Bad company and bad faith...

On the subject of liars, a subject near and dear to my heart of late, I've been reading two new books about forgers. One forged paintings and the other forged lit'ry correspondence. The painting fraud, Han van Meegeren, operated during WWII, and cranked out fake Vermeers. I remember my 19th C. art history professor talking about him, and remarking on what an crappy painter he was. Today, my prof said, Han van Meegeren wouldn't have a prayer, because the viewing public is simply too familiar with what a Vermeer actually looks like.

This innaresting factoid has come about because of modern color printing, movies, and blockbuster exhibits, which are recent phenomena. As late as the 19th c., seeing a real chunk of art was generally impossible; there were no art museums, so art lovers glommed what they could on the academy viewing days. In the 1960's, I can remember buying an art history book for the unprecedented amount of $10. Until that time, art books mostly reproduced work in black and white, because color printing was terrible to begin with and, anyhow, ordinary people could never afford a volume with color plates.

Movies, like Girl With A Pearl Earring and the endless Van Gogh dramas, popularized art and artists, while the museum jumbo-exhibit concept got going in the 70's when Hoving ran the Metropolitan. One of the reasons Han van Meegeren picked Vermeer is because he's been the platinum standard for collectors. There are almost no Vermeers in existence and the prices for his work have always been stratospheric. So, with Vermeer, our grifter got big bucks and an ignorant public, both necessary when you're pulling the long con. Eventually he was caught but avoided prison, and died from his life-long alcoholism.

The lit'ry fraud, Lee Israel, was a respectable-enuff writer of popular biographies until she fell on hard times and gin. Waking up one day, surrounded by flies, bags of garbage, and no working utilities, she forged some Fanny Brice letters and discovered her true franchise. With a collection of antique typewriters, she cranked out innumerable fake letters and signatures of celebrities of all stripes. Later, just before the FBI came knock-knocking on her door, she started visiting collections of rare books and papers, substituting her cat-bird versions for the real thing. Looking back on her criminal past, she writes, "I betrayed some people whom I had grown to like. With whom I'd made jokes and broke bread. And in doing so I joined, to my dismay, the great global souk, a marketplace of bad company and bad faith."

This, to my mind, is an excellent reason to avoid lies and bad acts. It puts you into play with dull, untrustworthy creeps, who gobble up your time and patience. And then, there is the matter of self-betrayal: the debasement of a talent, whatever its size.

Afterwards, predictable as the paper boy, a bill for your scam will come due.

And it's always an interest bearing account.