The forger who fooled göring: The incredible story of han van meegeren
Imagine Amsterdam in May 1945. The Allies have just liberated the Netherlands, and among the wooden crates stacked in a city warehouse, one canvas catches the experts’ attention. Christ and the Adulteress, attributed to Vermeer, bears the stamp of Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring. Yet something feels
By Artedusa
••8 min read
The forger who fooled Göring: the incredible story of Han van Meegeren
Imagine Amsterdam in May 1945. The Allies have just liberated the Netherlands, and among the wooden crates stacked in a city warehouse, one canvas catches the experts’ attention. Christ and the Adulteress, attributed to Vermeer, bears the stamp of Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring. Yet something feels off. The colours seem too vivid, the figures’ gestures too theatrical. A few weeks later, a man confesses the unthinkable: this painting, like six others supposedly by the master of Delft, is a fake. And not just any fake—a fake painted by a failed artist, a man who for years had deceived the world’s greatest experts… and humiliated the Third Reich.
Han van Meegeren was no ordinary criminal. This mediocre painter, despised by critics, turned his frustration into an act of artistic vengeance of staggering audacity. With brushes and Bakelite, he wrote one of the greatest hoaxes of the 20th century, a swindle that would shake the very foundations of art history. His story is that of a man who, out of spite, succeeded where geniuses had failed: he made the impossible believable.
The cursed painter who became a genius in spite of himself
When Han van Meegeren first exhibited his work in 1917, the critics were merciless. "A mediocre talent," wrote one. "A pasticheur without originality," added another. Yet the 28-year-old believed in his destiny. Born into a bourgeois family in Deventer, he had studied architecture before turning to painting, influenced by the Dutch masters of the 17th century. But the art world of the 1920s had no use for such nostalgics. Modernism reigned, and van Meegeren, with his conventional portraits and biblical scenes, embodied everything the avant-garde despised.
His resentment grew. In 1923, he moved to Roquebrune on the Côte d’Azur, where he painted Mediterranean landscapes and portraits of wealthy expatriates. It was there, in that sun-drenched white villa, that he began studying the techniques of the old masters. He bought 17th-century canvases, scraped them down to reuse the supports, and mixed his own pigments. One day, while examining an old painting, an idea took root: what if he created a lost Vermeer?
The idea wasn’t entirely far-fetched. Johannes Vermeer, who died in 1675, had left only about thirty authenticated works. Experts knew he must have painted many more, lost to the twists of history. In the 1920s and 1930s, several "new" Vermeers surfaced, sparking collectors’ excitement. Van Meegeren observed, studied, and bided his time. He knew the market was ripe for a sensational discovery.
The Supper at Emmaus: when the fake became more real than life
In 1937, van Meegeren completed his first major forgery: The Supper at Emmaus. The painting depicted the moment when the resurrected Christ reveals himself to two disciples in an inn. The composition drew directly from The Milkmaid and Girl with a Pearl Earring, but with a touch of baroque drama that was pure van Meegeren.
To give his painting the appearance of a 17th-century masterpiece, he employed techniques worthy of an alchemist. He mixed his pigments with Bakelite, a synthetic resin invented in 1907, then baked the canvas in an oven to harden the paint and create a network of artificial cracks. He signed the work with a shaky "IV Meer," mimicking Vermeer’s handwriting, and aged the signature with tea. Finally, he applied a layer of yellowed varnish to simulate a century-old painting.
The result was astonishing. When The Supper at Emmaus was presented at the Boijmans Museum in Rotterdam, the greatest Vermeer expert, Abraham Bredius, was enraptured. In an article published in The Burlington Magazine, he wrote: "It is a wonderful Vermeer, of breathtaking beauty. I do not hesitate to call it the greatest Vermeer I have ever seen." The painting was purchased for the astronomical sum of 520,000 guilders—equivalent to several million euros today.
Van Meegeren savoured his victory. Not only had he fooled the experts, but he had also proved that his talent was equal to that of the modernists he loathed. Yet one question nagged at him: what if he could go further? What if he could humiliate those who had scorned him?
The man who sold fakes to the Nazis
When German troops invaded the Netherlands in May 1940, van Meegeren saw an opportunity. The Nazis, and Hermann Göring in particular, were avid collectors. The Reichsmarschall, second only to Hitler, amassed masterpieces with the hunger of a predator. He had already plundered hundreds of paintings across Europe, and his dream was to own a Vermeer.
Van Meegeren, who needed money to fund his lavish lifestyle, got to work. In 1941, he painted Christ and the Adulteress, a darker, more dramatic work than The Supper at Emmaus. He sold it to an intermediary, Alois Miedl, who offered it to Göring. The Reichsmarschall, overjoyed, bought it for 1.6 million guilders—a fortune. In the following months, van Meegeren sold him three more "Vermeers" and a "Pieter de Hooch."
Yet behind this apparent collaboration, van Meegeren harboured a secret hope. What if, by selling fakes to the Nazis, he could make them look foolish? After the war, he would claim he had acted out of patriotism, to prevent the Germans from seizing real national treasures. Historians remain sceptical. What is certain is that Göring suspected nothing. When he discovered Christ and the Adulteress in his collection, he was ecstatic. "At last, a real Vermeer!" he exclaimed.
The trial that shook the art world
In May 1945, when the Allies found Christ and the Adulteress among the works looted by Göring, van Meegeren was arrested. Accused of collaborating with the enemy, he faced the death penalty. But the artist had an ace up his sleeve: he confessed everything.
"It’s not a Vermeer—it’s me who painted it," he told the stunned investigators. To prove his claim, he offered to paint a new "Vermeer" under supervision. Taken to a cell equipped with an easel, he set to work. For two days, under the incredulous gaze of the guards, he painted Jesus Among the Doctors, finishing it in record time.
The trial that followed in 1947 was a bombshell. For the first time, the world learned the full extent of the deception. The experts, humiliated, had to admit they had been wrong. Abraham Bredius, who had authenticated The Supper at Emmaus, refused to testify. Van Meegeren, meanwhile, played the hero. "I tricked the Nazis, I saved works of art," he declared. The public, charmed by this rebel who had dared to defy the powerful, took his side.
In the end, he was sentenced to a year in prison for forgery but died of a heart attack before serving his time. He was 58.
The recipe for a perfect fake
How did van Meegeren manage to fool the greatest experts of his time? The answer lies in a combination of technical genius and psychology.
First, he chose the right artist. Vermeer, with his rare and mysterious oeuvre, was the perfect target. Then, he studied every detail: the pigments Vermeer used (ultramarine blue, lead-tin yellow), his way of rendering light, his geometric compositions. But his masterstroke was inventing a technique to artificially age his canvases.
By mixing Bakelite into his paints and then baking them, he created cracks indistinguishable from those of an old painting. He also used 17th-century canvases, scraping them down to erase the original paint, and aged his signatures with tea and smoke. Finally, he played on the experts’ egos. By presenting his fakes as revolutionary discoveries, he exploited their desire to believe in the impossible.
Yet despite his skill, his paintings sometimes betrayed their origins. The colours were often too bright, the figures’ gestures too theatrical. Vermeer, after all, painted scenes of almost supernatural serenity. Van Meegeren, on the other hand, couldn’t help but overdo it.
The fake that became a work of art
Today, van Meegeren’s forgeries are displayed in museums—not as Vermeers, but as works in their own right. The Supper at Emmaus holds pride of place at the Boijmans Museum in Rotterdam, presented as a "van Meegeren." Visitors come not to admire a 17th-century masterpiece, but the work of a master forger.
This posthumous recognition raises a fascinating question: can a fake be a work of art? For some, van Meegeren was merely a con artist. For others, he was a misunderstood artist whose paintings, though deceptive, possess their own beauty. After all, if his fakes had been presented as homages to Vermeer rather than as originals, who knows? He might be celebrated today as a master of pastiche.
Whatever the case, his story serves as a warning. It reminds us that art is not just a matter of talent, but also of trust, desire, and sometimes, deception. Van Meegeren proved that with enough audacity, one could rewrite history—at least for a time.
The legacy of a brilliant swindler
More than seventy years after his death, Han van Meegeren continues to captivate. His story has inspired books, films, and television series. It has also forever changed how experts authenticate works of art.
Today, no museum acquires a painting without subjecting it to a battery of scientific tests: X-rays, pigment analysis, carbon-14 dating. Experts know the human eye can be deceived, and that even the greatest masters can be imitated.
Yet despite these precautions, fakes still circulate. In 2011, the German forger Wolfgang Beltracchi was convicted for selling hundreds of fakes, including "Max Ernsts" and "Fernand Légers." Like van Meegeren, he had studied the techniques of the old masters and exploited the art market’s vulnerabilities.
Van Meegeren’s story, then, is more than just a curious anecdote. It is a mirror held up to the art world, a world where the value of a work often depends less on its beauty than on its story. And sometimes, as in the case of this brilliant forger, it is the lie that becomes the most beautiful truth.
The forger who fooled göring: The incredible story of han van meegeren | Art History
