rantlust

Posted by papi on May 31st 2007 in Art, Movies
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Last night, I watched one of the oddest movies I’ve ever seen. It was “F for Fake”, the last movie that Orson Welles made, and probably his least known work. It’s a movie that defies genre, neither documentary nor fiction; but rather an account of one man’s meditation on art, life, and the nature of truth. The man is Welles playing himself, and the truth in question is that of originality in art. The movie primarily deals with the life of one of the best known art forgers of the twentieth century, Elmyr d’Hory. His forgeries are reputed to adorn most of the great museums of the world, which display their fake Matisses in blissful ignorance. It also shows the man who chronicled Elmyr’s life, and shot him to world prominence - his biographer Clifford Irving. Irving apparently picked up some tips from his dealings with Elmyr, because his next work was the “authorized autobiography” of the famous eccentric and reclusive billionaire playboy industrialist Howard Hughes. Except the autobiography turned out to be a total fake, complete with forged letters and memos written in Hughes’ handwriting. From there, reality and imitation blend in bewildering chaos.

The most enjoyable part of the movie for me was watching the effortless ease with which Elmyr forges a Picasso or Modigliani. Clearly, he was a painter of no mean talent. Yet, as he narrates to the camera with a certain pathos, he was utterly unable to sell any of his own paintings, even while art dealers were beating a path to buy his forgeries. If it hangs in a gallery, is certified by an expert, and endorsed by a museum, is it Art? Elmyr himself dismisses the opinion of experts, and says no one man should have the power to determine what is or is not good or fine or artistic.

One could argue that the great masters whom Elmyr imitated were painting their own vision of the world, while Elmyr was merely copying them. Yet even that argument will not stand close scrutiny. No artist exists in a void, no man is an island. Everyone influences, borrows, even imitates others whose works they have seen. In fact, as Elmyr says with a certain pride, he could paint a Matisse easier than Matisse himself. He describes how some of Matisse’s brush strokes were hesitant and tight, not easy and flowing, and how he had to restrain himself while painting to make it look authentic. There’s also an interesting anecdote of how an art dealer once challenged Picasso to distinguish his own paintings from forgeries. He brought Picasso a couple of forgeries, and Picasso immediately said they were not his own. Then he brought one that Picasso painted for him some time before, and Picasso proclaimed that one also to be a fake. The art dealer protested that he’d painted it in front of his very eyes. Picasso’s response - “I can paint a fake Picasso as well as anyone.” If the artist himself proclaims his work a fake, is it Art? As Welles recites from Kipling:

The tale is old as the Eden Tree—as new as the new-cut tooth—
For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;
And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
The Devil drum on the darkened pane: “You did it, but was it Art?”

I read Elmyr’s entry on Wikipedia after watching the movie, and was amused to learn that his works have attained a certain notoriety. There are now experts who will certify a genuine Elmyr forgery, and there is enough of a market for his forgeries that lesser crooks are now forging his forgeries. Poor Elmyr must be turning in his grave. If he’s indeed dead, that is, because there are rumors that he even faked his own suicide to escape prison.

The movie itself ends with a little deception, which I will not divulge here, but it’s a little harmless fun at the audience’s expense. In the end, like all great art, the movie moves that within us which is the only reality that matters. Whether it is Art or not - does it matter?