And here it comes, pals, the end of our beautiful friendship. What I've just told you is okay for antiques as such. It's known by any dealer worth a light, and by most collectors with any sense.
But nobody knows it like forgers do.
You reach antiques by standing on piles of money. So my mind went: One, I have no antiques of my own.
Two, I need money.
Three, I therefore need to sell antiques, but I've got none.
Four, I therefore need to sell some things that resemble antiques but which aren't the real thing. Hey ho.
CHAPTER XIV
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BEFORE I GO ON, don't knock forgery. It's a respectable trade and has done a lot of good for mankind. Anyway, what's wrong with a good honest forgery? People only hate the idea because it means they can't afford to be lazy when buying.
Michelangelo started out as the most expert forger of the Renaissance, copying an ancient sketch so well even his teacher Ghirlandaio was misled, mainly because Michelangelo had cleverly aged it. And even then he didn't own up, only being caught out by being overheard bragging about it in the boozer. And he went from strength to strength. It's a sobering thought that he would never have got himself launched, had it not been for his famous Sleeping Cupid forgery - he buried the statue where it would be found, and saw it actually sold to the famous collector Cardinal Riario. He'd the sense to include a 'straightener' (a give-away) so he could claim his just deserts later on.
So, folks, an expert may do the actual forging, but it's us that make it something it never was in the first place.
Ever since I can remember I've been making. As a kid I'd only to hear how William Blake revived and modified Castiglione's monotype engraving for me to go thieving copper sheet and working dementedly till all hours to see how it could have been done.
It might sound odd behaviour, but it's taught me more about antiques than any other experience - and I include reading. I've tried everything: casting bronzes, silver-smithing, hammering coins, early 'chemical' photogravure, wood-block printing, making flintlocks, copying early German clocks, making parchment like St Cuthbert's monks in his Lindisfarne outfit, ironwork, Chinese glazes, making chain armour, anything.
I often think of Faberge, that great (permit me to repeat that, folks: great) designer. He didn't actually make his brilliant masterpieces: that beavering was all done by subterranean troglodytic minions in his workshop such as Durofeev, the self-taught mechanic of St Petersburg who made the fabulous gold peacock which still trots out of Faberge's exquisite rock crystal Easter egg he gave to the Czar. When the new bureaucracy poured into his Moscow business at the Revolution's takeover, Faberge simply begged leave to be allowed to don his coat and hat and politely faded out of this modern era. The coming of the Admin. Man was just too much. Understandable, perhaps. My reaction's different. I fight. The opponent is barbarism.
Being an antiques man and not having much else to fight with, I fight with antiques.
And now I had a fight on my hands.
I explained to Janie I had work to do.
'More of that mysterious business in the cottage you won't let me see?' she complained.
'That's it.'
'If I find it turns out to be a secret cupboard containing a dumb blonde, Lovejoy -'
'Very funny,' I got back, not wanting her to think of hiding places. 'Your husband's back today anyhow. Time for your homework.'
'There's an alternative course of action.' Janie never smiles in this sort of conversation.
'Tell any dealers you see I'm still contagious and they're not to call.' I pushed her out. I could tell that pleased her. She didn't even say 'Including Margaret?' which I expected.
'Phone me,' she said.
'Yes,' I promised. She'd written the best times down in case some stray serf picked up the blower and summoned her better half to take me to task. I stood at the door watching her drive off in the Lagonda. Like a mobile Stately Home.
My workshop's only a shed. As much as possible I like the scene to be set correctly. No electricity. No gas. No lasers or power drills, just candles and an oil lamp. I have one wooden bench, a marble slab for special work and an old dental drill, foot-pedalled to a horizontal spindle for grinding and polishing. At the back of the garage there's a small brick kiln I've built and some leather foot-bellows I made. That's really it.
The law on forgery's a bit funny, as on everything else. Anyone's allowed to make likenesses without infringing copyright law. But if you pass one off as somebody else's work for gain, the magistrates get cross and you're for it. So, sign any fake you've made with your own name, however skilfully hidden, and you're in the clear. I decided that Beck was the mark. For him I decided to make a special effort. I would skate very close to the edge. Beck unsuspectingly would provide the money. I would knowingly provide the forgeries, and I'd stay legal.
I'd already tried copying Roman and Egyptian glass. One heats the glass - pick modern glass tubing because it's so easy to melt and get going. The idea is to get a blob of glass on the blowpipe, fairly centrally. Then push it into a mould you've made ready, of earthenware, sand or whatever. Blow like hell and keep the pressure up until you're practically on your knees. Then simply cut the glass off with big shears. Whatever impressions or patterns you've made to decorate the mould's inner surface, that's the pattern you'll have on your little glass bottle. Okay?
Well, no, not really. The weight and density of the glass will give you away - ancient glass seems so light. And the colours (green, yellowish, blue). So add some colour from mineral compounds when the glass is in the molten state. Trial and error's the only thing here, I'm afraid.
It took me a day to make three. One was a bowl, another a small jug and the last a small bottle. I did one extra by the lost-sand process because it was probably the first-ever of all processes mankind found. My own
