Not So Trashy

If I had found it in Rancho Cucamonga, or anywhere a good distance from the dark heart of dearly priced Modernism, it would have been a less startling discovery. But here, not a mile from Beverly Boulevard and La Brea Avenue, that crossroads where nearly a dozen furniture stores hawk all things modern--how had it escaped their jaws?

Despite a couple of dings, it’s cute, this little trash can. I spotted it from afar in a Fairfax Avenue thrift shop. I liked the shape. I got closer. Cool design. Closer. Dig the images. Wait a minute, could it be? I did a slo-mo to my right and left, looking for other treasure hunters. Coast clear, I picked it up, turned it around, caressed it, flipped it . . . Buon giorno, principessa! I had found a Fornasetti!

As in Piero Fornasetti, the late Italian home wares and furniture designer whose work--Christie’s auctions and highfalutin magazines inform me--is revered. I held it tighter than a pigskin against a running back’s jersey, made for the counter and forked over $10. Which got me thinking: What’s a Fornasetti garbage receptacle really worth?

To find out, I hit the Modernism stores. “I like it,” says the nice guy at Fat Chance. “It’s cute, probably from the ‘60s, don’t you think? If I saw it at a swap meet for $100, I’d buy it and clean it up, probably sell it for $300.”

Over at Modern One, the clerk says, “The owner’s not here. What do you want for it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, he’ll call you. He likes Fornasetti.” (He must, so loath is he to part with a Fornasetti umbrella stand priced at $1,200.)

Modernica looks like a bank in the ‘50s, with tables of young couples who sit and, instead of poring over home loan papers, mull matters just as crucial to future domestic happiness, namely the dimensions of custom-order Eames shelf units. What do you want for it? asks the guy at the desk. Do I want to call my husband for consultation? You got this at a thrift store? “Congratulations,” he says. He offers me a hundred bucks.

“No, we don’t want your trash can,” says a lady at Futurama. But it’s a Fornasetti, I implore.

“I don’t even know who that is!” she says. A guy hanging out on a couch peeks up from his Larchmont Chronicle and tells me to head to Modern One.

Finally, I hit Retro Gallery, where I sold two lovely lamps a few months back for $200. The owner tells me it is a “terrible thing” I am doing, hopping from place to place to hawk my Fornasetti. Trailing a cloud of cigarette smoke, he stalks away.

On my way out, I see my lamps wearing an $800 price tag.