The Forger's Apprentice: Life with the World's Most Notorious Artist

by Mark Forgy

  Being ordained as Elmyr’s friend conferred on me all the rights, privileges, and obligations of a club member, and that meant my fiduciary duties to him trumped everything else. It was like a blood oath, and there wasn’t a hint of doubt in his voice that left room for questioning his expectations of me or my fidelity to him. Elmyr would on occasion posture himself, leaning into his audience like an orator full of moment in his forthcoming pronouncement. “Right or wrong,” he’d say, “friends stand by one another.” It showed the depth of his commitment to friendship. It was the “right or wrong” part I found troubling. The implication, of course, was that there was an unbreakable allegiance friends shared, insulated from any constraints whatsoever. Free from any moral, ethical, or legal considerations? It reminded me of that distinction between a friend and a good friend: A friend will help you move. A good friend will help you move a body. This was contradictory to all those rules of social etiquette that tempered my education, and important, he insisted. But then, wasn’t the lesson of Elmyr’s story that we should not so easily be influenced by appearances, blindly accepting what reinforces our own interests over the need for critical analysis? When it came to personal relationships, he expected unquestioning support. Moreover, this code of behavior was not only rigid, it also showed your mettle.

  I suppose I had observed enough inconsistencies in his “do as I say, not as I do” history, while remembrances of his artistic piracy seemed far from his thoughts when judging the actions of others. The lack of equivocation on his part I can only attribute to an esprit de corps, that willful and unassailable unity that neatly defines an us-versus-them mentality. I recall a scene in the film Full Metal Jacket, when the drill instructor discusses the assassination of President John Kennedy and revels in the fact that Lee Harvey Oswald learned his marksmanship as a Marine, suggesting that above all, Oswald was a Marine. And the Marine Corps motto is semper fidelis—always faithful. This just illustrates how values can be molded to abide any perversion, endure any assault by reason, and dismiss any challenge to what we choose to believe. This is how Elmyr could gloss over the serious crimes of defrauding the art world. He often became disoriented when crossing that marshland of ethics and the law, relying instead on his personal interests as his compass. After all, what speaks more eloquently to us than that which suits our needs? This is how we uncomplicate the complicated.

  When I first met Elmyr, his celebrity was growing, and he wore the mantel of the talented scoundrel with some reluctance. His admirers seemed more intrigued by his exploits for duping the experts than concerned by the damage done to institutions, reputations, or artists’ oeuvres. Indeed, press coverage was more favorable than disdainful of Elmyr’s expertise at deception, and he in turn confused their fascination with expiation of his sins. As far as I could see, the court of public opinion gave him no incentive to exhibit any remorse for past actions. If fame or power aggrandizes one’s ego, it is easy to understand how this unexpected approval distorted his view of himself and his crimes. If others were forgiving, then why shouldn’t he be as generous? There is something captivating in those stories about dethroning the rich and powerful that makes the underclass cheer, and he heard only their cheering. Then again, Elmyr possessed a disarming charm that was the social lubricant for his talent. Both traits lend authority to any confidence man, and personal charisma sways perception beyond the mere weight of facts. Politicians are frequently masters of feel-good rhetoric and the appearance of credibility. In tandem, these are powerfully persuasive, especially when Elmyr targeted those who were already predisposed to influence by covetousness and self-interest. When our emotionality sweeps aside rationality, investing trust in the conman is a comfortable consequence—and they know it.

  Han van Meegeren’s tale was one example Elmyr cited of an art forger becoming a folk hero, and I sensed Elmyr felt a kinship with him on that level. Van Meegeren’s deception earned him public applause when he sold his spurious Vermeers to Hermann Goering. In the aftermath of the war, the Dutch were eager to overlook his criminal activity and blatant self-enrichment, instead reveling in his hoodwinking Germany’s number-two Nazi. Never mind that van Meegeren was an enthusiastic Nazi supporter himself. This normally unpalatable fact would have earned him the enmity of any other enemy sympathizer in post-war Holland, but the artist’s sting operation proved more valuable in boosting national pride in his clever ruse of the foppish art thief Goering.

  Elmyr was committing crimes when he sold his wares to dealers, curators, or privates, and he knew it. What he was able to appreciate only after his “outing” was the landslide approval of the general public, who appeared more enthralled than upset by his curious life and adventures. That sentiment, though, was not universal, particularly from those left holding Elmyr’s art once thought legitimate and later discredited, along with the wisdom of his victims. What, then, would explain the backslapping approbation Elmyr enjoyed after he was identified as “the greatest art forger of the twentieth century?” It seems counterintuitive that activities that generally earn perpetrators a prison sentence elicit favorable public opinion. That contradictory response may stem from some subconscious attraction of those who defy authority, and against the odds, win. Thus the appeal and romanticized view of rule-breakers like Elmyr. Dr. Charles Ford offers this provocative insight:

  “…and there really seems to be little doubt—we live in a world that thrives on deception…” Further adding “…the importance of deception and detection is so great that it was a major influence in the evolution of progressively greater cognitive powers in humans and in the structural evolution of the prefrontal lobes of the human brain.”

  So, we are not only socially accustomed to lying, we are hardwired, physiologically predisposed through evolution to be able practitioners of deceit. Nor should it be surprising that we strategize by deception whenever rivalry exits between people, resorting to deceit as a standard practice to increase our chances of success in the selection process or basic survival. The pervasiveness of lying would then explain the loss of shock-value among everyone beyond Elmyr’s victims. Ford’s research paints a picture of a society inured to the culture of deception, and thereby explains the whimper of protest and condemnation of Elmyr’s crimes. It may also stem from a common misperception that his brand of art crime was a victimless crime, which was not the case.

  Elmyr’s story bears a common thread with other fakers or forgers. Their careers often began as a result of rejection, an inability to earn critical or financial success, and their spurned efforts served as a justification to show the disbelievers their true merit. It’s a convenient rationalization, though disingenuous, and one that eased Elmyr’s conscience. For all those who feel a sense of injustice in their lives, a lack of fairness or opportunity, their empathy, I suppose, resonates with those who earn some retribution through unconventional or even illegal tactics. Desperation is a game-changer, and those marginalized by social breakdown such as war will often abandon legal or moral constraints that reflect their value systems, and once emancipated from limitations, the nature of personal responsibility changes. The advent of child soldiers used in campaigns of genocide illustrates how debased human behavior can become when we detach from those mechanisms that keep society civil and law-abiding.

  I believe Elmyr allowed self-interest (if not self-preservation) to derail any feeling of regret for the deceit that became an inseparable part of his life. His talent at convincing others something was what it was not, in essence, became his most reliable survival skill, and at some point, I suspect, self-deception made his version of truth more palatable and more memorable. He found comfort in a favorite aphorism. Slightly tilting his head back, as though getting in the last word in a dispute, he said in French: “Qui s’excuse s’accuse.” (He who excuses himself accuses himself.) This perfectly suited his disinclination to incriminate himself; it was at once a clever exoneration of his guilt while making apologies unnecessary. What is language for, if it can’t be s
elf-serving?

  The paradox I have yet to fully understand is how Elmyr, who had spent a good portion of his life convincingly deceiving others, exercised negligible awareness in detecting cons perpetrated against him. His longtime dealer Fernand Legros was a case in point. Although I cannot offer observations with the confidence of proximity and familiarity I enjoyed with Elmyr, I can say with surety that there was much about Legros’s personality that invited psychoanalysis. His hatred and obsession with Elmyr’s destruction are a matter of record. An in-depth psychological profile of their tortured relationship is better left to medical professionals, the entertainment value of the craziness notwithstanding.

  The indictments against Elmyr are many, and criticisms of him in some instances reflect one’s nearness to the damage he did to the art establishment. The farther away from the epicenter one was, the more benign his fakery appeared, in much the same way as someone who owns no stocks may feel detached from the vicissitudes of the market. It also bears remembering the time frame in which Elmyr’s crimes were exposed. It was in the 1960s, a decade wrought with social unrest, rebellion against authority, and a wholesale questioning of tradition and conventional values. Against that backdrop it was easier to cast Elmyr in the maverick mold, and he seized that convenient swell of public sentiment, interpreting the mood of contemporary history as implied support of his criminal exploits.

  For those reexamining his place in history today, a common question is: If he had any real talent, why couldn’t he earn any recognition? Another complaint is: He was a follower, not an innovator, and showed no originality. These deserve a response, though I can offer my viewpoint only in this way: First, there are few strikingly original thinkers. Most of us are followers, as was Elmyr. He explained to me how throughout the history of western art there are occasionally beacons that illuminate new paths and progenitors of change. Among the legions of artists, some names stand out, such as Giotto, Masaccio, della Francesca, Caravaggio, Turner to Picasso. Others are left in their wake and benefit from theses seers and teachers. Elmyr never once claimed to be an originator, and would have dismissed any such notion. His respect for these geniuses bordered on the reverential, and he would not have placed himself on such a pedestal.

  A comparison of Elmyr to his contemporaries or near-contemporaries is, however, valid. Elmyr, in much the same manner of these artists, learned from a teaching tradition following established tenets of figurative art for five hundred years. This apples-to-apples assessment supports an objective evaluation, and it is on this basis that his merit can be best judged. In this regard, I can only defer to his track record of his fakes passing muster with those who were often poised to make those crucial decisions. Self-interest aside, there were plenty of experts, curators, and dealers with suitable training and experience to offer a discerning judgment and evaluation of his bogus masterpieces that could well have halted Elmyr’s career earlier if they were less convincing.

  So why was he unable to make his own mark in the art world? Malcolm Gladwell’s research for his book Outliers (Little Brown and Company, 2008) turned up some remarkable findings that may help answer this question. A group of geniuses born between 1903 and 1917 were studied to see how they fulfilled their potential. Those in the first half, born between 1903 and 1911, were more likely to be failures because they came of age around the beginning of the Great Depression. They lacked opportunities. “To have been born before 1911 is to have been demographically unlucky. The most devastating events of the twentieth century hit you at exactly the wrong time.” Also, “The sense of possibility so necessary for success comes not just from inside us or from our parents. It comes from our time: from the particular opportunities that our particular place in history presents us with…Some cannot escape the limitations of their generation.” Elmyr was born in 1906.

  Along with the missed opportunities of ill timing, but having all the talent required for success, his art possessed the freshness of a bygone era. Fauvism, expressionism, and cubism came and went before Elmyr began his art studies and education that by then looked increasingly out of step with the artistic revolt that swept through Europe in the first two decades of the twentieth century. The train of public taste departed, leaving him dismayed, eyeing his chances for recognition disappearing from sight.

  What Elmyr never grasped was the other side of that disappointment. If, for example, the trajectory of his talent had intersected with the art movements that formed the basis of his training, he may have gained the accolades he longed for. It’s hard to tell if that would have been the outcome. Clearly, that was his lifelong wish. Circumstances instead took his career in another direction. What he never realized was that that disappointment may have been a blessing in disguise. Elmyr turned that rejection into a triumph of a different sort by becoming the most prolific and successful art forger of modern times. Maybe it was a crown of thorns. Whether he was perceived as a pariah or folk hero may have troubled him less than providing the world no reason to remember him. He thrived on clever repartee, and a favorite quote from Oscar Wilde was, “The only thing worse than being talked about was not being talked about.” Even if he should be remembered as a rogue, he would prefer that to being forgotten, although until his spurious artistic contributions are ultimately segregated from the realm of authentic works, it is likely that Elmyr’s ghost will continue to haunt the art world. I continue to see him and his passage through the history of twentieth-century art as colorful as the fauve-period paintings he mimicked so well.

  Another question relevant to Elmyr’s legacy is inescapable. Is it possible for the forger or faker to survive the odium that infects public perception of their crimes? I suspect every practitioner of these dark arts would argue on behalf of an impartial hearing, inviting judgment based on skill, untainted by reputation. I know Elmyr lobbied hard for a reevaluation of his art in the aftermath of scandal and lawlessness. He remained steadfast, confident that his talent warranted recognition, while realizing the rewards of public acceptance and success were often a contrivance of gamesmanship and a rising art market that increasingly treated art as an “investment.” Elmyr knew the role dealers played in manipulating prices of art and their power as kingmakers. It was the only way he could explain the otherwise mystifying ascent in values attached to Jackson Pollock’s art and others’. Certainly by the mid twentieth century, purveyors of art had a firm grip on Madison Avenue’s bag of tricks, the notion of branding and image building. Elmyr insisted that the rise in popularity of abstract expressionism, or conceptual art, had as much, if not more to do with a diminishing pool of accessibly priced old-master, impressionist, or postimpressionist works. Because of their scarcity and values that restricted buyers to institutions or the ultra rich, art merchants helped develop a new reservoir of art and a new audience for it. It was, in his view, the only way to explain the newfound virtues of Pollack’s wet-paint drippings, the incomprehensible black swaths on white canvas of Robert Motherwell, or others a world away from Elmyr’s frame of reference. This may have looked like Kabuki to Elmyr, an exaggerated reality and product of stagecraft, but one that redirected interest and buyers away from anything that might bear his name.

  These new trends stranded him in a futureless no-man’s land, making his own art appear even more obsolete than before, while this “anarchism,” as he saw it, assaulted every definition of what fine art was supposed to be. Even art forgers have principles that are inviolable, it seems. He thought this phenomenon was mostly commercial hucksterism, a passing flavor of the day, and whose value would have no real staying power. Even more disturbing to him was the Big Money people paid for these works when in almost every instance his own art was greeted with robust disinterest. I’m not surprised that his bile level was dangerously high due to his growing disrespect for those who jumped aboard the bandwagon of enthusiasts for this new art, but could not recognize “real” art—meaning his.

  I must add that Elmyr did not wholly dismiss modern art. When I first e
ntered his home, abstract or semi-abstract art was abundant, mostly works representing Ibiza’s sizeable colony of artists whom he supported through his purchases from local galleries or directly from them. However, he distinguished figurative from non-figurative art this way. He said, “The appeal of abstract art depends on the viewer, whether one likes it or doesn’t like it.” So, some he liked, some he didn’t. It was a fairly vague and forgiving criterion to gauge its merit. At the same time, he ran through a litany of standard criteria universally used to judge the quality of figurative art, from which abstract art was mostly liberated.