Makers' Marks

“Whistler’s butterfly,” a design by the 19th-century American artist James McNeill Whistler, consists of whimsical lines depicting antennae and cape-like wings.

It sounds like its own work of art, and it is. But more accurately, the motif is a beloved monogram that served as Whistler’s signature in many of his creations.

Similarly, Urs Graf, a Swiss Renaissance goldsmith, painter, and printmaker, used an encircled dagger as a signature (he was a mercenary soldier too). And German Renaissance artist Albrecht Dürer’s “AD” monogram was so coveted that it was often forged. (Dürer responded with a first-of-its-kind forgery lawsuit.)

Artists didn’t always sign their names plainly in the lower right-hand corner of their works, in other words, as many painters do. Nor were these signatures simply dramatic flourishes at the end of the laborious process of making art.

Artists’ signatures can be labors of love on their own. Sometimes they’re hidden like Easter eggs, and sometimes artists don’t sign their works at all. Often the signatures can tell us more about the artist, the time in which they lived, or whether an artwork was, in fact, “complete,” at least in the eyes of its creator.

Ancient artists: from invisible to prestigious

According to David Saunders, associate curator of antiquities, most ancient Mediterranean artworks that survive today are unsigned. A careful look, though, might reveal fingerprints or other marks of makers at work.

With the development of the Greek alphabet and the gradual spread of literacy, signatures began to appear from the end of the eighth century BCE. Examples can be found on a wide variety of objects—metalwork, vases, sculptures, lamps, gems, coins, and mosaics. Over time, individual achievement gained value, and works by particular artists became prestigious for both creators and collectors.

The ancient Greek potter Kleophrades sometimes signed his name with an added “son of Amasis.” Referring to one’s father was a typical way of expressing identity in ancient Greece, but here it might also convey something of Kleophrades’s expertise or experience, since Amasis was a potter too.

Across the ancient Mediterranean, there are examples of builders, sculptors, bronzeworkers, and other makers using symbols, markings, or letters to facilitate the process of construction.

In the Americas too, members of the Moche civilization in Peru (100–800 CE) left crosses and slashes on adobe bricks used in the construction of ritual buildings. “Sometimes that mark is like your Lego or IKEA instructions, but in other cases, it may be more a sense of artist identity,” Saunders says.

The Middle Ages: more is more

In illuminated manuscripts, scribes or owners often added signatures, rather than the artists. These inscriptions, called colophons (from Greek, “finishing touch”), appeared at the end of manuscripts after the text. Colophons might include details of the work, commemorations, or random remarks (a funny example: a comparison of regional beers). Elizabeth Morrison, senior curator of manuscripts, says that Armenian scribes in particular often included references to contemporary events, ranging from plagues and earthquakes to political intrigue and forced relocations.

The Italian maiolica painter Francesco Xanto Avelli loved writing sonnets. On his Plate with the Abduction of Helen, he signed his name in blue on the back, along with the date in Roman numerals and a verse describing the scene he depicted on the front.

Avelli wasn’t the only artist who wrote more than a signature. Pluto Abducting Proserpine, a bronze sculpture by François Girardon, contains an inscription identifying him as both the inventor and maker of the piece (“F. Girardon Inv[enit]. et F[ecit].”). Almost two centuries later, the 19th-century photographer Julia Margaret Cameron signed her name with an added “From life.” “Cameron wanted to show the distinction that her subject was real and that the work was made from nature, versus a sketch, painting, or drawing,” says Carolyn Peter, assistant curator of photographs.

Peter notes that many early photographs in the Getty’s collection often had engraved signatures instead of inked ones. And on an undated photo believed to be from 1852, an attached pink sheet of paper gives E.C. Black’s signature and descriptions of the sitter, such as height, hair and eye color, and jewelry.

Signatures as part of the composition

Peter is also eager to show off Man Ray’s Ostrich Egg with Stamp. She points out the subject’s ovoid form and the “7/50” stamp collaged onto the photograph. The number indicates the edition of the image, yet Peter believes it is just as much a part of the composition as its other elements, including Man Ray’s thickly scrawled signature.

Signatures as part of the composition were certainly trendy in 17th-century Dutch and Flemish paintings. Anne Woollett, curator of paintings, shares many examples of artists placing signatures in unexpected places: inside signposts, on footstools, and on stones, to name a few.

Woollett says that artists wanted their signatures to be seen, and sometimes even to be searched for. In A Ball Game Before a Country Palace, painter Adriaen van de Venne signed his name in the lower center, left of a white dog’s tail, in the dirt. “He could have put it anywhere,” Woollett says. “Next to the beautiful horse, near the lovers under the tree, with the flowers. I don’t think in this case he’s saying, ‘I’m dog poo,’ but in the Netherlands the humor was often scatological. Perhaps it’s meant to be playful.”

When Jan van Huysum painted Fruit Piece, a large still life of flowers and fruits, he “carved” his name and the date of the work (1722) into a marble shelf, directly underneath a bee. The placement was deliberate. “I think Van Huysum may have been suggesting a parallel between himself and the bee, which symbolized hard work,” Woollett says.

To sign or not to sign?

For some artists, signatures serve as a personal note indicating a work is complete and shouldn’t be developed any further. They can be an integral part of finishing a piece. That’s also why some works were not signed. Peter says that photographers might have made multiple “test” prints before getting to the one they liked best and chose to sign.

“In its early days, some people did not consider photography an art form in any way, shape, or form,” Peter says. “Photography was seen as a way to document or reproduce works of art, so photographers wouldn't, or weren't likely to, sign a print. But over time, some of these same images have taken on new meaning from owner to owner.”

A large number of works in the Getty Museum’s Department of Drawings are unsigned for similar reasons. Senior Curator Julian Brooks says this is because drawings often served a purpose as studies for a later finished work. They were rarely created to leave the studio or be sold or displayed.

Of those that are signed, Brooks says a signature or inscription of an artist’s name on a drawing shouldn’t be taken as proof of authorship. Early collectors sometimes wrote an artist’s name on a drawing, reflecting that collector’s idea of who they thought drew it (sometimes mistakenly). The department has several Degas drawings bearing what appears to be the artist’s signature in red ink. But in reality, the signature is a red stamp posthumously applied by his estate.

According to Woollett, not all painters working in the Dutch Republic and the southern Netherlands in the 17th century signed their paintings. And what happens when a painting is unsigned? The work of attribution begins: the process of determining the artist who created an artwork. Experts look at things like style, brushwork, and biographical evidence to figure out who made the art.

“Peter Paul Rubens, the most important history painter in the southern Netherlands, only signed a handful out of hundreds of paintings,” Woollett says. “His concept, stylistic features, and brushwork were his proof of authorship. And you always know when it’s a Rubens.”

When you’ve made a name for yourself

Many artists’ signatures evolved and shifted for various reasons. Rembrandt changed the way he signed his paintings, especially at the beginning of his career, when he used his initials and referred to his hometown of Leiden. He eventually used just his first name, emulating famous painters of the 16th century such as Raphael and Titian. “This was a deliberate choice about his increasing confidence, ambition, and self-promotion,” Woollett says.

Whistler’s butterfly endured many variations too. Initially a simple monogram, over time the signature became more stylized and detailed, sprouting veins and a scorpion-like stinger. Later in his career, the artist married Beatrice Godwin (née Philip) and added a “BP” trefoil to symbolize her influence on his life and work.

In the research paper “Identity Signs: Meanings and Methods in Artemisia Gentileschi’s Signatures,” Judith Mann, senior curator of European art to 1800 at the Saint Louis Art Museum, writes that the Baroque painter Artemisia Gentileschi changed her signature to market herself to different audiences. Gentileschi signed 19 of her works. She varied the spelling, signature placement, employment of first and last name or initials, and use of fecit. Once she even added “Romana,” to affiliate herself with Rome. Mann believes that Gentileschi knowingly did this to advertise her abilities and gender.

When signatures are faked

While signatures can help authenticate works, they are also one of the easiest things to forge. In 2023–24, Italian authorities seized more than 2,100 forged artworks that bore illegitimate signatures by the likes of Banksy, Gustav Klimt, and Pablo Picasso.

Peter remembers a notable case from 2001 concerning esteemed war photographer Walter Rosenblum. A protégé of Lewis W. Hine—the investigative photographer who captured images of child labor during the early 20th century—Rosenblum was accused of selling Hine prints with forged signatures to unknowing dealers and collectors. Accusers believed that Rosenblum, then president of the Photo League, printed from negatives held by the League after Hines’s death. Through scientific paper analysis, it was found that many prints were made posthumously. While Rosenblum reached a massive out-of-court settlement concerning hundreds of disputed prints, the details remain confidential.

As the practice of art authentication evolves, emerging technologies like blockchain are being used to record ownership history and signatures securely. Even Al might soon help in analyzing vast data sets to identify subtle differences in brush-strokes, color palettes, and composition.

Art historians' expertise on styles, provenance, collecting history, and history of taste, as well as technologies can alter art history. Just consider the aforementioned painter, Artemisia Gentileschi. Her 17th-century work David and Goliath was attributed to Giovanni Francesco Guerrieri for years after first appearing on the auction circuit in 1975. In 2020, though, a London art restorer removed some overpaint and discovered Gentileschi’s signature, written to look as if etched along the hilt of David’s sword.