Equal parts fascinating and infuriating.
I agree with the general consensus here, namely that high-end art collecting is a fraught and fickle mistress.
Is art's worth determined by the eyes of the beholder, its genuine scarcity, or its provenance? And what is authenticity? Something being what it purports to be, or what I believe it to be, or perhaps something even better?
And if a collector paid, say, $8.5 million for a fake he absolutely adored and believed was real (and enjoyed for a decade, along with friends who attended every dinner party he ever hosted), does discovering it's fake somehow retroactively diminish his joy? What price blissful ignorance?
It seems to come down to value, yes, but mostly ego, avarice, and pride. No one likes being conned, and certainly s/he who is used to being the smartest person in any room.
A very interesting tale, indeed. I do hope you'll find and watch it. It's the genuine article, the real McCoy!
Or is it...?