Other Journals I Read

Forgery: where art and crime intersect.

Not all kinds of forgery are art, of course. When my fourteen-year-old self forged my father's signature on my practice records to assure my band director that yes, of course I practiced at home as much as I was supposed to, there was no art involved there. (Rather the opposite, in fact.) I suppose you could argue that mimicking someone's handwriting is calligraphic forgery, but that feels to me like it's stretching the point. Counterfeiting we've already talked about separately, in the first year of this Patreon; the manufacture of fake IDs or other legal documents, or of something like knockoff Gucci purses, are also not the focus of this essay.

No, here we're concerned with the creation of fake objects of art, whether works attributed to a specific artist, or anonymous artifacts of a particular place and time. And this is a topic I find fascinatingly squirrelly.

The techniques necessary to pull this off have gotten increasingly sophisticated over time. Back in the day -- or even now, if you're selling to a credulous enough fool -- anything that passed muster to a casual glance might suffice. Get yourself a fresh sheet of parchment, papyrus, or paper, write or draw on it, apply some physical and chemical stresses to make it look old, and you're good to go. Fire a pot or clay figure, or carve something out of stone, then batter it around for that authentic chipped look. Maybe even stamp out an ancient coin or two, if it's a piece rare enough to be worth substantially more than its metal content.

These days, it's not nearly that simple. We have carbon dating, spectroscopic analysis, and other high-tech methods of determining whether some detail is out of place. Which doesn't mean forgeries have gone away; it just means that talented forger needs to know a lot more than just what their proposed artifact should look like. There's a thriving market in blank fragments of ancient papyrus -- so the substrate will pass an age check even if what's written on it is new -- and who knows what texts have been scraped off bits of parchment, what paintings have been covered or rubbed away, so something more lucrative can be put in their place. The best forgers need to know the chemistry of inks and paints, how to make the right tools, the techniques used back then, so that only the closest analysis by the most skilled experts can spot the fake.

Nor is it only about the object itself. These days, we also pay a lot of attention to provenance: the history of an object's ownership, which can help to prove that it wasn't made last week. (A very similar term, provenience, is used in archaeology to refer to where the object was found: relevant to sifting out illegally looted objects from those excavated under legitimate conditions.) Of course, if you want to pass off a fake as the real thing, you also have to forge a provenance -- hence the massive upswing after World War II in items that had been the property of an "anonymous Swiss collector," a fig leaf to cover Nazi theft and forgeries alike.

That's when you're just trying to make a Twelfth Dynasty Egyptian ushabti or a bronze ornament from Sanxingdui: a plausible example of a type, but nothing more specific than that. When you're trying to pass something off as a previously-unidentified Picasso or Rodin, then you can't hide behind the expected variations between different nameless historical artisans; you have to mimic not just the materials but the ideas, composition, and execution of that specific person -- well enough that it seems like it could have genuinely been their work.

And at that point, you very nearly have a Zen koan on your hands: if someone forges a Rembrandt so well it can't be told from the real thing, is there a meaningful difference? Is the art itself what's worthwhile, or the fact that it was made by a specific person?

The answer to that really depends on context. If I'm a layperson who likes Caravaggio's style of painting, and somebody else comes along who paints just like Caravaggio (without claiming those are his works), I might be delighted to acquire things of the exact type I like for a fraction of the cost. Yay for pretty art! By contrast, if a forger lies to me and I pay Caravaggio prices for something that doesn't suffer from the scarcity of the artist being dead for centuries, I'm probably going to be pissed. And if I'm an art historian trying to learn more about Caravaggio, that forger has actively poisoned the well of scholarship by introducing false data.

Some of our "forgery" problems now actual stem from situations more like that first example. You can buy a million and one plastic replicas of Michaelangelo's David in Florence, and nobody thinks of those as forgeries . . . but rewind a few centuries or millennia, and those replicas had to be hand-crafted out of marble or bronze or whatever suited the sculpture being copied. That wasn't forgery; it was just how art got replicated, and the best copyists were deploying a useful, legitimate skill. The same was true of paintings. Now, however, the interests of both scholarship and the aura of owning a verified-as-legitimate original mean we have to sort that historical wheat from the chaff.

Or take the workshop context in which many Renaissance artists operated. Apprentices were expected to mimic their master's style, and if the result was good enough, the master was free to sell those works under his (or, more rarely, her) own name. Again, nowadays we strive to separate those out from the authentic works of the master -- but that reflects a modern attitude where the individual genius is the most important thing, above whether it reflects their style or was made under their auspices.

Some forgeries are extremely famous. Han Van Meegeren had to out himself as a forger when he was accused of collaboration for selling a Vermeer to the Nazi Hermann Göring; to prove that he hadn't hocked a piece of cultural patrimony, he painted another one while court-appointed witnesses stood and watched. The Getty Museum in Los Angeles has spent quite a bit of money trying to prove the disputed authenticity of a kouros (a specific style of statue) they bought for seven million dollars, but the best they've been able to achieve is a label identifying it as "Greek, about 530 B.C., or modern forgery." The Boston Museum of Fine Arts similarly clings to the hope that their probably-fake "Minoan snake goddess" statuette might be the real thing.

One thing these forgeries have in common: the demand for the genuine article is high enough to make fakes worth the effort of their creation. Minoan snake goddesses got manufactured because Sir Arthur Evans' excavations at Knossos attracted a ton of publicity, and he was not particularly discriminating in buying the "discoveries" people brought to him. Few criminals bothered forging Indigenous art until collectors turned their attention toward those parts of the world, thereby creating demand. This can in turn come full circle: van Meegeren's post-trial fame made his paintings rise high enough in value that his own son wound up forging more of them.

Nobody knows for sure how many fakes are on display in museums, galleries, and private collections. Some estimates run very high, due to the way today's plutocrats treat the acquisition of art as an investment strategy and display of status, while others say that improved methods of detection and the emphasis on authenticating an object before somebody forks over millions for it have greatly reduced the incidence. We'll never really know for sure, because of the loss of face inherent in admitting you paid too much for a forgery -- including the cratering in value for other works that might become suspect by association. But if you want to tell a story of trickery and sordid doings, the art world is rife with possibility!



(originally posted at Swan Tower: https://is.gd/aYnVC2)

Throughout the art sections of this Patreon, I've been grouping them into broad categories: visual arts, performing arts, literary arts, and so forth. But what about the arts that are kinda of . . . none of the above?

It's a trick question, honestly, because just about everything can be classed under one of those categories. But I do want to take a moment to talk about a variety of arts that, while classifiable as painting or sculpture or what have you, don't normally get included under those headers, because of how they're used or what materials they involve. It's not an exhaustive list, but it will serve as a reminder that our species is as much Homo creatrix as it is Homo sapiens: if we can use it for art, we probably have.

Let's look at the "painting" side of things -- I don't know if there's a good technical term that covers painting, drawing, and anything else involving the creation of images or designs on a two-dimensional surface. Some variations here are about technique, as in the case of frescoes: there you execute your work upon wet plaster, making the pigment far more durable. And those are usually murals, though not always, which differentiates them from both the more portable sort of art and the scale on which the average painter operates; a mural doesn't have to be enormous, but it certainly lends itself to monumental work, far beyond what a canvas could reasonably support.

The question of what is being painted leads us toward some other interesting corners. Illumination, for example, is the art of decorating the pages of books, whether by fancifying the text itself (illuminated capital letters and the like) or by including images alongside. Other people have made art out of painting eggshells -- or carving them, if the shell is thick enough; ostrich eggs are good for this, and one can imagine dragon eggs being the same way -- or the insides of glass balls. Those also frequently involve working at a very tiny scale, and it's worth noting that miniature painting is a whole field of its own, making a virtuoso display out of executing your work at a level where someone might need a magnifying glass to fully appreciate it.

(Er, "miniature painting" in the sense of "very small," not "minis for Dungeons & Dragons or a similar game." Though that's its own popular art form, too!)

In other cases, it's the medium of the decoration itself that becomes unusual. I've mentioned mosaics before, tessellating colored stones, ceramic, or glass to make an image, but you can grind even smaller than that with sandpainting. This doesn't always involve actual sand -- sometimes it's crushed pigments instead -- and some versions are more like carving in that they involve drawing in a sandy surface, but most specifically this involves pouring out sand or powder to create your designs. As you can imagine, this tends to be an ephemeral art . . . but that's often the point, especially when it's used in a ritual, religious context.

Some of these arts start rising above the two-dimensional surface in interesting ways. Beading can, when done thickly enough, become almost sculptural; it's also massively labor-intensive, which is why it became popular for sartorial displays of wealth when industrialization made the production and dying of fabric much cheaper. Quillwork is a form of fabric decoration unique to Indigenous North America, using dyed and undyed porcupine quills to create designs; among the Cheyenne, joining the elite Quilling Society that crafted such things was itself a form of status. This is distinct, however, from quilling: a different art with a similar name that curls tiny slips of paper into coils, then glues them to a backing to create images from the coils.

Paper leads us onward toward more overtly sculptural uses of that medium. What is origami, after all, but a specific kind of paper-based sculpture? That one in its strict incarnation prohibits cutting or gluing the paper to create its forms, which puts it at the polar opposite end of the spectrum from papercutting: an art some of us may have tried in simple form as kids, but skilled practitioners can achieve astonishingly complex and beautiful pictures. One particular version of this, the silhouette, is traditionally done with black paper and used especially for portraiture.

Basketry maybe should have gone into the textiles essay, both because many of its techniques are close kin to weaving and sewing, and because it very much belongs among what I termed the "functional arts" -- those which serve a utilitarian purpose while also including an aesthetic dimension. Anything pliable can potentially be used for basketry: most often plant materials like straw, willow, grass, and vines, but also animal hides or modern materials like strips of plastic. The resulting vessels are vitally important as storage containers and can even be made waterproof, especially if they're coated in clay or bitumen, but by working patterns into their design, basket-makers can also make them beautiful.

Or perhaps you go in an entirely non-utilitarian direction. Flower arranging is about taking nature's beauty -- perhaps from a garden -- and displaying it in an artificial way, knowing full well that soon the flowers will wilt. But where most of us stop at just sticking a few blooms in a vase, some artists go on to create full-blown sculptures of flowers and greenery, sometimes with complex internal structures that continue supplying water to the blooms to extend their life. There was even a competitive TV show about this, The Big Flower Fight!

I could keep going, of course. Baking is a functional art insofar as it makes something for you to eat, but it definitely has its elaborate end where the artistic value of the decoration or shaping is as much the point as the taste of the final product -- if it's edible at all, which it may not be! Amaury Guichon has made an entire TikTok phenomenon out of showcasing his monumental chocolate sculptures. I'm sure someone out there has devoted their life to the art of meat sculpture, but I'm not going to go looking for evidence of that. The point is made: if we can turn it into art, we probably will.

Which is honestly kind of amazing. Art is, after all, about doing more than the minimum required for our survival. It is a mark of our success as a species, that we have freed enough of our time from the work of acquiring food and shelter that art is possible. And it says something about our inner state, that when we have a spare moment available, we often want to spend it making something beautiful -- out of whatever comes to hand.



(originally posted at Swan Tower: https://is.gd/ANFkiL)

I was busy enough yesterday that this went out on Bluesky, but not yet here on my own site!

I am teaming up again with Avery Liell-Kok (one of the artists from the pattern deck) to make Lady Trent's Field Journal: A Dragon Coloring Book. Ten images of dragons in the wild, accompanied by excerpts from Lady Trent's scholarly writings -- my way of answering a question I've gotten with surprising frequency, which is "Will you ever publish any of her scientific work?" I have yet to come up with any complete ideas in that regard that would be interesting enough to pass as a short story, but as pairings for her drawings from the field? Sure!

The dragons featured here are a deliberate mix of old favorites you've seen before, dragons which got mentioned but never depicted, and new beasts created entirely for this project. The Kickstarter campaign will offer the writings and images in three formats: a file pack you can print at home or color in digitally, a loose-leaf pack to facilitate sharing around or hanging on the wall, and a paperback book -- that last coming in both a regular and a Scholar's Edition, which will be signed and have an additional quick sketch from Avery. I'm also including add-ons for bookplates and signed paperbacks of the novels in the series!

Right now we're in the pre-launch phase. If you'd like to be notified when it goes live (or you just want to support the project in the eyes of the algorithm gods), just click the "notify me" button here. It won't be long!

(originally posted at Swan Tower: https://is.gd/ww1BN4)