Could the National Gallery’s most prized Rubens artwork be a forgery? Unraveling the mystery of the missing foot.

Upon entering Room 15 of London’s National Gallery, visitors are captivated by the painting in the background. Samson — a massive, bare-chested figure of muscle — rests exhausted on Delilah’s lap. Her bare breasts are exposed. An accomplice of the beautiful Philistine cuts the Israelite giant’s hair with scissors, stripping him of his strength.

Samson and Delilah — painted between 1609 and 1610 — is one of the 30 masterpieces in the National Gallery’s permanent collection attributed to the Flemish Baroque master Peter Paul Rubens. The controversy surrounding the work’s authorship — a debate that has persisted for nearly 40 years — is one of the most intense and aggressive in the art world.

“It was the first time I saw it: it was 1987, at the National Gallery. In an instant, I realized it wasn’t a Rubens. It was a cheap copy, similar to those you see displayed on Sundays along Bayswater Road, [where painters hang their works on the fence surrounding London’s Hyde Park],” explains painter and art historian Euphrosyne Doxiadis in a phone call with Adolfo Kunjuk News from Athens.

Doxiadis has dedicated half her life to disproving the painting’s authorship. She leads an international group of art critics. Her decades of research have been published in a book titled NG6461: The Fake Rubens (referring to the work’s catalog number at the National Gallery). Released this past March, it has reignited the battle between the art historian and the London museum.

To fully grasp this story, it’s crucial to reconstruct the facts, closely examine the painting’s brushstrokes, travel back in time, and — above all — approach with a necessary dose of skepticism towards the certainties and theories defended by both sides of the debate.

Rubens painted Samson and Delilah at the beginning of his mature period in the early 17th century. He had just returned from a long trip to Italy, where he studied the Renaissance masters such as Michelangelo and Leonardo. But, more significantly, he was inspired by a transgressive and revolutionary artist known for his powerful use of light and brushstrokes: Caravaggio.

It’s quite possible that the work was commissioned by his friend and mentor, Nicolaas Rockox (1560-1640). At that time, the mayor of Antwerp, Rockox’s house is now a museum. While the painting’s existence is not disputed, it went missing after Rockox’s death in 1640, along with many other famous pieces.

For over two centuries, the only two pieces of evidence supporting the painting’s existence were indirect. The first is a painting titled Supper at the House of Nicolaas Rockox (1630-35), which belongs to a genre called “wonder-rooms,” highly sought after by private collectors looking to showcase their accumulated wealth through artwork that serves as inventories. In this case, the key detail is that in the center of the room — among other reproductions — Rubens’s Samson and Delilah can be seen.

The second piece of evidence is a 1613 engraving of the painting made by Jacob Matham, a Dutch master printer. It was likely commissioned by Mayor Rockox himself.

The painting’s reappearance

Samson and Delilah didn’t reappear until 1929 in Paris. It was then that a Rubens expert — the German art historian Ludwig Burchard — confirmed its authorship. This was a historic discovery in the art world. The issue, however, was that after the aforementioned expert’s death in 1960, it was revealed that he had authenticated several fake Rubens to enrich himself.

In 1980, the National Gallery used its funds to acquire the work at a Christie’s auction, paying £2.5 million (equivalent to almost £11 million today, around $15 million). At that time, it was a record sale, though today it seems trivial. Since then, the museum has been unable to shake the curse surrounding the painting.

Let’s begin with the revealing details that — according to the accusers — suggest that the work is a forgery. The first, and perhaps most striking and easily convincing to a layperson, is Samson’s foot. In the painting displayed at the National Gallery, the frame cuts off the toes from the giant’s right foot. This resembles amateur photos where the framing is incorrect and a hand or foot is similarly cropped.

In both Matham’s engraving and Francken’s canvas, the foot appears complete. Drawing or painting hands and feet is incredibly challenging, yet Rubens excelled in these details, even dedicating a work to the subject titled Study of Feet. Therefore, it’s peculiar that he would choose to obscure the toes, disturbing the composition’s balance despite his skill.

Other clues exist. In the upper left corner of the painting, for instance, there is a statue of Venus and Cupid. The brushstrokes appear rough, poorly defined, in a gray tone.

“Rubens even wrote a book in Latin where he explained his entire theory on how to paint statues: De Imitatione Statuarum,” Euphrosyne Doxiadis, the Greek art historian, explains. “And he always used ochre and earth tones, never black and white.”

In the background of the painting, on the right — similar to Velázquez’s Las Meninas (1656) — there’s a door. Five figures observe the scene. One of them gazes directly at the viewer, as if seeking complicity. In Matham’s engraving or in Francken’s painting, only three figures appear. This discrepancy would further support Doxiadis’s theory regarding the painting’s authorship. To her, it’s clearly a copy.

According to the Greek art historian, the painting originated from a group of disciples gathered in Madrid in the early 20th century, around the Post-Impressionist painter Joaquín Sorolla. Copying the classics was a common practice for training. Rubens, due to his mastery, was a favorite among students. Doxiadis believes the copy was likely created by Gaston Lévy, a collector and curator who spent his later years in New York, after studying under the Spanish painter.

To ensure the copy isn’t meant to deceive, the unwritten rule in the art world is to include some subtle differences from the original that reveal the imitation. For example, a severed foot or a knowing face looking at the viewer.

“We discovered Lévy’s name among Burchard’s notes [the German expert who confirmed the work’s authenticity in 1929] in 2000, within the National Gallery’s documents. ‘Purchased in Paris from the restorer Gaston Lévy,’ he wrote by hand,” Doxiadis details.

Moreover, the art historian asserts that the piece exhibited at the National Gallery isn’t an oil on oak — like the historical original — but rather a canvas glued to a board, later reinforced with another wooden board. She claims museum officials have refused to employ technology to refute her assertion.

The National Gallery’s battle

The museum has invested years of effort by its experts to confirm the authorship of its flagship painting and to silence what it considers baseless conspiracy theories. The National Gallery recently published a comprehensive report authored by three scholars, led by Gregory Martin, one of the world’s foremost experts on Rubens.

“This extensive study, conducted by our curatorial and scientific teams using the latest imaging and analytical techniques, provides compelling evidence supporting the painting’s authorship. It ensures transparency surrounding our research process and meaningfully contributes to the broader field of art-historical scholarship,” museum director Gabriele Finaldi stated in The Guardian a few weeks ago. The British newspaper has also reported on the controversy.

While representatives of the National Gallery declined to comment to Adolfo Kunjuk News, they sent the experts’ technical report to this correspondent.

Many specialists and critics support the British art gallery, defending Rubens’ authorship. In the art world — when evidence isn’t entirely conclusive — intuition, knowledge, and imagination come to the forefront. Here, a painter previously mentioned resurfaces: Caravaggio. Perhaps he is the final piece in understanding a painting that — due to its lines, use of chiaroscuro, and execution — doesn’t seem to be by Rubens.

“Even when he’s imitating Caravaggio, Rubens can’t help but be himself. The light is his; the candle glow is buttery and warm, akin to a pancake in an Antwerp kitchen. This combination of southern sensuality and northern homeliness is another trait of Rubens,” art critic Jonathan Jones writes in The Guardian.

“The oddity of this painting that irritates some viewers — its blend of Caravaggio-ism and Rubens’s own carnal abandon — serves as a clue to its authenticity. What copyist would have been so subtle as to recreate this moment when Rubens confronts Caravaggio — especially in the early 20th century when Caravaggio was not as highly regarded as he is today?”

Truth, like beauty, belongs to the eye of the beholder. And Samson and Delilah — much like numerous other paintings — is forever condemned to be an act of faith for its admirers and an affront to its critics.

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