Adventures of Tintin in Zaventem.
Once auctions disguised forgeries as originals; now they market them as forgeries.
Adventures of Tintin in Zaventem
Recent sales organized by Stanley’s auction house, located in Zaventem on the outskirts of Brussels, have drawn considerable attention to what was previously a virtually unknown Belgian enterprise. Judging by its website, Stanley’s—alongside the typical small-house auctions of “everything”—appears to have genuine expertise in three areas: comics, African and Congolese art, and militaria. Two of these fields are, so to speak, site-specific and entirely logical within the context of the Belgian auction market.
Source: stanleysauction.com
However recently the auction house based in Zaventem organized two sales widening the boundaries of its traditional activities and going out of the scoop of its specialization. If Stanley’s plans to continue such activities it will have no shortages of material to sell for the foreseeable future. If numerous small auction houses—operating under the buccaneer motto “sold as is” (as the fine print dutifully notes) and disclaiming responsibility for attribution or condition—peddle rough forgeries of the so-called “Russian avant-garde” across Europe and North America, Stanley’s distinguishes itself by proudly offering highly questionable works in its online auctions, even as it acknowledges that the signatures on the canvases are most likely misleading.
The works “in the style of Russian school” (no difference what it supposed to mean) as the auction house tenderly described them have an impressive pedigree. All of them according to Stanley’s are coming from the “collection” of Igor Toporovsky, whose criminal case will be heard in the court of Ghent in the beginning of May. (See my previous post Art for the Blind: Toporovsky Returns. The Questions Remain.)
The ethical side of the experiment of Stanley’s and French auction platform Drouot, which collaborated with the Belgian auction house in the second sale, was already discussed in press:
https://www.e-flux.com/notes/6783486/open-letter-on-auction-of-tributes-to-the-russian-avant-garde
https://www.theartjournal.com/articles/auction-houses-under-fire-selling-works-linked-to-scandal
Of course, any adventure—even in Zaventem—benefits from a carefully maintained fog of mystery. No one except Stanley’s, dutifully invoking client confidentiality, appears to know who consigned the two sales. It would be surprising if it were Toporovsky himself, who is preparing to persuade the court that the works he exhibited at the Museum of Fine Arts (MSK) in Ghent were not forgeries—despite an inconvenient accumulation of evidence and technical analyses to the contrary. Liquidating an unsold stock of such works in so conspicuous and almost programmatic a fashion would seem a bold strategy, even for a seasoned gambler of the kind currently on trial. One is therefore left to wonder who decided to part with a hundred paintings discreetly described as being “in the style of the Russian school.”
Art for the Blind (Again!)
But let us turn to the objects themselves, setting aside riddles unlikely to be resolved. Stanley’s offers a notably poetic description of the canvases:
“Through the interplay of influences, filiations and reinterpretations, these works are a reminder of the extent to which the constructivist language of line, tension, geometry and formal utopia has inspired multiple generations of artists, far beyond its original context. Between homage and questioning, this collection bears witness to a fascinating dialogue between myth, history and creation.”
In reality, this “fascinating dialogue” is largely confined to the uninspired handiwork of garden-variety forgers—works not even remotely eligible for a Han van Meegeren Fake of the Year Award. It is, indeed, art for the blind. One does not need pigment analysis or carbon dating to reach that conclusion; nor is it necessary to examine the canvases in person. A reasonably sized image suffices. The bustards of “formal utopia” offered by Stanley’s conform, point by point, to the well-established chapters of the Sloppy Forger’s Manual—an evolving compendium I have had occasion to document year after year.
Never Fake Paintings Published on Book Covers!
This is a basic rule—one that any self-respecting forger ought to observe. Unfortunately, it is frequently ignored. Clumsy twins of well-known artworks inevitably invite scrutiny and, worse still, provoke awkward questions about provenance. It is a beginner’s mistake, and an unnecessary one at that. Please, don’t do it. Please.
On the left, the cover of Art of the Avant-Garde in Russia: Selections from the George Costakis Collection, catalogue of the exhibition held at the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York, October 16, 1981 – January 3, 1982, and subsequently elsewhere (New York: Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, 1981). On the right, Ilya Grigorevich Chashnik (1902–1929), after: Untitled, geometric composition with black square on red circle, monogrammed lower left, oil on wood, 64.5 × 62 cm (Lot 32), Stanley’s sale Tributes to the Russian Avant-Garde & Constructivists I, December 16, 2025.
On the left, the cover of Vasilii Ralitin, Nikolai Mikhailovich Suetin (Moscow: RA, 1998). On the right, Nikolai Mikhaylovich Suetin (1897–1954), after: Untitled, geometric composition, oil on panel, signed lower left, 46 × 46 cm (Lot 10), Stanley’s–Drouot sale Tributes to the Russian Avant-Garde & Constructivists II, April 23, 2026.
The desire of the author of this “after Suetin” composition to enliven—or perhaps improve upon—the original is understandable. Yet forgery, at least in its more accomplished forms, differs conceptually from a child’s coloring book.
Never use old Russian orthography without mastering its elementary rules.
A burning passion for “authentic” historical detail has led many contemporary forgers straight into the devil’s domain—where, as we know, he resides in precisely such details. For reasons best known to themselves, numerous apprentices of falsification delight in sprinkling their works with words and phrases in pre-Revolutionary Russian orthography, dutifully inserting archaic letters long abolished after the Bolshevik coup, as if a few exotic characters might confer instant credibility.
A perfect example of such clumsy attempt to incorporate historical facts into the sloppily constructed forged art work is a canvas “after” Ivan Puni Untitled, composition with violins and letters.
Jean POUGNY (Ivan Puni) (1892-1956), after: Untitled, composition with violins and letters. Signed upper left. Oil on canvas, lined and mounted on panel. 59 x 90.5 cm. (Lot 12), Stanley’s sale Tributes to the Russian Avant-Garde & Constructivists I, December 16, 2025.
The canvas depicting three violin bodies also features letters forming the name Yuliy Zimmerman and the number 19. The name is not an obscure one. Yuliy Zimmerman was a prominent German-Russian manufacturer of musical instruments. During the notorious anti-German pogrom in Moscow at the outbreak of the Great War, a patriotic mob expressed its zeal by throwing pianos from the fourth floor of Zimmerman’s flagship store on Kuznetsky Most in Moscow. In 1919, the Zimmerman factory was nationalized.
Why the author of this pastiche chose to resurrect the name of a respected instrument make, perhaps to suggest that the fate of his products might have inspired Ivan Puni, remains open to speculation. Yet even if one assumes a particular fondness for Zimmerman’s violins, one would expect the painter to know how to spell the name correctly. On the canvas it appears as “Юлий”; according to pre-revolutionary orthography, however, it should read “Юлiй”, not “И,” but “I.”
Advertising of the Zimmerman instruments, 1905.
Fragment of the painting.
This is not an isolated instance of illiteracy on the part of Toporovsky’s suppliers. Another example is a painting attributed to Olga Rozanova and exhibited at the ill-fated show at MSK Ghent was discussed in the post, The Daily Fake No. 1.
Never fake a fake!
On Spring Fever
Keeping in mind the limited art-historical training of the average forger, this is easier said than done. The second sale of Toporovsky’s “treasures” proved particularly rich in attempts to imitate a refined fake from the past. As we now like to say, everything used to be better—America, Europe, airlines, services, and even forgeries.
In this case, the source of inspiration was a painting once attributed to Vladimir Tatlin, The Month of May, dated 1916. The panel, held by the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin since 1977, was widely reproduced appearing even on book covers and became a familiar presence in exhibitions of modernist art, from the Museum Tinguely in Basel to MoMA in New York.
Previously attributed to Vladimir Tatlin. The Month of May. 1916. Tempera, oil, and gouache on wood, 96.5 × 86 × 12 cm. Neue Nationalgalerie, Berlin.
A few years ago, as a result of the scrupulous research of Emily Joyce Evans, the attribution of this panel was called into question. The work once regarded as a major piece within Tatlin’s oeuvre was subsequently removed from display and consigned to storage.
Neue Nationalgalerie collection entry:
https://smb.museum-digital.de/object/273638
Evans identified a contradiction that might have alerted art historians earlier:
“A similarly geometric structure appears in Vladimir Tatlin’s Staro-Basmannaya (1913–1919; Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow). Despite their apparent compositional affinity, the works differ significantly: in Staro-Basmannaya, a pronounced sense of depth gives the image an almost relief-like quality, whereas in Composition—first documented as a work by Tatlin only in 1977, when it was exhibited and sold—no depth beyond the picture plane is suggested.”
On the left: Vladimir Tatlin, Staro-Basmannaya, 1916. Gesso, tempera, and bronze on wood. State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.
On the right: previously attributed to Vladimir Tatlin, The Month of May, 1916. Neue Nationalgalerie, Berlin.
That the all-encompassing flatness of the Berlin panel passed for so long without serious objection is, in itself, remarkable. One can only speculate that the widely used title of the Tretyakov work—Board No. 1 (Staro-Basmannaya)—encouraged forgers to supply the market with a missing “Board No. 2,” regardless of how far removed it was from the spirit of Tatlin’s formal experiments of the period.
The familiar notion that everything was better in the past—even forgeries—finds an unexpected confirmation here. Two “variations” based on the Berlin panel, were offered for sale by Stanley’s. Both reveal the complete inability of contemporary daubers to produce even a competent second-degree forgery or a fake of a fake.
On the left: previously attributed to Vladimir Tatlin, The Month of May, 1916. Neue Nationalgalerie.
In the center: Wladimir Tatlin (1885–1953), after. Untitled geometric composition with the inscription “BECHA” (the Russian word for “spring”) and Cyrillic letters; oil on panel, signed lower left, 74 × 63 cm (Lot 26). Stanley’s–Drouot sale, Tributes to the Russian Avant-Garde & Constructivists II, April 23, 2026.
On the right: Vladimir Tatlin (1885–1953), after. Untitled geometric composition with the inscription “BECHA”; oil on panel, signed lower right, 70 × 50 cm (Lot 9). Same sale.
Looking at these creations—passed off as works by Tatlin—one begins to suspect that the artist was thoroughly inspired by the spring of 1916, perhaps even intending to paint the entire calendar of that year. Within such an imaginary project, a composition titled April would serve as a perfect pendant to the Berlin Month of May.
As in the previously discussed case of the composition “after Nikolai Suetin,” the true author of the painting titled Spring appears eager to assist the master liberating him from his austere, near-monochrome palette and enriching it with charming accents of bright blue and green. A signature is thoughtfully added in the lower right corner, despite the fact that Tatlin did not sign works from this period. In the halcyon days of Russian avant-garde forgery, such a misstep would have been unthinkable.
The Tributes to the Russian Avant-Garde & Constructivists sale also offers an opportunity to return to the beginning of the story. Among the Tatlin “oeuvres” assembled on Toporovsky’s conveyor belt is a “tribute” to the aforementioned Staro-Basmannaya, which likely served as the original inspiration for The Month of May. Unlike the earlier, more sophisticated Berlin fake, this version is a dull copy, with only minimal creative reworking.
On the left Vladimir Tatlin, Staro-Basmannaya, 1916. State Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow.On the right Vladimir TATLIN (1885-1953), after Untitled, geometric composition and Cyrillic text, oil on canvas, signed lower right, 101 x 51.5 cm. (Lot 15). Stanley’s–Drouot sale Tributes to the Russian Avant-Garde & Constructivists II, April 23, 2026.
Leaving aside striking disrespect of a forger to Vladimir Tatlin, who according to his believe was practically repeating his geometric composition supplying them with different inscriptions, let see what is written on the Toporovsky’s version. Instead of Staro-Basmannaya (the name of the street were Tatlin lived in Moscow) we can read the mysterious inscription Futuro- “Magazin”. In this case the faker decided to impress us by his historical knowledge. In 1916 Tatlin organized an exhibition in Moscow which took part in the rented shop at 17 Petrovka street. The location is explaining the name - “magazin” in Russian means shop.
Futurist exhibition “Magazin”. 1916. The first page of the catalogue.
However, the exhibition organized by Vladimir Tatlin was not titled Futur “Magazine”, but rather the Futurist exhibition “Magazin.” The abbreviated form “Futur” in connection with this event was never used—neither by Tatlin himself, nor by other participants, nor by contemporary critics.
Why, then, Tatlin would have inscribed a painting with this shortened title remains a mystery. The suggestion that the artist intended it for reproduction on a catalogue cover is unconvincing: the catalogue had no cover at all. Moreover, Tatlin exhibited only reliefs at the show—no paintings whatsoever.
Another “devil’s mark” is the signature in the lower right corner—an almost inevitable sign of the faker’s illiteracy.
Rabbis and Pets
In 1962, the National Gallery of Scotland acquired Rabbi with Cat (1912) by Natalia Goncharova using funds provided by two anonymous donors. The scene—an elderly rabbi stroking a cat, figures in the background carrying sacks, and the hand of God emerging in the upper left—presents an unusual combination of Jewish subject matter and the visual language of Russian icon painting. This striking synthesis has yet to receive a fully convincing interpretation.
Natalia Goncharova. Rabbi with Cat. Circa 1912. Oil on canvas, 100.20 x 92.00 cm. National Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh.
However the adventures of the pet loving rabbi didn’t finish in the rainy Scotland. In 2007 the same rabbi inclined in the opposite direction and keeping in his hands no cat but rooster appeared in Munich.
Cover of the second catalogue of the Russian sale at the Hampel auction house, Munich, 2007.
The painting Rabbi with Chicken, attributed to Natalia Goncharova, was certified among others by the notorious Denise Bazetoux, author of the first volume of Goncharova’s catalogue raisonné (a second volume never materialized), a publication that provoked an international scandal. It was also endorsed by the equally controversial Anthony Parton, who has liberally authenticated dozens of questionable works attributed to Goncharova.
The rabbi’s interest in a rooster (for it is clearly a rooster, not a chicken, that appears in the Munich painting) is, in fact, more readily comprehensible than his affection for a feline companion. One can easily imagine the scene: on the eve of Yom Kippur, the rabbi performs the ritual of kapparot, swinging the unfortunate bird three times above his head in a circular motion.
This preference for roosters far more plausible within the framework of Jewish tradition than a fondness for cats was duly adopted by the workers of Toporovsky’s “factory of art for the blind,” albeit only at the level of iconographic type.
On the left: Natalia Goncharova, Rabbi with Cat, c. 1912. National Gallery of Scotland, Edinburgh.
In the center: attributed to Goncharova, Rabbi with Chicken, undated. Oil on canvas, 71 × 53 cm. Hampel auction house, Munich.
On the right: Natalia Goncharova (1881–1962), after. Untitled composition of a man with a rooster. Signed lower left. Oil on canvas, 108 × 76 cm (Lot 27). Stanley’s sale, Tributes to the Russian Avant-Garde & Constructivists I, December 16, 2025.
However, while the iconography of Toporovsky’s rabbi may have been drawn from Munich, the rooster appears to have travelled much farther, arriving, as it were, from Yerevan. The bird was borrowed from Goncharova’s Boy with a Chicken (1900-1913), now in the collection of the National Gallery of Armenia.
On the left: Natalia Goncharova. Boy with Rooster. 1900-1913. Oil on canvas, National Gallery of Armenia, Erevan. On the right: Natalia Goncharova, after. Untitled, composition of a man with a rooster. Stanley’s sale Tributes to the Russian Avant-Garde & Constructivists I, December 16, 2025.
Of course the chicken (or rooster) is secondary for our story, because in the beginning was the egg. We will return to it in the next segment of our Toporovsky series.
The example could be multiplied but for now we are leaving the horror show in Zaventem, tortured by the unanswered question could the legacy of Russian Avant-Garde and Constructivists survive such profound tributes.