A document that had once been hailed as a medieval treasure shedding light upon globalization’s long history is unmasked by X-ray light. X-ray fluorescence spectroscopy determined the elemental composition of the ink to be a match to Norwegian ink produced in 1923-a far cry from 1247, the date given to the collection the map was presented within. The artifact provided “proof” that the Vikings had visited North America before Christopher Columbus, supposedly setting up surveying shop on “Vinlandia Insula” and producing a remarkably accurate geographic account of Greenland and surrounding landmasses. Paul Mellon gifted Yale University with the parchment map in the early 1960s, and Yale unveiled it with pomp and circumstance in 1965. Yale historians and scientists have used X-ray fluorescence spectroscopy to ferret out a forged 15 th-century map of Vinland. Light has been instrumental in revealing other Delilah-esque cons of the art and historical artifact world. I count my many blessings-at least I consented to my last haircut. But no, I am Samson, taken in by Delilah. Here I was, thinking I was in the light and in the know. The tell? Samson’s cropped toes, which appear in full in two 17 th-century copies Frans Francken the Younger’s Supper at the House of Burgomaster Rockox has Samson out cold on Delilah’s lap, all five dactyls on display atop the textile detailing I had so admired-so loved-in Room 18 of the National Gallery. has proven Samson and Delilah to be, most likely, a fake. At the end of September, I learned that a series of tests using a “convolutional neural network” powered by A.I. Samson, the victim of a forged love I pitied Samson for falling for it. The Philistines wait in the doorway to take away the once-great warrior. The scene is half in the light, half in the dark. I found myself in reverie over Samson and Delilah’s intricate textile detailing in the lower right-hand corner and the graceful lilt of Delilah’s machinating hand atop Samson’s shoulder. The Judgement of Paris, Three Female Witnesses, The Miraculous Draught of Fishes, The Birth of Venus-I was tickled pink (a Rubenesque effect, if ever there was one) to be in the presence of real art, direct-it seemed-from Rubens’s brush to my eye. I once spent a happy afternoon at the National Gallery in London, losing my cool and track of time amidst sensual lines and mythologic women. I’m a fan of Peter Paul Rubens: his high drama, the fleshy rose of female cheeks and statuesque curves, vermilion fabrics and wine-colored tassels dripping from elaborate couches and mantles.
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