Close Examination: Fakes, Mistakes and Discoveries, National Gallery

When is a fake a forgery? When is it a mistake? And when is it simply not what it appears? The National Gallery’s second summer exhibition to focus on its own collection here examines the questions of attribution, using the latest scientific resources to back up – or contradict – tradition, connoisseurship and curatorial decisions, good and bad. The gallery is putting its own mistakes on show, and over the 170-plus years of its existence, there have been more than a few.

Yet the exhibition, however openly acknowledging its errors, neglects to give historical context, so it is unclear to the casual visitor just why there were so many mistakes. In fact, much can be laid at the door of that peculiarly British deference to class. In art terms this was defined as having an “eye”, which, in the founding century of the National Gallery, meant growing up surrounded by great art: that is, being upper class. For many decades the gentlemen-amateurs who were the trustees actively rejected notions of scholarly art history, then developing in Europe (the Keeper at the time cheerfully admitted that he had never thought of putting up labels next to the pictures, giving the name of the artists). In 1854, so few trustees troubled to attend meetings that Gladstone, as Chancellor, ended up ratifying the purchase of a collection of 64 pictures from a German collection, sight unseen. (When they arrived, three-quarters of them were in such poor condition they could never be shown.)

In this context, some of the mistaken purchases on display are unsurprising. Two “Botticellis” were bought in 1874: Venus and Mars, still one of the gallery’s most popular pictures, and, for slightly more money, An Allegory (pictured above right). Today it is almost certain that Venus and Mars is indeed by Botticelli, while the pretty-pretty Allegory is most likely to be by a slightly later imitator.

This, of course, is not fraud – the picture was probably painted in the style of the master as homage, and never intended to deceive. Similarly, An Old Man in an Armchair, once attributed to Rembrandt, was probably painted by one of his students. Likewise, the “Dürer”, The Madonna with the Iris, which was purchased in 1945, was swiftly downgraded to “attributed to Dürer” a few years later. Scientific examination shows that the signature was painted over a varnish that was not manufactured before the 18th century; other indications suggest that several hands were involved in the painting, and it may well be that Dürer’s students used this work as a practice piece.


Very different, indeed, corrupt from the beginning, is The Virgin and Child with an Angel, supposedly by Francesco Francia, which was donated in 1923. In 1954 an identical picture appeared for sale, jarring the National Gallery into examining their gift. It was found that the craquelure, the minute crack marks that occur naturally as the paint dries, were not in fact craquelure at all, but had been painted in. Likewise, a 15th century Italian group portrait, acquired as unusual, even unique, has turned out to be unusual because it is a 20th century forgery – the pigments were post 19th century in manufacture, and the surface had been coated with shellac to give the appearance of age.

More mysterious, and potentially exciting, is an oil sketch donated by the painter Walter Sickert, who said it was by Delacroix. It is now thoughtr that this might be a posthumous joke by Sickert, and that the sketch may be his own.

It is perhaps unsurprising that, after the first few rooms of error-filled purchasing, the National Gallery gives equal space to paintings once thought to be copies, and now generally accepted as original. Paolo Uccello’s St George and the Dragon (pictured left), another great favourite with the public, has for many years been regarded as dubious, following the lead of the ex-director of the Metropolitan Museum, Thomas Hoving, who thought it too peculiar to be authentic. Further study now accepts that the very qualities Hoving distrusted – the materials, the style – are characteristic of Uccello.

The show ends with a room triumphantly labelled “Redemption” in which the National Gallery shows off its recent purchase (for a cool £35 million) of a Madonna and Child, now known as The Madonna of the Pinks. Long thought to be a minor piece, this was only recently recognised as a Raphael by Nicholas Penny (not coincidentally, now the director of the National Gallery).

While it is the case that the attribution has been accepted by all but a minority, spending such an astronomical sum on what is, ultimately, a rather dull Raphael, is hardly “Redemption”. And this triumphalism, this sense that science has all the answers, skims over the surface of the function of the scientific departments of the National Gallery. That they do fine work in identifying and attributing pictures is undeniable. But that the National Gallery’s conservation department has a reputation, too, as over-enthusiastic in cleaning images, stripping off layers of potentially authentic paint and varnish in the name of some ideal of “authenticity”, is also undeniable. Thus the self-congratulatory aspect of this otherwise pleasant exhibition can leave a somewhat sour taste by the end.

• Fakes, Mistakes and Discoveries is at the National Gallery until 12 September