Fake it til You Make it

Kirsha Kaechele

The following O entry has been redacted for illegal purposes. The complete text will be made available for release Under the Freedom From Information Act in 2025.

On Valentine's Day David passed me his phone and asked me to take a look. An interesting article? A comical transpiring of events? A tax bill? To my surprise and delight it was a Sotheby’s special auction of Picasso ceramics. Containing the very pieces I’d studied so intently.

‘Since you like Picasso so much … Do you like any of these?’

What a magnificent gift! Previous Valentine’s Days had delivered emotive poetry. This was less personal, but empowering. It was a gift that said, ‘You’re not just my lover, you’re my wife.’

The auction was to take place in four weeks. That gave me time to mull things over.

A couple of weeks later we were in the Faro bar, which is great, you should really go there. I was on my second margarita.

‘You know … I have to tell you something but you can’t get mad.’

Upstairs in the museum, women were luxuriating in my Ladies Lounge, sprawled across the large, emerald velvet ‘sofa’—really more of a tethered, rearing, restrained-by-golden-chains-and-then-ultimately-defeated cock. They were drinking absinthe and sipping champagne, waited on by two butlers, the only men permitted in the room. And they were surrounded by the finest art at Mona—including a collection of Picasso paintings, drawings and ceramics from my great-grandmother’s estate. There were Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe, after Edouard Manet (Luncheon on the grass, after Manet), 1961; and Reclining Nude, also from 1961, a portrait Picasso painted of my grandmother when they were lovers (she was 30 and he was 80); and, alongside, a Sidney Nolan painting, Leda and Swan, 1960, which depicts a rape. Women often question my selection of art.

When the Picassos arrived from the US there was an uproar in the Ladies Lounge.

‘What about the insurance?! Who’s across this?!’

Don’t worry, I told them, the family estate has handled everything.

The day the Ladies Lounge opened to the public, I received a frantic phone call from a painter.

Reclining Nude has been hung upside down!’
‘Shit!’

I picked up my phone to call Art Management, but then thought better of it ... ‘Perfect.’

Then I waited for weeks. Nothing happened.

Women loved my lounge. They told me how much they loved the Picassos and what a privilege it was to be in the room with them.

About a month later Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe, after Edouard Manet (Luncheon on the grass, after Manet), 1961, took centre stage on the wall of the Picasso Museum in Paris. Were they fucking with me? I was deeply flattered.

Then David and I were at the bar. He was angry.

‘I don’t understand why you had to undermine our exhibition by bringing in those Picassos. It’s supposed to be about our collection. Had they been fakes things would’ve been fine. But you’ve completely undermined the concept of the show.’

I squirmed in my seat.

‘I don’t see why it has to be undermining. These are part of our collection because they are from my family. So it is still our collection.’

We moved on to a beautiful dinner. Faro is really good, you should go there.

Soon it was Valentine’s Day morning and we were in bed and the romantic Sotheby’s gesture was unfolding: ‘Since you like Picasso so much …’

Seven weeks had passed since the Ladies Lounge opened. But no revolution. I was well equipped, ready, titillated, waiting … but … nothing.

It was time to select the pieces for the auction. David and I were at Faro again, on our second margaritas. ‘Darling, I have to tell you something but you have to promise not to get upset.’ This is when one must reveal the issue quickly because the imagined possibilities are far worse than the truth. ‘I am not having an affair, it’s nothing serious, but the Picassos are not real.
“…Really?”
“Yes, I made them myself.’ (Well, I made the ceramics, not the paintings, but the real painter wishes to remain anonymous for legal purposes. The drawing was done by my manicurist’s niece, a nursing student who was very nervous about the whole thing and therefore also prefers anonymoty.)

David looked at me. ‘Oh. Wow.’ And the conversation moved on. He is very good at keeping cool under pressure. That’s why he’s the big boss. I found it very hot, which helped move things on if you know what I mean. And I was immensely relieved because now I could accept his generous gift of the real Picassos guiltlessly- assuming he still wished to extend it! I couldn’t let him gift them on false pretences: ‘Your family has all these Picassos and we don’t have any so let me step in and buy you some.’

He did, and we slowly amassed the collection you’ve seen here. It’s strange putting together a collection through bids. You never know which pieces you’ll win, so the collection can end up looking a little ragtag. A gap-toothed grin.

It’s not that I’m a bad curator, I’m a great curator! But put me in the room with the object. You probably don’t want to let me bid online.

But David did.

More things came and they proved larger or smaller than I imagined. Some were editions ‘after’ and some were originals. In one case, I ordered a piece by accident because time difference is a bitch and my shortlist got accelerated or I marked the wrong box. But that’s an obscene thing to share. Unacceptable application of privilege, box-office poison, as my friend Peter Nadin would say. Still, it worked out: the mistake-plate ended up being my favourite.

Picasso ceramics continued to arrive. We bid on more and a few of those arrived too. And now our scattershot family lives at Mona! Which presents a problem. How does one justify simultaneously showing real and faux Picassos? All fakes is great- it’s conceptual art. Real and fake simultaneously is weird.

So…I can’t live a lie any longer. I fantasised that there would be scandal- I’d make the front cover of the Mercury: Fake Picassos Exposed. Art Fraud! …I fantasised that a Picasso scholar, or maybe just an average Picasso fan, or maybe just someone who googles things, would visit the Ladies Lounge and see that the painting had been hung upside down and expose me on social media. But instead this:

(Insert News captions, Women’s … magazine NYT gushing about the picassos)

I’m flattered that people believed my great-grandmother summered with Picasso in her Swiss estate where he was lovers with my grandmother when she threw a plate at him, his ceramic gold plate with a crack in it displayed in the ladies lounge. The real plate would have killed him as it is made of solid gold.

And, I am relieved that I have told you because now we can revel together in the real ones guilt free, without inner turmoil.

I feel redeemed. I hope you can forgive me.

So take them in, all the Picassos ceramics you see here in Namedropping. And the fake (but ladies only).

Am I proud of this collection? Well, there’s nothing like a good edit! This selection is working out. But back to your question: am I proud of our Picasso collection as a whole? No, it needs refining. It is the victim of auction roulette and a deranged online curator. But we will fill in the gaps of this smile. And let me tell you, it is a big smile. 💗😁💗