The Forger's Spell - Edward Dolnick [56]
FOR A FORGER, a chorus of praise like the one for The Lacemaker was all to the good, but it was not essential. The major dealers, many of whom were experts themselves, frequently made their own judgments without bothering with outsiders. Sometimes, as with Bode, a single authoritative voice silenced any doubt. At other times—if a painting seemed not to fit with the rest of an artist’s work, or if the price was especially high, or if the art world was awash in gossip and doubt—a would-be buyer might seek a second opinion. If the experts disagreed, there was no rule about who would prevail, any more than there is a rule in the courtroom about which expert witness will sway a jury.
Many times the experts did disagree, with glee and vigor. That was not necessarily a problem. A painting did not need unanimous support to make its way, for each scholar was perfectly prepared to dismiss his colleagues’ opinions. Art is a notoriously catty field, perhaps because it depends so heavily on value judgments. Feuds are rampant, and elegant insult an art in itself.* (One specialist in Dutch old masters lauded a colleague’s “highly imaginative” catalog of Vermeer’s paintings, a bit of sarcastic praise akin to lauding an accountant for his creativity.)
In Van Meegeren’s day, and today as well, the experts like nothing better than to ridicule their rivals by showcasing their errors in judgment, preferably in a tone of mock bewilderment. “Gratuitous nastiness is part of the art historian’s weaponry,” observes Christopher Wright, himself a veteran of many duels at dawn.
A forgery could make its way without a big-name sponsor, but a celebrity’s endorsement could make a painting a star. When it came to Johannes Vermeer, it was widely believed, the best man you could have on your side was Abraham Bredius.
25
BREDIUS
By the time Van Meegeren gave up work in his own name in favor of fulltime experiments with old-master forgeries, the best-known authority on Vermeer was an elderly, eminent man. Long retired from his official posts in Holland, Abraham Bredius now held court in Monaco, in the Villa Evelyne, where he had moved in 1922. Late in life—a bit too late, in his view—he had won honors that served as more or less the Dutch equivalent of a British knighthood, and he gloried in the titles of officer in the Order of the Lion of the Netherlands and grand officer in the Order of Orange-Nassau.
In his Monaco retreat, he entertained a stream of visitors and issued pronouncements on art. He had a glittering record, and he liked recounting his triumphs. Bredius had been the first to draw attention to some of the world’s best-loved paintings. He had spotted Rembrandt’s now world-famous Polish Rider hanging in obscurity, for example, and he had been the first to praise Girl with a Pearl Earring in print. He had turned seventy-five in 1930, but he had every intention of adding new triumphs to his résumé.
The Dutch old masters were his specialty, and Rembrandt and Vermeer his particular loves. Bredius was a wealthy man—his family had been well known as far back as the 1600s, when the forebears of Rembrandt and Vermeer were struggling to stay out of the way of bill collectors—and he had set out on a grand tour of Europe’s art museums in his twenties. This was in the 1880s, about a generation before the birth of art history as a formal academic discipline in Holland. The field was open to amateurs, and a talented, well-connected, brash young man could rise quickly.
Bredius was a roundish man, with thin, wavy hair and a wispy mustache. A pair of small, round eyeglasses gave him the air of a quizzical owl. The soft appearance was misleading. Bredius thrived on conflict. When, for instance, one scholar wrote that he believed some paintings attributed