to the half-faked statue was extremely well done. It had been copied

from a well-known model and except that the patina of the marble was

not so perfect as might have been expected from a great master in

trickery, the most experienced collector might have been deceived.

Clay work is perhaps the most popular form of plastic art among the

fakers of antiques. As it has the special advantage of being made from

casts of originals, it does not present any real technical difficulty,

and it demands no expensive additions and may be given colour and

patina with comparative ease. Of course many of these advantages are

also shared by bronzes, stucco, and all productions worked from an

original model in clay or any other plastic substance, such as wax,

pastiline, etc.

Tanagra figurines undoubtedly hold the first place in the large class

of faked clay work. There has been an uninterrupted succession of

forgers in this line from the time Tanagra work first came into fashion

with collectors, to the stock imitations now sold in Paris and still

bought for genuine Tanagras by over-naïve collectors. The old Baron

Rothschild, who had a fine collection of Tanagra figurines and no small

experience as a connoisseur, used to say that when it is a question of

a Tanagra one must see it excavated, and even that nowadays is hardly a

guarantee of genuineness.

The imitations are generally cast from good originals, and as the clay

shrinks considerably in drying and baking, the imitation is usually

smaller than the original and can therefore easily be detected when

confronted with a genuine piece.

Some of the more advanced imitators have somewhat obviated this

difference of dimension by mechanical methods of expanding moulds,

but the work in such cases is not so perfect as otherwise and what is

gained on the one hand, namely, a dimension identical to that of the

original, is lost on the other, as methods of taking over-sized moulds

from originals are generally imperfect.

A flourishing product of the Italian market are bas-reliefs and clay

busts in imitation of Renaissance work.

When not the work of clever artists who model direct from the clay,

having studied and mastered the old style, it is the product of

miserable mechanical deception aided by ability to disguise its

patchwork nature, the trickery and general sleight-of-hand of the wily

art of faking.

In the case of bas-reliefs they are often composed of different parts

belonging to different originals, sometimes originals unknown to

connoisseurs and art critics. This method has been applied to the

imitation of Renaissance terra-cotta busts. A bust bought at a high

figure from a Venetian antiquary many years ago and believed to be

genuine Quattrocento work was afterwards discovered to have been made

from the cast taken from the face of a recumbent figure on a tomb in

the church of San Pietro e Paolo, to which had been added the back

part of another bust, the whole finally set upon a pair of shoulders

cast from another original of the period. The monument from which the

face had been moulded was so high up on the wall of the church of San

Pietro e Paolo that no one knew of the existence of this original and

the other parts of the faked object had also been taken from little

known originals. The fraud was discovered in Paris some time after the

bust had entered a noted collection, a lawsuit ensued and the collector

eventually recovered the money he had paid.

Italian art of the fifteenth century has produced many clay

bas-reliefs, apparently from one and the same original and yet

presenting slight differences, additions and modifications evidently

made after the clay had left the mould but when it was still fresh.

This fact has greatly incited the fancy of Italian forgers and largely

contributed to the confusion of art critics and the duping of more

than one collector. These bas-reliefs represent sacred subjects for

the most part, and sometimes it is not merely a question of putting a

rose in the Madonna’s hand or a little bird into those of the Infant

Jesus, in order to lay claim to due originality, but the modifications

are so radical that the whole appearance of the work is changed. It

is generally done as follows. A good plaster-mould is made from a

good original, and a clay reproduction formed from this mould, which

is then modified and changed while still fresh. Should the work to be

divested of its original character represent, say, a Madonna and Child,

the artist may proceed to alter its size by modifying the border;

then, to transform the subject, he may make an addition on one side,

of the heads of the ox and ass, taken of course from another original.

To change the pose of the Madonna the clay is generally cut behind

the head and neck with a fine wire and then the position of the head

can be altered at pleasure; from being erect, for instance, it can be

inclined, or vice versa. By the same method, and no small amount of

skill, arms and hands can be given new attitudes, etc. The final result

is a work which passes as an original among foolish art lovers who

collect series.

_Stucco duro_ imitations are produced by almost identical methods.

These compositions are generally made of plaster, which hardens as

it dries after being poured into a mould. When the original is to be

modified a first model of clay or some other soft modelling material is

indispensable, of course, and from this a mould is then taken for the

casting of the _stucco duro_.

To colour and give a patina either to baked clay or stucco is

comparatively easy. The colouring is given with tempera colours, the

patina with tinted water, for which tobacco, soot, etc., may be used,

applied with smoky and greasy hands. A coat of benzine in which a small

quantity of wax has been dissolved is finally laid on with a brush and

the whole polished with a brush or wool.

As we have said, however, fakers are especially partial to clay work.

It requires little outlay, the finished work can be fired at small

expense, the colouring and patina can be given “at home,” not needing

the special light of a studio, etc. Not only in the case of Renaissance

work has this method been the favoured one but in other types of

art forgery, the eighteenth-century terra-cottas, for instance, the

lovely work of Clodion, Falconnet, Marin, etc. Paris is glutted with

imitations of Clodion’s clay groups. Some of them are sufficiently good

to puzzle the best connoisseurs. As we have seen, a pseudo-Clodion sold

years ago in perfect good faith by M. Du Boullay to Mme. Boiss caused a

complicated lawsuit and many inconclusive discussions among art critics

and connoisseurs of the calibre of Eugène Guillaume, Chapu, Millet,

Carrier Belleuse, and specialists on Clodion’s work such as Thiacourt.

It was finally established that the bit bearing Clodion’s name was

authentic and had been inset in a group of much later date, a spurious

original, but even this was not absolutely proved and simply offered as

the most acceptable hypothesis. As Paul Eudel remarks, to decide the

matter, “Clodion would have to raise the stone of his sepulchre and to

rise from his tomb in order to supply an irrefutable solution.”

The initial process for faking antique bronzes is very similar to

that used in clay and stucco forgeries. By initial process we mean,

of course, the way the mould is made for casting the bronze. When

the pseudo original has been modelled in clay, the form of it is

naturally taken to obtain a matrix of some harder material, and from

this matrix is taken the mould that is used for the cast. There is

also another system of casting bronzes greatly in vogue among fakers,

more especially for small objects, which is called _cire perdu_. It is

a simplified method, consisting of modelling the object in wax, then

taking its mould, which is emptied by melting the wax. The details of

these two methods of casting bronze, the ordinary casting and the _cire

perdu_ process, can be found in any technical work on bronze casting

and need not be repeated here.

The patina of bronzes presents a difficulty in addition to the artistic

difficulties of creating a convincing pseudo-original, difficulties

common to clay, stucco, and, in fact, all faked sculpture. Patina, the

_nobilis ærugo_ of Horace, is the peculiar oxidization acquired by

bronze with age. For the connoisseur, the patina is not only a part of

the artistic _tout ensemble_ of a bronze object--so much so that

there are collectors more impressed by the beauty of the patina than by

the artistic value of the piece--but it is the chief indication of

the authenticity of the work.

According to Pliny, great importance was attached to the _nobilis

ærugo_ by the Roman connoisseurs also, especially in the case of the

famous Corinthian bronze. This metal was classified into five qualities

by the Roman amateur according to five different hues or patinas

depending upon the proportion of gold and silver in the alloy. Roman

art lovers made a regular study of bronze patina and of the composition

of the bronze of art objects. The components of this knowledge were

not only gathered from the appearance of a certain bronze, but by its

relative weight and the odour of the metal. That the odour of an alloy

should have been made a test to judge of its component parts is very

possible as the smell of bronze and brass is essentially different,

and there is no reason why a practised Roman nose should not have

distinguished slight differences according to the proportion of the

various metals in the alloy.