Artists spend their lives creating order from chaos, yet after their death the greatest challenge can be preventing that order from slipping back into uncertainty. The recent scandal surrounding allegedly forged works by Ernst Neizvestny in Russia serves as a timely reminder of how fragile an artist's legacy can become once its creator is no longer present to defend it. At a moment when questions of authenticity, editions and posthumous production are becoming increasingly urgent, the management of an artist's estate has never been more important.

Artists often bring order out of chaos in their search for a personal artistic language and new forms of expression. Yet when it comes to preserving an artistic legacy, the challenge is often the reverse. Over time, even the most coherent body of work can become vulnerable to confusion, uncertainty and competing claims of authenticity unless it is carefully documented and managed.

The earlier an artist - or their representatives - begins systematically recording original works, editions and production histories, the better protected that legacy will be. The recent controversy surrounding the artistic heritage of Ernst Neizvestny (1925–2016), which emerged in the wake of a disputed exhibition at the State Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow, serves as a timely reminder of the importance of stewardship. A curious case, it appears that it was not an art world insider but a Russian naval officer called Maxim Koshkarev who organized a sophisticated forgery operation where at least 30 forged sculptures and paintings were produced and sold to private collectors between 2020 and 2026, generating over €1 million in sales. Ernst Neizvestny was a leading non-conformist artist, primarily known as a sculptor, who first came to international attention after British art critic and writer John Berger published a book about him in 1969. This controversial affair raises broader questions for artists, estates, foundries, galleries and collectors alike about how artistic legacies can be protected for future generations.

There is an important distinction to be made between outright fakes and unauthorised editions when it comes to sculpture. A fake is created independently of the artist's original production process. It may be a copy of an existing work or an entirely new object made in the artist's style. An unauthorised edition, by contrast, is typically produced from an original mould, either at the foundry where the work was first cast or elsewhere. Both practices are problematic, albeit in different ways. An unauthorised edition may preserve the artist's original conception because it derives directly from the authentic mould, but it has not been approved by the artist or estate and the quality of the final cast may vary significantly. More importantly, collectors must know how many casts exist. Scarcity remains a fundamental component of value, and the number of editions in circulation directly affects market confidence.

For many collectors, the connection to the artist is deeply important. There is a significant difference between an edition produced under the artist’s direct supervision and one made years later without their involvement. Knowing that the artist saw, handled, approved and perhaps even signed a specific cast creates a tangible connection between creator and object that many collectors value highly.

At the same time, posthumous editions have long occupied an accepted place within the art world. Museums and institutions around the globe have acquired posthumous casts of major sculptural works that would otherwise be unobtainable due to rarity, cost or simple non-existence. The history of modern art is full of examples where editions have enabled wider access to important works. One of the most famous is the ‘Fountain’ by Marcel Duchamp (1887–1968) of which several authorised editions were produced decades after the original. Tate Modern owns an example made in 1964, nearly half a century after the work was first conceived. In the field of printmaking, no artist demonstrated the idea of image repetition more effectively than Andy Warhol, whose serial production transformed the way artists approached editions and broadened access to contemporary art.

The poster child for posthumous editions remains Auguste Rodin (1840–1917), whose most celebrated sculptures continued to be cast both during and after his lifetime. Although Rodin left his moulds to the French state and their use remains tightly controlled, this did not prevent the emergence of unauthorised posthumous casts. In one notorious case, a French collector turned dealer gained access to historic foundry moulds and produced unauthorised bronzes not only by Rodin, but also by artists including Constantin Brancusi (1876–1957) and Alberto Giacometti (1901–1966). The episode serves as a reminder that even the most carefully managed legacies remain vulnerable when documentation and oversight break down.

When it comes to sculpture, trust between artist and foundry is paramount. Ilya and Emilia Kabakov worked with the same foundry over many years. When a new mould was produced and an edition cast, the first example was systematically recorded in the artists’ archive and the bronze signed. Such procedures create a transparent chain of custody that protects both artist and collector.

A visit to the Kabakovs’ Long Island home and studio reveals the remarkable degree of professionalism with which their archive has been maintained. However, it was not until Ilya was in his seventies that the first volume of the catalogue raisonné appeared, initially documenting paintings and later installations. Kabakov produced a substantial body of works on paper. His celebrated albums, among the most important achievements of Moscow Conceptualism, were typically produced in editions of only ten. ‘The Flying Komarov’, created in 1974, sold at auction in London in 2021 for €251,652, placing the original beyond the reach of most collectors. Yet Kabakov also produced twenty printed editions in 1981, one of which sold recently in Germany for approximately €7,000.

The catalogue raisonné project continues to expand. “Now we have a catalogue raisonné of all prints ever made, so if any fake appears we can easily tell,” Emilia Kabakov told me. For her, two principles remain fundamental: trust and documentation. A foundry may possess the technical ability to create further casts from an existing mould, but unless their production history is properly documented, uncertainty inevitably follows.

Dating is also central to value. Collectors understandably want to know whether a sculpture was produced during the artist’s lifetime or afterwards. Although the physical object may be identical, the historical connection is not. Lifetime casts generally command stronger prices because of their direct association with the artist. Nevertheless, posthumous editions often represent excellent value and can provide access to important works at a more affordable level. What matters is that buyers understand precisely what they are acquiring.

Trust and documentation are the foundations of a healthy art market. They encourage confidence, support scholarship and strengthen values over the long term. They also make art more accessible by allowing editions to reach a wider audience. Without them, uncertainty begins to dominate. Collectors may hesitate to acquire perfectly authentic works simply because supporting documentation is incomplete. In this sense, documentation becomes almost inseparable from the artwork itself.

Even when posthumous editions are fully authorised, their status should be clearly disclosed and reflected in pricing. Furthermore, because posthumous casts can continue to be produced over time, the date of manufacture remains highly relevant. As with any edition, chronology matters. Earlier authorised casts generally carry greater significance than later examples, even when both originate from the same mould.

The case of Vadim Sidur (1924–1986) demonstrates how institutions can help protect an artist’s legacy. Following his death, his widow and son donated his artistic estate to the city of Moscow, leading eventually to the establishment of the Vadim Sidur Museum, now affiliated with MMOMA. The existence of a recognised institution dedicated to the artist has facilitated research and scholarship, creating a central reference point for collectors and specialists alike.

Interestingly, collectors often prize not Sidur's bronze editions but unique maquettes and studies created in inexpensive materials such as aluminium. These intimate works frequently served as preparatory models for monumental public projects. A notable example is ‘Treblinka’ (1966), a small-scale study for the monumental Holocaust memorial erected in Berlin in 1979. When the model appeared at auction in London in 2021 it achieved €47,500, which remains the artist's auction record. Significantly, it was catalogued not as an edition but as a unique work.

Sidur's example demonstrates that preserving an archive is not simply about protecting market value. It is about creating an infrastructure through which future generations can understand an artist’s oeuvre.

Francisco Infante (b. 1943) presents a different challenge altogether. Outside his early tempera paintings and spirals associated with the Dvizheniye movement, his most celebrated works are the ‘Artifacts’: temporary interventions in nature documented through photography. For the classic ‘Artifacts’ of the 1970s, what often matters most to collectors is not simply the edition number but the generation of the print itself. There is an important distinction between vintage prints produced close to the date of the original intervention, Soviet-period prints made during the artist's lifetime, later artist-authorised Cibachrome editions – often limited to ten or twenty examples – and exhibition prints or artist's proofs.

As a result, market value can depend as much upon when a photograph was printed as upon its edition number. A vintage print from the 1970s may be considerably more desirable than a later authorised print. Yet in the case of Francisco Infante, auction houses do not always record edition sizes or edition numbers, and market databases can therefore present a confusing picture. The result is that collectors often struggle to distinguish rarity from simple lack of information.

This issue is becoming increasingly important for collectors of late Soviet non-conformist art as prices continue to rise. Similar concerns have long existed in the market for Russian avant-garde photography, where the distinction between vintage and later prints can have a profound effect on value. While an artist remains alive such questions can often be resolved directly. Later, however, family members or estates may become the sole source of information, despite not always possessing the same depth of knowledge.

Leonid Sokov (1941–2018) provides an illuminating example of the importance of provenance. His best-known sculpture, ‘Lenin and Giacometti’, first conceived around 1980, exists in multiple casts, sizes and editions. Auction records reveal examples dating from 1989 and 1994, ranging from monumental editions of six measuring 156 cm in height to smaller editions of five cast in Italy at the Fonderia Artistica Salvadori Arte di Pistoia. One example from the smaller edition sold at auction in Italy in 2021 and benefited greatly from having been exhibited and illustrated in a catalogue in the early 90s. Such provenance provides confidence not only in authenticity but also in the work's place within the artist’s career.

Issues of authenticity can arise even while an artist is still alive. During one conversation I had with Sokov many years ago, he expressed frustration after encountering two fake sculptures of his work in New York and encouraged me always to check with him before offering any of his works for sale. Probably the two fake works he had seen were only a fraction of those potentially in circulation. For serious collectors of Sokov today, provenance is therefore not merely desirable but essential.

The current debate surrounding Ernst Neizvestny’s legacy demonstrates how rapidly circumstances can change. Only a decade ago his works were often difficult to sell. The market was relatively small, scholarly attention was limited and there was little financial incentive to devote substantial resources to documenting and managing his estate. Today the situation is entirely different. Growing interest from major collectors, museums and scholars has elevated Neizvestny’s position within the history of twentieth century sculpture. As demand increases, questions that once appeared theoretical become urgent. Which editions were produced during the artist's lifetime? Which casts were authorised? How many examples exist? Who possesses the moulds? What documentation survives?

These are not merely legal or academic questions. They are fundamental to the functioning of the market itself. Collectors require confidence. Museums require certainty. Estates require transparency. Ultimately, the lesson extends far beyond Ernst Neizvestny. Every artist, regardless of reputation or market value, leaves behind a legacy that must eventually be managed by others. The question is whether that legacy will be governed by documentation and transparency – or by confusion and speculation. The answer depends largely on the decisions taken while the artist is still alive.

For artists, editions are often a means of making their work more accessible and extending their reach beyond a handful of unique objects. For collectors, however, every new cast, print or edition carries with it a question of trust. When editions multiply, so too does the importance of documentation. Without it, even genuine works can become vulnerable to doubt. With it, artists, estates, collectors and institutions alike can ensure that artistic legacies remain as enduring as the works themselves.