What is it about the timeless quality of great works of art that makes us sit up and listen when we hear about the forgery of a painting? As students of art we are encouraged to copy the works of those we admire, but if someone shows too much aptitude for this and begins to make money out of it, he risks crossing that fine line and becoming a criminal. Or is he only a criminal if he’s caught?

I spent many enjoyable hours researching art forgery for my book Benicio’s Bequest and I found it fascinating. I grilled my painter niece about the use of linseed oil and the time it takes to dry. I read up on the methods used by Han van Meegeren who had conned Göring and others during World War II into believing that his painting Christ With The Adulteress was an original Vermeer. Van Meegeren confessed and revealed his secrets when faced with charges of collaboration with the Nazis, but even more truths about his
methods have been exposed recently, thanks to new technology.

Van Meegeren knew the importance of using white lead, as the Old Masters had done. However, the type of white lead they used was no longer available in the 20thcentury, and Van Meegeren’s modern white lead came from different sources, some as far away as Australia. This was only detected in some of his works as recently as the 1990s, some fifty years after his death.

More recently, German forger Wolfgang Beltracchi (born Fischer) started small in the 1980s when he realised that old landscape paintings with skaters in them sold for higher prices than those without figures. He bought some old landscapes, carefully added a few skaters and resold the paintings at an inflated price. However, three decades and several forgeries later, a purchaser demanded a certificate of authenticity, and the legitimate dealer who had brokered the deal blew the whistle when he discovered that no such certificate existed. The painting in question was tested and found to contain a pigment that hadn’t yet been invented at the supposed time the painting was done.

How do I feel about these so-called “criminals” of the art world? Well, I have to admit to a certain admiration that they got away with it for so long. And I’m a bit envious too. I’ve been on the fringes of art all my life. Art projects at school consisted of drawings, sketches and plans for the final work – the painting. My line drawings and sketches were pretty good, even if I say so myself. But no matter how hard I tried, my painting always sucked. I was one of those students who got full marks for the preparation but never for
the final painting. So I can understand the pride and satisfaction that a forger might feel when the world accepts one of his or her paintings as a grand Old Master. We should all be so lucky! 

Beltracchi himself admits that it was easier to forge paintings 30 years ago than it is now. I can’t help feeling sorry for him in his current disgrace. His exposure as a forger has pinpointed the fact that modern methods of detection can take the fun out of conning the art world. This is good for art, but bad for novelists who are trying to write a convincing modern-day story. 

So how does a modern-day forger do it? I’m sure it's hard work, but it can probably be done. The trick, I feel, is to forge the painting in plain sight. I am speaking in a purely literary sense, of course. 
 
If there is no reason to suspect that a painting has been forged or that the verified original has since been substituted with a forgery, then it could escape detection for several years, possibly until the gallery decides to undertake careful restoration or loan the artwork to another gallery for an exhibition. The subsequent insurance and security measures necessary for such a task could reveal unwanted surprises. Only then might they discover the cuckoo hiding in the nest.

Either way, it all makes for a great story line.

I’ve been renovating my oldest bookcase. It’s not made of special wood, but it was made by a special person – my father. He made it for me when I started university back in 1979, and I have squeezed it into no less than nineteen cottages, flats and basement apartments since then. Despite the acquisition of an additional eight bookcases over the years, my father’s bookcase has remained my favourite, even more precious to me after his death.

In February this year, termites came up through the floor and ate through the bottom plank of it on their way to devouring 24 of my biggest books. The books can be replaced, but the bookcase was one of a kind, never to be repeated. So in the months since then, I have been busy with a project between bouts of writing. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as the restoration of something precious to you, and the repetition of manual tasks frees up the brain to think while the hands are busy.

It struck me during one of these sessions that repairing a bookcase is like fixing a half-written novel. Parts of the original casing (or first draft of the novel) are still fine and serve their purpose, but big changes need to be made to other parts. Termite tunnels in the bottom don’t make for a solid foundation, so what no longer works needs to be unscrewed, cut away and abandoned in the same way that ideas we once thought marvellous for the novel don’t always work when the characters start to think for themselves. 
 
In place of the ruined wood, a new plank (story thread or idea) has to be sourced, bought, cut to size, sanded down, painted with primer, and left to dry. All new story threads need time to mature and develop before they can be woven into the existing plotlines of the novel. 
 
In order to accommodate the new part, the old bookcase has to be sanded down, have all its joints checked for more insect holes, and rusty screws need to be replaced. Old holes once taped up and glossily painted over (plot holes that I may once have tried to hide) must now be undone and repaired. That original plywood backing that I thought I needed can be jettisoned and the shelves can be left open to allow the books to breathe, in the same way that leaving out a non-essential element of the book allows the characters to stand in sharper relief, on their own, and don’t need me to labour a point.

When both parts of the bookcase are ready, holes have to be measured and drilled in the new plank, in exactly the right place to ensure a proper fit. There is only one chance to get this right so, on my story outline, I highlight all the new pieces and work out exactly where each new bit has to slot in, before I adapt the existing text forever and write the new pieces into it. Very carefully, the new plank is inserted as seamlessly as possible into the original piece.

Huge sigh of relief, but the work doesn’t stop there. In fact it’s only just beginning. Once holes and joins are sealed up, the completed piece needs to be re-painted. It’s very tempting to rush ahead with both the painting and the writing before the holes are sealed up, but time and care taken now will be time saved later. 

The bookcase needs an undercoat before the colour, even a second undercoating two days after the first if the old colour or ugly pink primer is still showing through. Two thin coats are always better than one thick one, in the same way that two careful edits of anything you have written will yield better results than one heavy-handed one. 

After each coat has had sufficient time to dry, a light sanding is needed to pare down the rough bits (edit out the glitches) that crept unseen into the previous coating of paint. Test the sanded surface by running your hand over it to feel for uneven textures, in the same way as you need to read your novel aloud to hear what works and what sounds awkward. 
 
Paint manufacturers warn that each coat must be allowed time to dry, especially in adverse weather conditions. Read their instructions properly, and stick to what they say. They have written them to help you, because they know their product better than you do. In the same way, you need to read as many books on writing as you can find, before attempting to join the ranks of published writers already out there. 

Like coats of paint, you cannot write one draft straight after the other – it needs time to cure, to settle down and solidify. You also need time to forget how brilliant you thought you were when you wrote it; time for your brain to forget what you were trying to say, and instead be able to see with fresh eyes what you actually did write. And then you need to re-write it. At any point, feel free to call in other writers, painters or carpenters to give
your work the once-over and point out where you need to fix things.

Be sure that the undercoat is ready before the first coat of colour goes on. I once made the mistake of painting a door before the undercoat had dried properly. The entire thing blistered and had to be re-sanded back down to the undercoat, and the whole process done all over again, this time with a second day in between each coating. It takes monumental patience to watch paint dry; it can’t be rushed, and it’s no good stabbing at messy bits with a paintbrush in the hope of covering them up. It doesn’t work. Be honest and don’t angrily flog recalcitrant bits of plot until they’re dead or no longer recognisable, just because you’re keen to finish writing the novel.

The first coat of colour needs to be followed two days later by a second, but don’t forget another light sanding in between, or that second coat will never be as smooth as you’d like it to be. There is always time for another light sanding, just as there is always time for more detailed editing. Once you're satisfied with the colour, your bookcase will be finished, but wait until you're absolutely sure that the final coat has solidified properly before you pile on the weight of the books. 

Your novel needs to be as perfect as you're capable of getting it before you attempt to send it to prospective agents or publishers, and if you're self-publishing it, then it needs to be even more perfect, so give it yet another edit before you cast your darlings to the wolves.

Good luck with all those books, and watch out for the termites!