Looking for fakes and doubts

I wonder what I’m doing right now; what I’ve been doing all this time; what I’m going to do in the time to come. The professional life I’ve been leading so far has been successful, to say the least. I’ve seen paintings nobody has even dreamed of touching. I’ve discovered flaws in the most perfect of works. But what am I? A hunter of mistakes? A soldier enlisted in the army that counters counterfeiters?

I seem to delight only in the wrong-doings of others. I often think of where I am in this picture, working as I am in backgrounds, an extra in a film where the leading role is too prominent to allow the rise of the underlings. I’ve been the shadow of Pissarro, of Matisse, of Caillebotte, of Toulouse-Lautrec. The funny thing is they’ve been all dead a long time; too long to know that I’m crusading for the keeping of their good names.

But art has made me happy. There is this thrill I get when I come close to a painting. It’s nothing to me but an object: a thing on a wall with a life of its own, a life on the verge between fact and fiction. Yes, assessing art does precisely that: puts pressure on the line between originals and fakes, between the real thing and the copy claiming to be it. And I’m the one who’s always there, walking that line.

This is what I usually work against. The best of the best have put their minds
to fool the world, and I am the one who's trying to stop that catastrophe
from taking place. I almost sound like Bruce Willis, don't I?

The other day, I was handling a Pissarro. The work was perfect. It spelled Pissarro all the way. The colour pallet, brushstroke, frame, light, theme, composition. Everything. The purchase was on its way. The dealer I worked with, a close friend of mine, was eager to get the contract signed. It was so good and the share so impossible to turn down. And on top of that he was, indeed, my friend.

“Jesus, James!” he said to me, not just once. He wanted everything done. He wanted my tick – nothing else. A simple tick, a simple flick of the pen on a piece of paper. But, friend or no friend, I couldn’t do it. Not for all the millions in the world. There was this shadow lurking inside my brain that told me no, this is not it. You need to look again. And again. And again. I’d even talked to my mentors about this piece. I’d spoken with my professor at Courtauld, and he took time off to examine this Pissarro with me. He found it very close to an original: the closest a painting can be. But when everybody had agreed, and all loose ends had been tied up, I was still unsure. The monster gnawing at my thoughts was well and alive. And it was then that I saw it. A little flaw in the signature. The ‘a’ ever so slightly different, not impressed into the layer of paint underneath it. As if it had been put there at a later date, when the paint was dry. The only detail that quieted the monster inside me was there, and I rejoiced.

How sad my friend was! He had just lost one of the best deals in a decade. He looked at me like he was going to eat me alive. But he knew I was right. He won’t take it personally, because that’s exactly what I’m trained to do and what he hires me to do: to find forgery where everybody else sees perfection.

The secrecy of my profession doesn't allow me to talk about the piece I investigated.
But this is Pissarro, the way the world admires him. Boulevard Montmartre (1897)
Source: Wikipedia

That’s my life: always acting against my best judgment, always doubting my doubts, always looking for what hasn’t been seen. And on top of all this, my life is the disappointment of others. But I can’t help it. This is my greatest delight, my doom. So what am I? What?

Picasso and Matisse in 1935

In 1935, after his first wife, Olga Khokhlova, left him because of the affair he was having with the French Marie-Thérèse Walter and (soon after) with Dora Maar, Picasso experienced a breakdown which caused him to turn painting down for a while and go straight for poetry instead. Writing, it appears, provided him with relief. All turned quickly into a flood of creative output not unusual to Picasso. He wrote a book-load of poems, experimented with words, gave word-crafting a good try.

Picasso's poetry edited by Jerome Rothenberg and Pierre Joris
via www.exactchange.com

On the artistic side of things, there may be another explanation for Picasso’s withdrawal. As Gertrude Stein suggests in her famous monograph, he had decided to give up painting (and drawing too) after he’d been through almost eight years of search for artistic answers to the problem of colour. This is a period when “Picasso had the tendency to console himself with Matisse’s conception of colour,” which, however, made things worse. It isn’t clear how affected Picasso was by the change, although Stein conjectures that he was never fully content, in spite of rather enjoying the two years without responsibilities, when he dedicated his time to writing poetry in a café.

The last painting work of Picasso’s that year, Jeune Famme Endormie, is almost a foresight of the state of slumber in which his painting fell between 1935 and 1937.

Matisse paintings from 1935

So while estranged from painting, the year 1935 doesn’t seem to have been entirely unproductive for the Spaniard. However, the question I found myself asking is: what was Matisse doing at that time?

It turns out he was doing a lot. Of painting, that is. 1935 is the year when he produced the famous suite known as The Pink Nude (also as Large Reclining Nude), which made the world of art go mad with the idea of recording, in visual details, the progression of a work of art.

The 22 versions painted that year are regarded as an important stage of transition between Matisse’s earlier figurative works and the cut outs that will dominate the last years of his career. As in the case of Picasso, the model for this series was a woman close to artist: Lydia Delectorskaya, the Russian assistant who featured in many other Matisse paintings. She was not his mistress, but they seem to have been emotionally very connected.

In the same year 1935, we also find Matisse painting The Dream. The figure strikes a pose patently similar to that of Picasso’s Woman with Yellow Hair (1931). Which stands to show, once again, the extent to which the two artists emulated each other.

As a side note, Picasso himself had painted his own Dream three years earlier, using as a model his French mistress (then only seventeen years of age).

Picasso, The Dream (1932)
via Pinterest

Picasso, Woman with Yellow Hair (1931)
via Pinterest

Matisse, The Dream (1935)
via Pinterest

What 1935 meant to others

1935 did not stand still. This is the year when René Magritte executed the second painting bearing the title Human Condition – one of the many trompe l’oeil exrecises of the Belgian surrealist who made illusion into his patent. The other painting of the same title had been made by Magritte only two years earlier. A prolific year for him too, if we also consider The Portrait, his witty play on facial compositions.

Magritte, Human Condition II (1935)
via Pinterest

Magritte, Human Condition I (1933)
via Pinterest

And speaking of illusions, M.C. Escher too produced Hand With Reflecting Sphere, in the same year.

If we turn to a different side of art, one that is both avant-garde and Spanish, like Picasso’s, there’s Joan Miro’s Man and Woman in Front of a Pile of Excrements.

Miro, Man and Woman in Front of a Pile of Excrement (1935)
via Pinterest

Year: 1935. Miro, who also worked on some collages between 1935 and 1936, Metamorphose.

Painters who wrote

Picasso’s turn to poetry marked a cataclysmic interruption to his painting career, no doubt. One that lasted for only two years, but which managed to welcome poetry among his creative tendencies.

But then, of course, his poetry bypass is not that surprising. Artists dipping their creative fingers into the writing of poetry did exist before Picasso. Say Michelangelo (“Great beauty spreads a firestorm / across a thousand ardent wills”), say Salvador Dali (“Narcissus, / in his immobility, / absorbed by his reflection with the digestive slowness of a carnivorous plants, / becomes invisible”), say the true hybrids, like William Blake (“Ah Sunflower, weary of time, / who countest the steps of the sun”) or Dante Gabriel Rossetti (“At length the then of my long hope was now”).

Truth is, migration to and from poetry and to and from painting happens. No blame on anyone of those who did it. Picasso least of all.