In the upper-left corner of Edvard Munch’s 1893 original painting of The Scream, written directly on the red sky in faint lead pencil, sits a tiny sentence in Norwegian: "Kan kun være malet af en gal Mand!" Translated to English, it reads: "Could only have been painted by a madman!"
For more than a century, art historians and gallery curators assumed the line was an act of vandalism. The popular theory held that an angry gallery visitor had snuck up to the cardboard panel during an early exhibition and scratched the insult into the paint. But in 2021, high-resolution infrared scans conducted by the National Museum of Norway revealed a startling plot twist: the infamous Edvard Munch The Scream pencil inscription wasn't written by a vandal at all. It was written by Munch himself, creating one of the most famous pieces of modern vertical wall art history.
The Night a Medical Student Questioned Munch's Sanity
To understand why an artist would scribble an insult on his own masterpiece, you have to rewind to October 1895. Munch was exhibiting his work at the Blomqvist gallery in Kristiania (now Oslo). The show caused an uproar, drawing fierce public ridicule and harsh press reviews.
During a public debate at the Student Society shortly after the opening, a young medical student named Johan Scharffenberg stood up to address the crowd. Scharffenberg analyzed Munch's artwork (specifically pointing to his Self-Portrait with Cigarette) and declared that Munch was not of sound mind. He claimed Munch's paintings were living proof of a diseased brain, adding that the artist came from a degenerate family.
Munch was in the audience that evening, and the attack cut deep. His father and grandfather had suffered from severe depression, his sister Laura was institutionalized, and his mother had died of tuberculosis when he was five. Munch lived with an overwhelming fear of inheriting mental illness. Being publicly branded a madman by a future physician triggered his deepest anxieties.
Sarcasm, Defiance, and a Soft Lead Pencil
Instead of starting a fistfight or issuing a formal duel, Munch responded in the most raw, passive-aggressive way imaginable. Sometime in 1895 or shortly after, he pulled out a soft graphite pencil and scribbled Scharffenberg's insult directly into the upper-left corner of The Scream.
The inscription was a sarcastic echo. By writing "Could only have been painted by a madman!" on his most intense work, Munch took ownership of the insult. He weaponized the critic's words, transforming a cruel medical judgment into a permanent piece of irony embedded within raw expressionist prints and paintings that defined modern art.
Munch never let the insult go. For decades afterward, he brought up Scharffenberg's comment in his private diaries and letters, proving how deeply those words burned throughout his life.
The Scientific Infrared Scan That Solved the Mystery
Fast forward to 2021. As the National Museum of Norway prepared to move The Scream into its new building in central Oslo, conservators led by curator Mai Britt Guleng subjected the 1893 cardboard panel to comprehensive technical analysis.
Because pencil lead is carbon-based, it absorbs infrared light differently than oil and tempera paint. Using infrared reflectography, researchers made the faint carbon lines stand out clearly against the surrounding paint layers. They then compared the script, letter angles, and spelling with thousands of pages of Munch’s personal letters and notebooks.
The handwriting was an exact match. The mystery of the "vandalism" was officially solved: Munch had written it himself as a defensive, sarcastic rebuttal to a public attack on his sanity.
Four Scream Paintings, But Only One Inscription
Many art lovers are surprised to learn that Munch created four versions of The Scream between 1893 and 1910. Two were executed in paint and tempera, and two in pastel. He also produced a famous black-and-white lithograph print that allowed the image to spread globally as iconic framed posters and fine art reproductions.
Yet the secret pencil inscription appears on only one: the original 1893 painted version housed in Oslo. That single panel (which was also dramatically stolen during the 1994 Lillehammer Winter Olympics and recovered three months later) carries the physical scar of Munch's battle with his critics.
The next time you look at the swirling orange clouds and the trembling figure on the bridge, remember that faint pencil line. It is a quiet reminder that even the greatest masterpieces were once mocked, and that Munch chose to answer his doubters with a stroke of quiet, permanent defiance.
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