The above (the original of which hangs in our living room) is an engraving of Erik Satie by the French author / artist / provocateur Jean Cocteau. Cocteau dashed it off from life around 1915, liked it, and reproduced it many times during his lifetime; it made him a lot of money.
Here is the provenance of my copy:
- It was one of a number of engravings in a portfolio given by Cocteau to the Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich in the 1950s.
- Upon Shostakovich's death, it went to his daughter Galina.
- Upon Galina's death, it went to her widower,
- who sold it to a dealer,
- who sold it to me.
Satie (who died in 1925) was a well-known crackpot. If he knew I had this engraving hanging on my wall, he'd probably be furious that Cocteau made so much money off his image. On the other hand, he might get a kick out of it.
Cocteau (who died in 1963) would be delighted that his work was still being admired, though he'd probably find my living room too bourgeois. Given that he was a capitalist to the teeth, he'd also want to know how much I paid for his work.
Shostakovich (who died in 1975) would probably just shrug. I imagine him saying: “Oh, was that mine? Yes, I think I remember. Oh, well. I'm glad it didn't get thrown away, anyway.”
I'm glad too.
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