We gather not in silence—he’d hate that—
but in the echo of laughter
still stuck to the walls like old paint
that refuses to come off.

​

He was Cockney to the bone,
Jewish to the marrow,
and funny in the dangerous way—
the kind of funny that disarms you
before you realise you’ve been robbed
of your certainty.

​

An art forger, yes—
but he preferred translator.
He didn’t steal genius, he said,
he spoke it fluently.
Gave lost masters a second career,
kept Picasso young,
let Modigliani stretch his neck one more time.

​

“Originality’s overrated,” he’d grin,
“even God rested on the seventh day.”

 

He knew brushes like old friends,
pigments like relatives he tolerated,
and museums like pubs he’d once been barred from.
If a line was too perfect, he’d rough it up—
“Nothing real’s that polite,” he’d say,
and neither was he.

 

His jokes arrived before you did.
His timing was criminal—
which, all things considered,
felt appropriate.

He forged with reverence,
lied with charm,
and aged like a masterpiece
hung in the wrong light:
creased, cracked,
but worth more every year.

 

He survived wars, wives,
and more close calls than most saints.
Outlived critics, collectors,
and at least one man who swore
he’d have him arrested by Tuesday.

In the end, death came honestly—
which would have disappointed him.
No disguises, no aliases,
no dramatic reveal.
Just a quiet exit,
like slipping out of a gallery
before anyone notices the switch.

 

So raise a glass—cheap wine, preferably—
and toast the old rogue.
To the man who proved
that truth and beauty
are often a matter of confidence.

 

May heaven double-check its walls tonight.
May the angels squint at the signatures.
And if the paintings look better in the morning,
well—
you’ll know he’s settled in.