His career brought him millions upon millions of dollars and lasted almost 40 years. He finally admitted to painting fraudulent art after the white paint he used came under scrutiny. 

“ Bob Simon: What do you think this Max Ernst would be worth? Wolfgang Beltracchi: This one? Simon: Yeah. Beltracchi: $5 million, I think. Simon: $5 million.  And you can do it in three days? Beltracchi: Yeah, oh yes, yes, sure, or quicker” -From a 60 minutes interview with Bob Simon

In The interview with Beltracchi, he said that none of his forgeries are copies, they’re all original works that the famous artists could have painted.

“Beltracchi estimates he has done 25 Max Ernsts. He is not copying an existing work. He’s painting something he thinks Ernst might have done if he’d had the time or felt like it.”  -  The Con Artist: A multi-million dollar art scam

His wife was also in on the scam, she would dress up in old clothing and take pictures holding the paintings with old cameras to fake proof of the paintings’ ages.

Keating painted more than 2,000 forgeries by over 100 different artists in his sixty-six years. Many had fraudulently sold at auctions with the total profits estimated at over 10 million dollars. “I flooded the market with the work of Palmer and many others,” the artist said. “Not for gain (I hope I am no materialist) but simply as a protest against the merchants who make capital out of those I am proud to call my brother artists, both living and dead. It seemed disgraceful to me how many of them had died in poverty,” he defended in The Fake’s Progress, his autobiography. “All their lives they had been exploited by unscrupulous dealers and then, as if to dishonor their memory, these same dealers continued to exploit them in death.” […] Keating had a great respect and understanding of all the artists he imitated but was always reckless in his handling of the materials. He often used house paint and poster paint to mix in with his acrylics as a cheaper way to achieve the impasto works. At times he wouldn’t bother preparing his antique canvases he found at the junk shops out of laziness, so that in just a few years the paint would peel right off to reveal what was originally underneath. Keating often planted what he called “time bombs” like this in his paintings. Because of his understanding of the chemicals used in art restoration, Keating would purposely paint with layers of glycerin, which would destroy the painting once it was cleaned by a restorer, proving it was a fake. He often wrote obscenities under his paintings, like “Bollocks!”, in lead white so that it could be seen by the experts who x-rayed the painting to check its authenticity.

which he had in fact delegated to distribution.

which he had in fact delegated to elmroot to distribute.

fukami had thrown himself away into his art, locking himself into his canvas room and letting the faint white of candelight seep out from beneath the crack of the heavy wooden door. focus would assist in muffling the sound of trampling feet and an endless belt of knocks, but dawn finally breaks unto a new day, and with it fukami, creaking open the door and looking as if he hadn't slept a minute, (or, on the contrary, had been sleeping for thousands of years...) not all too hoarsely begs to question:

' are they gone now? ' grant him mercy and relief. ' is it finally over, elmroot? '

How times could change, bringing with them what he secretly called vulgar customs! A horde of crudely dressed-up children, begging (threatening) at every door was not high on the list of practices he appreciated observing. Back in his day, they had dances, rituals and, if the celebration included specific food to be served, people kindly waited for it instead of… whatever that was. He would never get used to these nightly invasions and, for the entire night, wished it to be an ephemeral fad.

Now, if the one and only man in charge of managing the entire household – a lanky boy proudly approaching 15 with a severe tendency for self-ostracisation – hadn't explicitly told him, and him in particular, to manage the masses, he would have happily locked the main door for the night and collapsed where he could have been deaf to this profane world.

Instead, he had had to suffer the ordeal of intimidating children all night long in his darkest, longest cloak; switching roles and tones at will in a constant search for the most frightening effect, all this with treats at hand.

Thankfully, every bad time eventually comes to an end and, when the merciful little master appeared to enquire about the state of their sweet supplies, Elm Root had to conceal a hint of tired satisfaction.