Alberti’s Window

When I worked in the museum industry several years ago, one of my bosses was heavily involved in the art auction business (in addition to his responsibilities at our museum). This boss worked as an on-call consultant for a major auction house, and would often tell me stories about the dog-eat-dog attitude within the art market. I remember one story that involved an auctioneer who fell into a coughing fit at the climax of one lot sale, but it quickly became apparent that he was stalling for time: there was an agent on the phone who was working to secure a higher bid for the painting.

Anyhow, I think that listening to these stories piqued my interest in the art market, which is why I wanted to read Don Thompson’s book, The $12 Million Stuffed Shark: The Curious Economics of Contemporary Art. The book discusses the everything you wanted to know about the art market: auction houses, prices for art, art as an investment, galleries and dealers, etc.

I thought the first few chapters of this book was really fascinating. Thompson related some interesting anecdotes about contemporary artists and art sales, including an interesting story about Damien Hirst’s The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living (1991). Thompson relates how the original shark in Hirst’s tank was not preserved properly, and by the time the work of art went for sale, the shark was not in good condition: one of the fins had fallen off and the skin had become green and wrinkly. Worse still, the formaldehyde had become rather murky. Nonetheless, the deteriorated shark and tank sold for $12 million! (Hirst later agreed to replace the original shark with a new one.)¹

I have to admit, though, the middle of the book was rather uninteresting. Thompson focused a lot of auction prices and technicalities. I think this information would be very useful to anyone who is interested in buying or selling art, but it wasn’t very compelling from a historical standpoint. Perhaps I shouldn’t have set my expectations too high – I knew that Thompson was an economist (and not an art historian) when I started to read the book.

The ending of the book completely redeemed itself, though. Thompson devoted a whole chapter to how art crime (especially forgeries) affect the art market. One interesting story was from May 2000, when Christie’s and Sotheby’s realized that their most recent auction catalogs were offering the exact same painting for sale, Gauguin’s Vase de Fleurs (Lilas), 1885.

This is my last book for heidenkind’s Art History Challenge.

1 Don Thompson, The $12 Million Stuffed Shark: The Curious Economics of Contemporary Art (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), 2, 63.

Twenty years ago today, two armed men entered the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum and performed one of the biggest art heists in history. In a little over an hour, these two men stole an estimated $300-500 million by grabbing thirteen works of art. Some of the stolen paintings included Vermeer’s The Concert (1658-1660) and Rembrandt’s Storm on the Sea of Galilee (1633, shown right). This Rembrandt painting is especially of interest, since it is the only known seascape by the artist.

And now, twenty years later, investigators are making another effort to try and get the stolen art back. The Associated Press reported this week that two billboards have appeared on Interstates 93 and 495, advertising the $5 million reward.

I bet there aren’t a lot of crimes which receive billboard attention twenty years after the fact. Although I kind of doubt that billboard signs are going to help recover these famous works of art, who knows? I hope that the Gardner museum gets its collection back one day.

*The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum has been in the news recently, due to a controversial modern wing that will be built onto the museum. You can read my take on the subject here.

I remember being surprised to learn that the Ghent Altarpiece (1432) that exists today is not entirely a product of the fifteenth century.¹ One of the panels in the altarpiece (“The Just Judges“) was stolen in the 1930s, and was repainted by the copyist Jef Vanderveken in 1945 (see left).

I think it’s telling that none of my art history books mention anything about Vanderveken or this copied panel. And when I traveled to Ghent to see this altarpiece in 2003, I don’t remember seeing any information about any other artist than van Eyck. I think there’s a reason for this “cover-up”: the altarpiece doesn’t appear to be a product of pristine history and genius with the knowledge that not everything is “authentic” (i.e. by van Eyck’s hand). And I would argue that by extension, to undermine the genius of van Eyck’s work would also undermine the genius and authoritative voice of the art historical discipline.

This connection between authenticity and the authoritative voice is interesting. One of the most prominent places to encounter an authoritative (and institutional) voice is within the museum setting. Pieces of art are displayed within the museum, and an unspoken authoritative voice tells museum visitors, “This is important and authentic by the mere fact that it’s on display.” And museum visitors do not question that implied statement (at least, they’re not encouraged to do so!).

But what happens when a work of art in a museum collection is determined to not be authentic? This change in status (i.e. artistic genius) reflects poorly on the museum because it loses a measure of authority. (Museums don’t want to admit that they make mistakes, too!)

I’m particularly reminded of the forger Han van Meegeren, who duped the art world into thinking it had discovered several paintings by Vermeer (among a few other artists). Van Meegeren’s forgeries are now scattered throughout the world in many prominent collections, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the National Gallery (Washington, DC). However, from what I can tell, these paintings are not on permanent display at most of these museums. Instead, the forgeries are shuttled down to the depths of storage, to hide the blemish of mistake and allow the museum to still “speak” authoritatively.

Furthermore, whenever Van Meegeren paintings are on display for temporary exhibition, it appears that they are almost always labeled with “Imitator of Vermeer” or “After Johannes Vermeer.” Even though Van Meegeren was exposed and we know who made the forgeries, museums don’t give him any credit for his work! It’s as if the museum world still wants to try and tap into the genius of Vermeer by association, even though we know that the paintings are fakes. Bah!

Do you know of any other instances where a question of authenticity has undermined the authority of a museum/art appraiser/work of art/art history textbook?

If you thought that the painting above, Woman Reading Music (Rijksmuseum), was by Vermeer, you’re mistaken. Don’t feel too bad – for a while this painting was thought to be the work of the 17th century master. This webpage points out how the model in this painting is the same one in Vermeer’s Woman Reading a Letter; furthermore, this painting is set in the same location as Vermeer’s Woman with Lute. In actuality, though, this painting was completed sometime between 1935-40 by the forger Han Van Meegeren.

Van Megeeren was a master forger who spent much of his career making forgeries, particularly in the style of Frans Hals and Johannes Vermeer. Right now I’m reading more about Van Meegeren in the book, The Man Who Made Vermeers by Jonathan Lopez. It’s a really interesting book and I highly recommend it. It’s really fascinating to read about what forgers do to make their art convincingly old – the paint needs to have a certain chemical compound to imitate old oil paintings, and yet withstand the chemical tests that determine authenticity. Plus, the forgery needs to be created on the canvas of an old painting from about the same period – the forgery is painted on top of the ground layer of the original painting, so that the final product convincingly has the same craquelure. Forgers definitely are clever.

It’s no surprise that as a forger, Van Meegeren latched onto the idea of creating paintings by Vermeer. During the latter half of the 19th century, Vermeer was rediscovered and celebrated within the art world. There are only 35 known paintings by Vermeer, which really isn’t very many at all (by contrast, it’s estimated that Picasso created around 50,000 works of art). Many scholars think that Vermeer did not create many more paintings than the ones that are known today. The last Vermeer paintings to be rediscovered were Woman Holding a Balance (rediscovered in 1911) and Girl with the Red Hat (rediscovered in 1925).¹

These last discoveries took place during Van Meegeren’s early career, and the art world was desperate to try and find more work by Vermeer. It’s amazing to read how hungry museums and collectors were to snatch up “Vermeers” during all this hype – the Boijmans Museum in Rotterdam paid an enormous sum of around 550, 000 guilders for Van Meegeren’s forgery of Supper at Emmaus (painted in Vermeer’s early style).² From what I calculated using this site, it looks like that would have amounted to around $4 million in today’s currency.

Here are a couple of other forgeries by Han Van Meegeren:

Woman Playing the Lute, ca. 1933 (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam)

Malle Babbe, in the style of Frans Hals, ca. 1935 (Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam)

Girl with a Blue Bow, ca. 1924 (The Hyde Collection; Glens Falls, New York)

A Young Woman Reading, ca. 1926 (The Metropolitan Museum of Art)

The Lace Maker, ca. 1925 (National Gallery of Art, Washington DC)

If you are interested in looking at more Van Meegeren forgeries, someone is starting to compile a list with images here. You can also read more about Van Meegeren’s story and trial here.

So, what do you think of the forgeries? It’s interesting to think about how authorship changes the value and reception of a forged work of art. Do you think that these works of art are not as good, now that they have been revealed to be the work of an imposter? Personally, I think that Van Meegeren had a lot of talent. But I think it’s sad that he didn’t utilize his talent to develop an original style. It takes talent to imitate the masters, but I think it takes more talent to create your own artistic niche.

1 Jonathan Lopez, The Man Who Made Vermeers: Unvarnishing the Legend of Master Forger Han Van Meegeren (New York: Harcourt Books, 2008), 53.

2 Wayne Franits. “Vermeer, Johannes.” In Grove Art Online. Oxford Art Online, > accessed 4 August 2009. It should be noted that Lopez’ figures are a little different than this entry – Lopez writes that the price was 520,000 guilders, or about £58,000 (See Lopez, 139). Supper at Emmaus was purchased in 1937 by the museum, and its authenticity was not questioned until 1945, when Van Meegeren confessed his forgeries in order to exonerate himself from charges of selling national Dutch masterpieces to the Nazis.

Keeping with this week’s theme of stolen art, I am particularly interested in the story regarding the portrait Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. This portrait was completed in 1787 by Thomas Gainsborough, a popular English portrait painter. I’m particularly interested in this painting because my grandparents own a reproduction of it (or else it’s another painting that closely mimics the style and pose of Gainsborough’s portrait – I’ll have to look more closely next time I visit).

Georgiana is the great-great-great-great aunt of Princess Diana, and there have been many parallels drawn between the two women. Both beautiful women were the toast of England during their life, although Georgiana outlived her days of high public favor. (The film “The Duchess” (2008) was based on Georgiana’s life; actress Kiera Knightly (who played Georgiana) was angered that her character was often compared to Diana).

Almost a century after the painting was completed, it was sold in 1876 at an auction. Crowds of people gathered to catch a glimpse of this famous portrait. It was eventually sold to the American banker Junius Spencer Morgan, who bought the painting as a gift for his son, J. P. Morgan. However, before the portrait was shipped to America, it remained for a while on exhibition in London.

During this short period of exhibition, Adam Worth crept into the Agnew Gallery and stole the Georgiana portrait from its location of display. Worth hoped that he could use the well-loved painting as collateral; he wanted to bargain with the government to get his brother John freed from prison. However, John’s lawyer was able to negotiate a release for the prisoner before Adam even had time to strike a bargain with the government. Consequently, Adam Worth was left with the beautiful portrait on his hands.

For the next twenty five years, Worth kept the painting. When he traveled, he would bring the Georgiana with him in a false-bottomed trunk. While at home, Worth would sleep with the beloved portrait under his mattress. Ben Macintyre writes in his book Napoleon of Crime that Georgiana was a “permanent, hidden companion” for Worth. Even when Worth experienced financial troubles and threats of capture, the theif preferred to “face disgrace, penury, and imprisonment rather than part with the Duchess.”¹ Finally, near the end of his life, Worth sold the painting for an undisclosed sum and negotiated a promise of immunity.

Today, Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire is part of the Devonshire Collection. In 1994, the current Duke of Devonshire bought the portrait and placed it at Chatsworth, his ancestral home. Edward Dolnick points out that Georgiana now “presides” in the grand dining room, the location where she held court during her lifetime.²

1 Ben Macintyre, Napoleon of Crime (New York: Harper Collins, 1997), 16.

2 Edward Dolnick, The Rescue Artist (New York: Harper Collins, 2006), 151.