I was looking for the source of the following picture (see below), to find out more about it.  The picture seems, to the casual observer, to be an early modern engraving, perhaps from Germany or the Low Countries. It shows a man who looks out of the confines of his world (the edge of the firmament), to look beyond, a nice illustration of the work of the metaphysician, theologian or scientist. However, a bit of poking around on the internet reveals that the engraving is probably a forgery – i.e., a late 19th century wood engraving that is deliberately made to resemble an early modern drawing. It appears first in Camille Flammarion’s L'atmosphère: météorologie populaire. The engraving was probably made on commission or by Flammarion himself to accompany the following text “A missionary of the Middle Ages tells that he had found the point where the sky and the Earth touch…” This text appears in the first edition of L’atmosphère but the engraving only appeared in the second edition.

Now that I look at it again, I wonder how I could ever have believed this to be an authentic early modern illustration. The borders, for instance, do not look authentic. The anatomy and pose of the man are unusual for 16th century iconography. It seems that artistic forgeries, when they are believed to be genuine, look genuine. Once we know, however, that they are forgeries, the many inauthentic elements seem pretty obvious: how could past art critics have been fooled? 

Flammarion
 

Han van Meegeren presents a well-known illustration of this phenomenon (see below for one of his most famous pieces). While he carefully prepared and researched his forgeries of early Dutch masters (notably Vermeer), it now seems almost incomprehensible why earlier critics ever believed they were by Vermeer. The importance of background information is crucial when we evaluate an artwork, and it seems that not knowing that something is a forgery can make us oblivious to (what later turn out to be) pretty blatant cues that the work is not authentic.

Best_emmaus.jpg_lrg

It is in that respect interesting to think about works of which we are not sure whether they are forgeries, but suspect they might be. How does this suspicion color our judgment? To give an example, I play the Renaissance lute and I have recently begun to study an untitled piece (a fantasia-like composition) from the Codice Lautenbuch. Here is an interpretation of the piece by Valéry Sauvage on Youtube. 

This collection of dances, fantasias and in tabulations of vocal music is known to us only through a transcription by a 19th century music theoretician, composer and collector named Oscar Chilesotti. The original book seems to have vanished without a trace (under mysterious circumstances), but was in his collection. Chilesotti was very well versed in historical harmony. So it is not impossible that the Codice Lautenbuch, with its spontaneous, inventive melodies, was heavily redacted or indeed completely made up by Chilesotti (i.e., a forgery).

When my former lute teacher told me that this suspicion is sometimes voiced in the lute community, I looked at the piece in a totally different light. Most lutenists do not doubt the authenticity of the volume, but in the absence of the original and precedents of accomplished musicians who tried their hand at writing in an earlier style, they cannot be sure (see here for an animated discussion on someone who allegedly found the original manuscript). 

I am not an expert in 16th century harmony, so I cannot analyze it in detail, but I find I sometimes find the piece beautiful (when I believe it is authentic), and sometimes a bit trite (when I suspect it’s a forgery). This strange sort of duck-rabbit perception is how I approach the piece: it is difficult for me to hear it as simultaneously a spontaneous, beautifully written fantasia and a rather shallow imitation of the much superior pseudo-polyphony by an author like da Milano. Perhaps the obvious artistic qualities of this work will only come to light once we have the definite manuscript. Or, if it turns out to be a fake, lutenists will be wondering how they could ever have believed this to be an authentic piece.

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5 responses to “Why do the inauthentic features of forgeries escape us, whereas it seems so easy to see they were forgeries afterwards?”

  1. Cynthia Freeland Avatar

    Goodman discusses this in Languages of Art. In a nutshell, he says that the problematic aspects of a forger’s art may be invisible at the time because they involve stylistic features that people of that period take for granted or are accustomed to, but which only become visible after enough time has passed for them to become dated, or indicative of a particular time period. I might say the same thing about hairstyles or makeup in historical films. You take for granted now that in a movie about, say, Robin Hood, or about the future, people–both men and women– have the same kind of hair or makeup that everyone is wearing now, but it seems quite ludicrous when you see the same film 20 years later.

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  2. Helen De Cruz Avatar

    Hi Cynthia, thanks for this. Goodman’s suggestion is very plausible, and can certainly account for why people at the time, e.g., of van Meegeren, did not see the Vermeer forgeries as forgeries, but that contemporary art critics can.
    I think that, additional to this, one can be oblivious to the telling features of a forgery if one does not know or suspect it is a forgery, even if that forgery was made in a time or place where artistic standards were widely different. For instance, the Chilesotti lute collection, if it is indeed a forgery and not a faithful transcription from a 19th century source, was produced in the late 19th century, and our musical sensibilities are quite different now. Perhaps my background knowledge of late 19th century classical music still makes it hard for me to hear what could be inauthentic in the piece, though. In short: with that example, people are not sure whether it is a forgery, and it seems difficult (at least to me) to settle on a critical appraisal of it.

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  3. www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=613580795 Avatar

    One clue to the engraving being a “forgery” is that it matches no understanding of the heavens ever held. The firmament (primum mobile) held the stars, yes, but the “machinery” was internal to the firmament sphere and invisible (it was made out of quintessence), and the earth never intersected with the firmament. Here is an authentic model of the universe as held by pre-Copernicans:
    http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/3a/Ptolemaicsystem-small.png

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  4. John Smith Avatar
    John Smith

    I like the first illustration. I thought about it at some point.
    For me, it does not matter that much that it is or it is not authentic. It is very interesting what is showing us.
    Like you could actually get out of this world and see something else that also makes sense, but different than what we know. I call that interesting.
    The problem is that I actually believe that the illustration could also imply that you could loose your mind in such an attempt.

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  5. Chris Avatar
    Chris

    “This strange sort of duck-rabbit perception is how I approach the piece: it is difficult for me to hear it as simultaneously a spontaneous, beautifully written fantasia and a rather shallow imitation of the much superior pseudo-polyphony by an author like da Milano.”
    This brought to mind Borges’ ‘Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote’ (http://www.coldbacon.com/writing/borges-quixote.html), about (for those who don’t already know it) a French writer who undertakes to create – not re-create – an exact version of ‘Don Quixote’.
    A sample:
    “It is a revelation to compare Menard’s Don Quixote with Cervantes’. The latter, for example, wrote (part one, chapter nine):
    . . . truth, whose mother is history, rival of time, depository of deeds, witness of the past, exemplar and adviser to the present, and the future’s counselor. Written in the seventeenth century, written by the “lay genius” Cervantes, this enumeration is a mere rhetorical praise of history. Menard, on the other hand, writes:
    . . . truth, whose mother is history, rival of time, depository of deeds, witness of the past, exemplar and adviser to the present, and the future’s counselor.
    History, the mother of truth: the idea is astounding. Menard, a contemporary of William James, does not define history as an inquiry into reality but as its origin. Historical truth, for him, is not what has happened; it is what we judge to have happened. The final phrases—exemplar and adviser to the present, and the future’s counselor —are brazenly pragmatic.
    The contrast in style is also vivid. The archaic style of Menard—quite foreign, after all—suffers from a certain affectation. Not so that of his forerunner, who handles with ease the current Spanish of his time.”

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