Counterfeit

The Artistry of Replicas and Shams

Fake news is typically perceived through the lens of digital tech, a contemporary phenomenon where misinformation spreads rapidly across social media and news outlets. However, the roots of deceptive narratives and fraudulent representations stretch deep into history, bringing to light a longstanding human propensity to manipulate information.

Throughout the ages, societies have grappled with the impact of misinformation, whether it was through politically motivated propaganda, journalistic sensationalism , or even the creation of counterfeit art. For instance, during the Roman Empire, emperors would broadcast false narratives to bolster their power or distract the populace from political turmoil. The infamous “Acta Diurna,” an early form of a public gazette, served as a tool for the state to shape public perceptions and control the narrative surrounding political events.

Historical precedents illustrate that the manipulation of information and artefacts is not only a modern concern; it has been a strategic element of governance and societal control for centuries. The motives underpinning such endeavours are as varied as they are complex—ranging from political gain, economic advantage, to the simple desire for recognition or revenge.

In the realm of art, the creation of forgeries has similarly permeated history. The allure of replicating masterpieces, whether for financial gain or social status, has driven artists and con artists alike to produce works that deceive collectors and critics. The infamous case of the “Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist” in 1990, where valuable paintings were stolen, underscores the lengths to which individuals will go, both to create and to acquire art that may not be what it seems. The existence of counterfeit artworks raises questions about authenticity and value, prompting us to consider how our perceptions are shaped by context and belief.

In 1993, an unexpected revelation emerged for Austrian pianist Paul Badura-Skoda when he received a photocopy of a manuscript claiming to be six lost keyboard sonatas by Haydn. The manuscript arrived accompanied by a letter from a relatively unknown flautist named Winfried Michel, who claimed it had come into his possession through an elderly lady whose identity he could not disclose.

Though initially skeptical, Badura-Skoda's doubts faded once he began to play the music, leading him to believe in its authenticity. He enlisted the help of his wife, Eva, a musicologist, to analyze the manuscript. While the handwriting was not Haydn’s, she posited that it might be an authentic copyist's score from around 1805, likely originating in Italy. They sought the opinion of renowned Haydn scholar H.C. Robbins Landon, who also found the work compelling enough to write an article for BBC Music Magazine, proclaiming it the “Haydn Scoop of the Century.” He even alerted The Times and called a press conference for December 14, 1993.

However, the elation was short-lived. Within hours, the Joseph Haydn Institute in Cologne denounced the manuscript as a forgery, a verdict supported by an expert from Sotheby’s in London. The Badura-Skodas had seemingly been duped. In February of the following year, Eva presented a talk in California titled “The Haydn Sonatas: A Clever Forgery,” while Paul performed selections of the works, grappling with a tumult of confusion over their authenticity. Eva confided to music scholar Michael Beckerman, reporting for The New York Times, “My husband still thinks they’re genuine,” raising profound questions about truth and artistic integrity. What was Paul truly believing he was playing? What did the audience perceive? And, ultimately, did it matter?

Beckerman noted that knowing a piece is by Haydn or Mozart allows listeners to recognize “inevitable” connections within the music. Yet when authorship is uncertain, interpreting the musical images becomes a complex challenge. He observed that it was the manuscript's inauthenticity that exposed Michel’s deceit rather than the fidelity of the music itself. This led Beckerman to provocatively ask, “If someone can write pieces that can be mistaken for Haydn, what is so special about Haydn?”

When reflecting on the story of the lost Haydn sonatas, Beckerman believes it compels us to question our knowledge: “How do we come to know it? And then how do we express it to others, especially those who might not agree with us?” He argues that such forgeries urge us to continually interrogate our assumptions and not to feign certainty about what we do not truly understand.

What constitutes a fact? Consider the case of the well-known Adagio in G Minor, often attributed to the Italian Baroque composer Tomaso Albinoni, yet elaborated upon by musicologist Remo Giazotto. Giazotto claimed to have completed the piece in the late 1940s from a fragment of Albinoni’s music—a bassline and two short melodies. However, Albinoni expert Michael Talbot points out that Giazotto never satisfactorily explained the source of this fragment, leading Talbot to conclude, “It’s an original composition.”

Ricordi, the Milan-based music publisher, first published the Adagio in 1958. When I inquired why they still credit Albinoni when the connection remains unproven, they did not respond. The challenge for any investigator probing the origins of the Adagio in G Minor is that its association with Albinoni cannot be definitively disproven. Unlike the Haydn sonatas, there is no original manuscript to contest, only circumstantial evidence suggesting that it may never have existed.

Giazotto passed away in 1998 without admitting to his alleged deception. After the Haydn manuscript was dismissed, Michel referred to the sonatas as “completions,” without clarifying his statement. It was not until 2022, three years after Paul Badura-Skoda’s death, that Michel finally revealed to a newspaper in Münster that he had composed the works himself, inspired by genuine opening bars that had survived in a catalogue of Haydn’s compositions. This revelation illustrates how a kernel of truth can sow the seeds of an elaborate fiction.

Similarly, the case of Joyce Hatto, an English pianist who experienced a late-career surge in the early 2000s, highlights the intersection of art and deception. While battling cancer, her husband, record producer William Barrington-Coupe, released over 100 CDs of other pianists’ performances as her own, fooling critics. Had Hatto not had a legitimate career from the 1950s to the 1970s, the ruse would have lacked credibility. She died in 2006, a year before the truth emerged, leaving behind obituaries that bewilderingly blended fact with fiction.

These musical hoaxes compel us to examine not only authenticity and our methods of knowing but also the very definitions we assign to terms. In 2014, the ostensibly deaf composer Mamoru Samuragochi shocked Japan by confessing to having used a ghostwriter for the eighteen years during which he gained fame for writing video game scores and classical music, including a symphony dedicated to the victims of the Hiroshima bombing—his own hometown. Ironically, he was not, in fact, legally deaf. His ghostwriter, Takashi Niigaki, worked within Samuragochi’s guidelines.

This situation raises profound questions: How do we define a composer in this context? Who is the true artist? Christopher Beam, writing for The New Republic, noted the irony: “It was as if Samuragochi had the temperament of an artist but lacked the tools to create art. The closest he came to a masterpiece was the performance itself: the mass duping of a nation that exposed its dreams and vulnerabilities.”

In his 2013 book Forged: Why Fakes are the Great Art of Our Age, Jonathon Keats argues, “Art forgery provokes anxiety.” While he refers specifically to fine art, this sentiment resonates in the realm of music as well. “Because art is a rare refuge from the mass-produced inauthenticity of the industrialized world, we are hypersensitive to any threat to its authenticity.” He further claims that “no authentic modern masterpiece is as provocative as a great forgery. Forgers are the foremost artists of our age.”

If that is the case, then surely Large Language Models like ChatGPT and Claude are the pinnacle of the forgers’ profession? If nothing else they raise some basic questions about originality and intellectual property. AI systems analyze vast datasets of existing music to generate new compositions, blurring the line between inspiration and imitation. Concerns about plagiarism arise when AI produces works that closely resemble copyrighted pieces, prompting debates about ownership and the rights of original creators.

Yet all forgers, including digital agents, serve as cautionary figures. They dismantle established narratives and challenge the foundations of long-held belief systems that shouldn’t be taken for granted. Within the con lies both artistry and a warning, prompting us to reconsider our understanding of truth and authenticity.