Unveiling the Truth: Is the National Gallery’s Alleged ‘Fake’ Rubens Actually Genuine?

Samson, a colossal figure of strength, sleeps peacefully in Delilah’s lap within a richly decorated room illuminated by candlelight. As he rests, Delilah gazes upon him while an accomplice quietly snips away at his entwined locks, the source of his immense power. Outside the chamber, soldiers linger, bathed in the glow of their torches. Central to the scene is the sight of Samson’s robust, bare back pressed against the soft pink silk of Delilah’s gown.

Could this be a creation of the renowned Flemish Baroque painter Peter Paul Rubens? Absolutely. It’s astonishing that there’s any debate about its origin. Yet, there are those who contest its authenticity. Michael Daley, leading the group ArtWatch UK, along with art historian Euphrosyne Doxiadis and others, are making waves with their assertion that the National Gallery is displaying a “fraudulent” or “modern imitation” of the work and is hiding this fact.

Their perspective seems to diverge from mine regarding the painting I am familiar with. In an article for UnHerd, Doxiadis shares her prolonged effort to challenge the painting’s attribution to Rubens, stating that from her first viewing at the National Gallery in the 1980s, she dismissed it as a “poorly made object, lacking the genius of my beloved European artist.”

Everyone has their own preferences, but to me, the description as a poorly made object doesn’t fit. Samson and Delilah is displayed among other Rubens masterpieces and holds its own magnificently – it dominates the space, draws the viewer in, and rewards those who look closely and repeatedly. I revisited it just last week, as I have many times over the years, always discovering something new.

This beautiful artwork has puzzled many since the National Gallery acquired it in 1980 because it doesn’t fit the typical Rubens mold. Missing are the swirling fabrics, fiery backdrops, and lavish brushwork. However, there’s a good reason it looks different: it represents Rubens’s fervent attempt to emulate another.

When Rubens painted Samson and Delilah around 1609-10, he had just returned to Antwerp, Belgium, after an extended eight-year stint in Italy. His prolonged stay, common among northern European artists at the tail end of the Renaissance, included studying the works of past masters like Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Titian, but also an intense focus on a contemporary, Caravaggio, whose pieces were prominent in Rome and Florence.

Although Rubens and Caravaggio never met – Caravaggio fled after a fatal altercation in 1606 – Rubens became an outspoken advocate for him. After Caravaggio’s controversial The Death of the Virgin was rejected by a Roman church, Rubens convinced the Duke of Mantua to purchase it. Later, this controversial piece made its way to Britain with Charles I’s collection and subsequently to France after Charles’s execution. Rubens even incorporated elements of Caravaggio’s Medusa in his works, including in the depiction on Athena’s shield in the National Gallery’s Judgement of Paris.

Samson and Delilah is perhaps Rubens’s most elaborate tribute to Caravaggio, capturing the renegade artist’s dramatic lighting, tactile shocks, and even his meticulous, creamy brushwork, resulting in a smoother, more uniform surface than Rubens’s later, more expressive canvases. The soldiers by the door, the old woman with the candle, the act of cutting the hair – all are vividly reminiscent of Caravaggio, though Caravaggio typically opted to depict decapitation.

Rubens’s attention to the detailed musculature of the male back echoes Caravaggio’s style, as well as Rubens’s own erotic drawings of male nudes and classical statues. Yet, it is quintessentially Rubens to juxtapose this intense portrayal of masculinity with the delicate, almost tender depiction of Delilah’s femininity, highlighted by the linen that accentuates her form. This transcends mere voyeurism. Delilah is one of many formidable female figures featured in Rubens’s body of work – a recurring theme that further attests to his authorship.

Even in his emulation of Caravaggio, Rubens’s unique touch is unmistakable: the lighting is distinctly his, with a warm, buttery glow reminiscent of a pancake in an Antwerp kitchen. This blend of southern allure and northern coziness is a hallmark of Rubens.

The unusual elements of this painting that frustrate some – its blend of Caravaggio’s influence and Rubens’s own sensuous flair – actually support its authenticity. What imitator would have the finesse to capture this nuanced moment of Rubens channeling Caravaggio, especially during the earlier 20th century when Caravaggio’s reputation was not as esteemed? The timeframe for such a forgery is implausibly narrow, situated between the 1950s, when Caravaggio’s acclaim began to resurge, and 1980, when the National Gallery purchased the painting.

I’ve often criticized the National Gallery, but it does not participate in cover-ups. In 2010, it hosted an exhibition acknowledging the “fakes” within its collection. These details are also noted on labels in its rehang; for instance, the label for Giorgione’s The Sunset discloses that Saint George and the dragon were later additions. There is no such confession regarding the Rubens because there is nothing to confess.

Is Samson and Delilah a “poorly made object” that a 20th-century forger could have hastily constructed? Absolutely not. It is a compelling, alluring masterpiece that showcases the power of desire, with Rubens masterfully assimilating and yet distinctly individualizing Caravaggio’s vision.