#forgers

File Under: Forgers

h/t: @beautifulscreaminglady

Wow. The eighties were wild, huh?

When I read In Vino Duplicitas, I was baffled by how much all those rich wine snobs cared about their fake wine, and I asked myself a lot of big questions about crime, art, truth, and what any of it meant. And I was very curious what would I would learn when I read a book about regular art forgery instead. Would my views change? Would I start to understand what the wine snobs were onto and why forgery is so terrible, or would I have to revisit my own feelings about the importance of art itself?

Then I read Con/Artist, and it answered none of those questions, because nobody in this book has ever asked those questions, because nobody in this book gives a shit about anything but money and blow.

I'm not even kidding. Basically, young Tony Tetro (who likes to remind us, repeatedly, that if he had wanted to he could have become a professional pool shark) discovers that he loves painting, but that he cannot make instant money from his own paintings. Not having a romantic bone in his body, he does not for an instant consider the path of the starving artist, and moves straight on to finding out how he CAN make instant money from painting. The answer: Forgery.

The thing is, though, that he very rarely actually fools the gallery owners and dealers that he sells to. Instead, they repeatedly see right through him and -- decide they don't care. They want to make money too, so they put him to work, and make huge profits off of it while, according to Tetro, cheating him because of course he can't take them to court for paying him less than he thinks he's worth. But he still makes boatloads of money and buys fancy cars and does lots of cocaine. It's the eighties, and everybody is making money, and nobody cares how they're doing it.

Eventually he gets caught, and he feels really bad about it. About getting caught and losing his money and his cars, I mean. Obviously. Then he spends a couple chapters talking about how much the other guys in jail loved him and about the great times he had teaching underprivileged youth to paint as part of his community services sentence. And then he's done with that and gets rich people to pay him for custom pieces that they know are fake but hey, they're good, and they're cheaper than real ones, so what the hell.

Basically, this book has no moral center at all. And just to be clear: That is not a criticism of the book. In fact, it made for a fascinating snapshot of the 80s high art world. I also really enjoyed parts about how he actually made the forgeries, from research at the public library to hunting down supplies in antique shops in Italy to basically inventing new printing methods with a couple guys at the printshop down the road.

Unfortunately, Mr. Tetro is a lot more concerned with telling us about how cool he is than anything else, so the interesting parts are very overshadowed by the stories about hot girls and cool cars. Ultimately, the author is too full of himself to write a good book about himself.

Template from @littleguysdaily

File Under: Forgers

I saw one review that labeled this "A Wine Thriller," so let's get one thing straight off the bat: This is not a thriller. This book is boring. Though, to be fair, it's not that it's dry (ha! that's a wine pun!). It's just that there's too much of it. It just really should have been an article; there isn't really enough to the narrative itself to justify making a whole book out of it.

But, at the same time, this book has probably sparked more discussion in the Slabdash household than anything else I've reviewed. It has some really great passages describing the point of view of the victims of the scam and what it is that they say is so terrible about the particular crime of wine forgery. And the author makes no secret about being a connoisseur and wine reviewer himself, so he's setting this all forth as a more or less true believer in the art of wine. And then he sets all of this against the story itself: A story of a man who forges the world's most expensive wines by mixing lesser wines together to get something that tastes sometimes exactly like the supposedly rare and unique vintage he's mimicking -- and who then sells these forgeries to the kind of people who can drop hundreds of thousands of dollars on something they'll either blow at one tasting with their millionaire friends or stick in a cellar to be proud of and never do anybody any good. And so, he somewhat unintentionally turns it into a fantastic ethical and aesthetic question:

Who the hell cares?

What is the crime, really? What makes the wine unique, what are the buyers truly paying for and what is he truly cheating them out of? And if you think you've answered that question to your satisfaction, next ask yourself (or your family members at dinner): Would you feel different if it was a piece of visual art he was forging?

I haven't even come up with hard answers to these questions myself, I don't know that they need to have hard answers, they're more of fascinating thought experiments that gradually circle around and try to pin down what I really think about the value of art, and of what counts as crime, and why, and what the appropriate response is. You can go so many directions from there.

Also, for full disclosure I should probably acknowledge that my palate is that of a chicken nuggets and mac n cheese autistic, and even when I drank, all I could tell you about a wine was whether it was white (yummy) or red (yucky). Which adds another layer to my personal reflection: Would I be less critical about this if this were an art form I was at all capable of understanding?

If you're intrigued, maybe what you should do is start with Patrick Radden Keefe's article on the Jefferson Bottles, which is a) shorter, and b) conveniently linked for free right here. If you like that enough to want more on the subject, then maybe check this book out from the library and promise yourself that it is okay to skim over the boring narrative parts with all the lists of vintages and prices and auction dates, and focus on the themes and the big question of what it means and whether it matters at all.

Template from @littleguysdaily

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The forges burned.

Hot and molten, rimmed with fire and artistry. 

Vourger was better than most forgers on leaving their dens. Leaving the well of sparks, while not unlidded and unprotected, but without himself to watch over them. He however trusted the forgers he left behind him and the gates, with something greater than his own spark, those of the unborn.

His work was his soul, the sparks were his duty, the armor he forged from the sparks that called, where his bones. So as the forges and its heat left him, he allowed his optics to trace the other half of his work.

Beyond the heavy gates and passageways was the other side of the coin, the Born.

They parted ways for him as he strode, broad shoulders back and finned helm high with pride. Armor blackened and scorched from his art, the Forger walked through the halls of the pits. Some gladiators lowered their optics ever so slightly, flickering over him but not baring their well sculpted fangs in challenge. 

Respect, not timid but not jaw breaking, sat within the set of their shoulders and eyes. Unlike the handlers who hardly gained the respect of the gladiators, Vourger had earned it before they were even forged. Some of his own creations glanced up at him as he passed, he knew every part of them well enough to recognise them even if they themselves did not move to greet him.

Gladiators knew the faces of their makers as much as any other mech would, the first face to greet them in their lives. The one who honed them as they grew, designed every upgrade and frame piece to make them perfect. Prideful creatures at heart they couldn't help but hold a glimmer of respect for the very mech who created them, gave them some sort of ground for their magnificence and brutality.

Vourger did not smile or wave to his mechs, though he did look them over. Molten optics ticking across their slick frames and bright colors, none of his models clashing or too delicate. They were fighters, not servants. But beauty was still there, what forger could give a gladiator an ugly frame to debut in? To stride and puff up their wiles and teeth in.

Vourger’s mechs were notably sturdy, his style of simple shapes hiding well thought out structures within. He gave them the best he could, every frame his pride and heart. He drew every upgrade and planned every detail for them, so they could thrive. 

Strength in every joint, armor configurations slick but still functional enough for their sport. He knew where the plating should thin and where it should deepen. An art of measurements and calculations to make his gladiator's movements smooth and deadly.

When the sparks are done with their initial forging he allowed himself a few days with the sparklings, checking every node and circuit for discomfort or flaw. The Born would have a datapad of sketches and notes dedicated to them, from the moment they open their eyes he knows vaguely how they will look once they reach the arena and begin their purpose. Their adult faces in his sketches long ago.

Delighting crowds and detailing deaths.

Vourger in his smaller less titan like build, watched his younger mechs softly nod or ignore him completely. Gladiators once allowed to fight and gain the love of the crowds chose one of the two reactions to him, as it should be.

The eldest of his creations seemed more inclined to nod, firmly safe in the pecking order of the pitborn and unafraid to acknowledge their forger for fear of wounded pride.

Vourger knew all their old quirks and childish ways, some had been brutal thrill seeking sparklings. Climbing him when he had visited and perching on his shoulders to claim they were kings, others were of a quieter sort.

But not many.

Vourger felt a warmth throb in his heavily plated chest at the sight of his creation who fit such a description. Midnight and fast, brutal and belly ripping. But also sly, it quirked his lips at the view of Dropmix perched on a high wall. Watching and face passive.

As a child the mech had been sleepy and grumpy, curled in the forger’s lap demanding attention and a place to rest. He of course still did bite and scratch, climb his maker and demand the others look at his accomplishment. But those yellow eyes were deeper than just the pride, he had the makings of a smart mech. Subtle ways of gaining attention from the forger when he had slipped in amongst his sparklings to sketch and check on them. 

Then Dropmix would be blunt, crawling over his forger’s knees and letting out a soft noise. Bright optics glittering with a craving for attention, those oversized claws batting at Vourger’s illuminated sensors. Those bright giggles when the forger would flare his canal lights and allow the bright golden glow to melt and wash over his creations. The other children took it as a challenge, some chasing the lights. Dropmix  had watched for a moment before heading for the source of the glow. Pawing at Vourger’s chest and standing, glaring at the canal under his smaller hand. 

“I want it.” Small voice firm and demanding, clawing digging deep. 

“You do have it.” Vourger knew he was too fond of the mechlet, of those snappy optics and harsh shoves. He would admit it to very few, he loved all his children. But Dropmix was a child who held his spark in a way most could not.

The child had growled and shoved his claws deep then, in response Vourger had snatched him by the neck and pinned him with a large hand. Blunt fingers pressed into the child’s neck, and started to gently tap.

Vourger now looked over his creation for a moment, that slow pride welling up in his chest. He cradled the feeling for a moment, before walking again. Dropmix glanced up from his perch watching the forger continue past him, those two pairs of golden eyes met for a moment.

The exchange of glances was not tender, neither mech was in the position to feel such things, Dropmix still in the age where his maker was seen as embarrassing and a reminder of his sparklinghood. A time of fumbling and a flesh ripping craving for love and attention. 

He had the crowd now, the screaming of the stadium and the adoration of the few with their rounded armor. Dropmix did however meet the gaze, and couldn’t help the old warmth the forger’s molten optics gave him.