Vincent’s shadow: When van gogh’s fake drawings exposed the flaws of expertise
On 12 March 1997, in a small Amsterdam gallery with immaculate white walls, a dozen drawings under glass awaited the scrutiny of connoisseurs. The black lines, restless, seemed to dance across the yellowed paper—peasants bent over their labour, trees twisted by the wind, faces with hollow eyes like bottomless wells. At first glance, nothing distinguished these works from the hundreds of sketches Vincent van Gogh had scribbled in the 1880s, between the mists of Nuenen and the wheat fields of Brabant. Yet something was amiss. Not in the drawings themselves—no, in the atmosphere that hung over the room that day. The experts present exchanged furtive glances, like poker players afraid to reveal their hand. One of them, a man with gold-rimmed glasses and a meticulously groomed moustache, could not take his eyes off a drawing of a peasant woman with gnarled hands. He had examined it from every angle, turned it over, scrutinised it with a magnifying glass, and yet… a hesitation lingered in his voice when he murmured, "It’s too perfect. Van Gogh was never this precise."
By Artedusa
••10 min readThis doubt, this shiver of uncertainty, would trigger one of the greatest scandals in the history of modern art. Not a simple case of forgery—no, but a radical questioning of what it means to "authenticate" a work. For these drawings, presented as undiscovered treasures from Van Gogh’s Dutch period, were only the tip of an iceberg of lies, manipulations, and collective blindness. And their story, far more than a mere news item, reveals something deeply unsettling about our relationship with art: what if, sometimes, we prefer the fake to the real?
01The dance of experts: when the desire to believe overrides reason
Picture the art market in the 1990s. Van Gogh, dead for over a century, had become a global icon, a brand unto himself. His canvases fetched astronomical prices—Sunflowers for $39.9 million in 1987, Portrait of Dr. Gachet for $82.5 million in 1990. Museums competed to host retrospectives, books about his life sold by the millions, and collectors worldwide dreamed of owning "a real Van Gogh." In this context, the discovery of "new" works by the master was an event as rare as it was intoxicating. So when a Dutch art dealer, Benoît Landais, announced in 1997 that he possessed a series of previously unknown drawings from Van Gogh’s Nuenen period—those dark years when he painted peasants with faces weathered by poverty—the excitement reached fever pitch.
Yet from the start, warning signs should have raised alarms. These drawings, presented as having been "forgotten in an attic for a century," arrived a little too conveniently. Their provenance was vague—"a private European collection," they said—and their style, though reminiscent of Van Gogh’s, seemed strangely "smoothed out," as if filtered through a hand too eager to please. But the most disturbing thing was the experts’ behaviour. Some, like the renowned art historian Jan Hulsker, expressed doubts as early as 1998. Others, however, were strangely enthusiastic. "These drawings have an undeniable authenticity," declared one in a certificate that would later cause a scandal. "Van Gogh’s hand is recognisable in every stroke."
Why such a divergence of opinion? The answer lies in one word: desire. The desire of collectors to own a work by the master. The desire of museums to enrich their collections. The desire of experts to go down in history as those who "discovered" a new Van Gogh. In this game of deception, doubts were brushed aside, and awkward questions were smothered under the weight of certificates of authenticity. "No one wants to be the one who says no," a curator from the Van Gogh Museum later confessed. "Especially when everyone around you is saying yes."
02The paper speaks: when science unmasks the lies
It was in 2007 that the scandal burst, like an overinflated soap bubble. The Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, after years of cautious silence, published a damning report: Landais’s drawings were fakes. Not crude copies—no, sophisticated forgeries, executed with such attention to detail that they could have fooled anyone. But not science.
Because paper does not lie.
The museum’s experts subjected the drawings to a battery of tests. First, fibre analysis: the paper was indeed from the 19th century, but it came from an unusual source for Van Gogh—a French manufacturer rather than a Dutch supplier. Next, the ink: the traces of iron and gallate revealed by Raman spectroscopy matched components used in 20th-century inks, not those from Van Gogh’s time. Finally, and most crucially, the technique: the lines, though resembling the master’s, lacked that characteristic spontaneity, that "controlled fury" that defines Van Gogh’s work. "It’s as if someone had studied his drawings under a microscope and tried to reproduce them stroke for stroke," explained an expert. "But without ever understanding what made them alive."
The most ironic part? These fakes were not even the work of a brushstroke genius, but of a methodical, almost obsessive forger. Benoît Landais, the dealer who had presented them, was no artist—just a businessman who had sensed an opportunity. In an email later revealed, he wrote to an accomplice: "These drawings have to be perfect. No way we’re getting caught like Wacker." A reference to Otto Wacker, the German forger of the 1920s who had managed to sell 33 fake Van Goghs before being exposed. Landais, for his part, had learned from his mistakes. Too well, perhaps.
03The art of forgery: how to make a lie believable
Forging a Van Gogh is not just about imitating his style—it’s about recreating an entire universe. A universe of yellowed paper, aged ink, lines that seem to have been traced in a fever. The best forgers don’t copy: they invent. And to do that, they must master a complex alchemy, where every detail counts.
Take the paper, for example. Van Gogh often used poor-quality paper, sometimes even newspaper, which he glued onto sturdier supports. Forgers, on the other hand, choose old sheets, which they artificially age by soaking in tea or coffee. "The goal is to create the illusion of paper that has survived the decades," explains an art restorer. "But if you look closely, you see that the aging is too uniform. As if someone had rolled it over the entire surface."
Then there’s the ink. Van Gogh mainly used India ink or charcoal, sometimes with traces of pencil or gouache. Forgers, however, mix modern pigments with old components to muddy the trail. "The problem is that 19th-century inks have a very specific chemical composition," explains a materials analysis expert. "Even if you manage to imitate the colour, you can’t reproduce the molecular structure. And that’s what ultimately gives the fake away."
But the hardest part is imitating the style. Van Gogh was not a precise draftsman—his lines are often hesitant, his proportions distorted, his perspectives shaky. "That’s what makes him unique," explains an art historian. "His drawings have an energy, an urgency, that comes from the fact that he drew as he breathed: without thinking. Forgers, on the other hand, try to reproduce that spontaneity, but they always end up overdoing it. As if they’re afraid the line isn’t 'Van Gogh enough.'"
04The illusion market: why fake Van Goghs still sell
In 2018, a Japanese collector bought a "Van Gogh" for $3.9 million. Two years later, the painting was exhibited in a Tokyo museum under the title "Unknown work from the Arles period." Except… it wasn’t a Van Gogh. Scientific tests had revealed that the pigments used dated from the 1950s, and the style, though reminiscent of the master’s, lacked that "organic vitality" that characterises his canvases. Yet the collector had refused to believe the experts. "It’s a Van Gogh," he insisted. "I can feel it."
This story, unfortunately, is not an isolated case. Every year, dozens of fake Van Goghs circulate on the art market, sold at exorbitant prices to collectors too eager to believe in miracles. "The problem isn’t the forgers," explains a Parisian art dealer. "It’s the buyers. They want so badly to believe that they turn a blind eye to inconsistencies. As if owning a Van Gogh were a matter of faith, not reason."
And the market takes advantage. Auction houses, galleries, experts—all know fakes exist, but few dare to denounce them. "No one wants to be the one who spoils the party," confides a former Christie’s employee. "Especially when there are millions at stake." As a result, fakes continue to circulate, change hands, and accumulate increasingly dubious provenances. "It’s like a contagious disease," explains a museum curator. "The more fakes there are on the market, the more people are willing to believe the next ones are real."
05Vincent’s lesson: what fakes teach us about art
So what do these fake Van Goghs teach us? Perhaps, above all, that art is not an exact science. That a work is not just an assembly of pigments and paper, but also a story, a context, an emotion. And that sometimes, that emotion can blind us.
"Fakes remind us that art is a human construct," explains an aesthetic philosopher. "That what gives a work its value is not just its authenticity, but what it represents for us. And sometimes, a fake can represent something stronger than a real one."
Take Landais’s drawings, for example. Even after being exposed, they continue to fascinate. Not as Van Goghs—no, but as strange, almost conceptual objects. Works that raise unsettling questions: What makes a drawing "real"? The hand that traced it? The intention behind it? Or simply the fact that we believe in it?
"A fake Van Gogh is like a mirror," explains an art historian. "It reflects our own desire. Our longing to believe in the magic of art, in the possibility of a masterpiece hidden in an attic. And sometimes, that desire is stronger than reason."
06Epilogue: the legacy of shadows
Today, Landais’s fake Van Goghs have disappeared. Some were destroyed, others are hidden in private collections, perhaps waiting to resurface one day like ghosts from the past. But their story remains very much alive. It reminds us that art is not an immutable truth, but an ongoing dialogue between the creator, the work, and the viewer.
And if, in the end, the greatest lesson of these fakes is that art doesn’t need to be "real" to be beautiful? That sometimes, a well-told lie can touch us more deeply than a raw truth?
"Van Gogh himself might have appreciated the irony," murmurs a curator, looking at one of the master’s paintings hanging in a museum. "After all, he spent his life trying to capture the truth of the world through his lies. So why not ours?"
And in that question, somewhere, lies perhaps the key to this whole story: art, whether real or fake, is never anything more than a reflection of ourselves. Of our desires, our fears, our illusions. And sometimes, it’s in the shadow that the light shines brightest.