An Art World Saga Surrounding La Prose du Transsibérien

How a vividly colored accordion-shaped piece of parchment—a collaboration between the Ukrainian-French artist Sonia Delaunay and the Swiss-French poet Blaise Cendrars—became a household treasure (temporarily)

By Ian Strasfogel

February 12, 2025
A part-time job in my senior year in college led inexorably to my owning, however briefly, the most beautiful “book” of the 20th century. I use quotation marks because La Prose du Transsibérien et de la Petite Jehanne de France hardly looks like a book. It’s more like a poster or a broadside—and a shout-out to the world in raucous color. To be more specific, it’s an accordion-folded sheet of parchment paper, measuring about six feet long and 15 inches wide, on which, in 1913, the French-Ukrainian artist Sonia Delaunay printed a prose poem by the Swiss-French writer Blaise Cendrars in various fonts and colors down its right side, with dazzling stenciled shapes and colors on its left. The subject? A highly fanciful railroad trip on the Trans-Siberian Express at the height of the Russo-Japanese War of 1905. The poem lurches along like the train itself, changing its tone abruptly from sentimental to bawdy to horrific. Delaunay’s artwork, a dizzying cascade of abstract forms in bold primary colors, remains vibrant and jubilant throughout.

Today, La Prose is considered a supreme example of 20th century modernism. Last year, it stood out and apart from everything else in the Bard Graduate Center’s extensive exploration of Delaunay’s long and prolific career. Not to be outdone, the Morgan Library devoted an entire exhibition to the work as both book art and literature. And through March 9th, 2025, the Guggenheim Museum is featuring the piece in its survey of the post-Cubist movement known as Orphism.

I stumbled across this vibrant artwork quite by chance in 1960, my junior year at Harvard. I had heard that the Houghton Library, the university’s repository of rare books and manuscripts, was looking for an undergraduate research assistant. I hardly qualified; I wasn’t an art history major, a literary scholar, a trained researcher, or an expert in anything other than my own fervently held opinions. Nonetheless, after a brief interview with Philip Hofer, the Houghton’s august curator of printing and graphic arts, the position was mine.

It proved to be a dream job. The library was collaborating with the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston on the largest show of artist-illustrated books ever presented in America. I was to consult with the research library at Harvard’s Fogg Museum, conveniently located across the street from the Houghton, and glance through every monograph on European or American artists from 1860 to the present, to make sure that Mr. Hofer hadn’t omitted any important books. This rarely was the case. Mr. Hofer was one of the country’s great collectors; he’d already donated a vast array of prints and artist books to Harvard.

Once or twice a week, I’d cross the entryway of the Houghton and take the curved staircase down to his cramped, low-ceilinged office—a refined world far removed from the noise and horseplay at my dorm. Mr. Hofer himself, soft-spoken and invariably attired in Savile Row suiting, greatly contrasted with anyone I’d ever run across in New York’s flamboyant (and heavily Jewish) musical world. To me, he was the ur-WASP, an old-school gentleman of unfailing discretion and politesse.

One day as I was hunting for studies of Robert Delaunay, an interesting post-Cubist French painter, I noticed a thin, shiny paperback devoted to work of his wife, Sonia. I’d never heard of her. Art history at the time evidently had little interest in artists’ wives or female creativity. I opened the slim volume, the catalog of an exhibition of her work at the Kunsthalle in the small German city of Bielefeld, and a brightly colored foldout flopped out. It was La Prose, and it told the abovementioned story of a momentous train journey taken during a year of revolution.

Six decades later, the impact of that moment still resonates. I knew at once it was something extraordinary. I snatched up the catalog and dashed across Harvard Yard to show Miss Garvey my prize. Eleanor Garvey, Mr. Hofer’s indispensable associate, served as my actual boss. I was too far down the totem pole for Mr. Hofer himself to dally with me; he left that to Eleanor, the kindest, most understanding supervisor imaginable. She spoiled me shamelessly, praised all my efforts, even the most trifling ones, and made not the slightest peep when I showed up late or forgot to produce a book she needed.

Quite literally huffing and puffing from my dash to her office, I waved the little catalog in her face. “Miss Garvey, Miss Garvey, you’ll never believe this.” She was used to my undergraduate effusions and looked at me quizzically. “Did you know that Delaunay’s wife was an artist?”

A foolish remark. Miss Garvey’s knowledge of the School of Paris was encyclopedic. She smiled at me indulgently and said, “Thank you, Mr. Strasfogel, I’m quite aware of her excellent paintings.”

“Did you know she made this book?” I unfurled the reproduction on her desk.

Miss Garvey gasped. She lowered herself into her chair and studied the work for a considerable amount of time. She finally looked up and said in her calm, even way, “Quite interesting, Mr. Strasfogel. I think I’d better show this to Mr. Hofer.”

It was suddenly clear to me that this exceptionally knowledgeable woman had never seen the book before, never even heard of it. I’d made a true discovery.

A few days later, she called me into her cramped office. “I showed Mr. Hofer your little discovery.” (My discovery!) “He immediately called Madame Delaunay’s dealer in Paris; but, unfortunately, no copies are available. We can’t put it in the exhibition, but we’ll definitely include it in the catalog. It’s far too important to leave out.”

Sure enough, on page 57 of The Artist and the Book 1860-1960, Philip Hofer’s magistral catalog of the exhibition, he cites Sonia’s “remarkable and little-known book.” Even now, decades later, I’m still proud of that citation.

After graduation, I often dined out on the story of how I’d “discovered” La Prose, how even the great collector, Philip Hofer, had never heard of it. I blabbed on and on about how amazing it was, how original, how beautiful, even though I’d never seen a copy firsthand.

One day in the 1970s, while visiting Paris, I happened to be strolling along the Rue de Seine when I passed a gallery run by a well-known art dealer, its walls studded with prints by members of the School of Paris—when it suddenly struck me that the owner might know where I could find a facsimile of this elusive work of art. I entered, and employing my best schoolboy French, said, “Excuse me, do you happen to have a copy of Sonia Delaunay’s La Prose du Transsibérien?”

The elderly man looked up from a catalog he was studying and sighed, “Ah, Monsieur, I’m terribly sorry, but that piece is extremely rare.”

“Perhaps you know of a gallery that has a copy?”

His demeanor remained somber. “Alas, no, it’s very hard to find.”

At that precise moment, my gaze shifted to a group of framed prints, hung directly above his head. Plain as day, between a mediocre Chagall and a Matisse odalisque, I spotted my prize. It clearly wasn’t a perfect copy; the hand-painted cover was missing and the sheet had been trimmed to fit its elegant frame. Even so, it was unquestionably La Prose, blazing like sunlight over the crowded shop.

Why did he claim he didn’t have it? Did he think I was so stupid, so hopelessly American that I wouldn’t notice what was hanging directly above him?

“Excuse me, Monsieur,” I said, “but isn’t that the Delaunay?”

“I’m sorry,” he replied with icy formality, “that object isn’t for sale.” He shrugged and returned to his catalog.

As I left, I wondered whether the dealer had actually sold the piece or was just waiting for a suitably wealthy buyer. I’d entered into his shop wearing my student-era jeans and a rumpled sweater—a serious mistake. Art and money are inextricably intertwined. Beauty always goes to the highest bidder.

The Delaunay masterwork was far from my mind on April 5, 1981, my 41st birthday.

My wife, Judith, greeted me that morning, looking disturbed. “Darling, I wanted to surprise you with a very special birthday present, but it just costs too much.”

“What’s the present? A gold-plated necktie?”

“Not quite. I found a copy of the Delaunay.” I was stunned. “I wanted to surprise you with it. I thought it was something you’d really want. I mean, you never stop talking about it.”

She was right. As mentioned, I’d repeatedly told friends and family, no doubt too often and too elaborately, the story of my “discovery” of Sonia Delaunay’s masterwork.

As the news sank in, I grew increasingly puzzled. “I can’t believe you actually found a copy. Even Mr. Hofer couldn’t. How the hell did you do it?”

“Peter Kraus has a copy.”

Peter was the owner of Ursus Books, one of America’s most distinguished rare book shops. By purest coincidence, Judith had come to him at exactly the right moment. A major American collecting family had invited Peter to assemble a great collection of French artists’ books. Shortly before Judith got in touch with him, the collectors instructed Peter to sell all their holdings, including the Delaunay, as soon as possible.

Three cheers for the whims of the rich!

Paying for it was another matter. Even though La Prose was little known at the time, it came with a substantial price tag—the equivalent of two full years’ rent for our Upper West Side apartment.

That was a lot for us. Judith and I had recently become parents. Our gigs as freelance musicians kept us—just barely—in the middle class. We could, however, more or less swing it.

Apprehensive but giddy with excitement, we brought our check to Peter’s small shop in the mezzanine of the Hotel Carlyle. After taking our coats, he guided us to a large reading table in the center of his crowded shop. On every side, magnificent antique volumes in lustrous carved bindings, the finest relics of Western book culture, frowned down at us.

With almost religious solemnity, Peter placed the work on the table. “I’m happy that your copy still has its original cover. Some owners rip it off so they can hang the piece on the wall and impress their nouveau riche friends.” I thought of the print dealer in Paris who had done exactly that. “Of course,’ he continued, his voice simmering with contempt, “when they do that, it’s not a book anymore.”

He undid the clasp and unfurled La Prose across the table. Its colors were amazingly vivid after lurking who knows where for 68 years. Judith and I gaped at its beauty.

“I’m sure you noticed those little tears along the folds as I opened it. If I were you, I’d take it to a paper restorer before they get any worse.”

We thanked him profusely and took our treasure home.

It turned out that La Prose, all 6.56 feet of it, was too long to fit any flat surface in our apartment. It even flopped over the edges of our dining room table. All we could do was lay it diagonally across our bed. The work felt weirdly off-kilter in its skewed position; it had looked more impressive on the big table in Peter’s shop. But the bed was the best we could do. You work with what you have.

A few days later, mindful of Peter’s warnings about the tears in our copy, I took it to a paper conservator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Repairs were made, and when I retrieved it I noted with pleasure that the tears, now backed by acid-free tape, were firmly under control.

After I thanked the conservator for her expert work, she said, “Please remember that the paper in this work is quite fragile. Be sure to wear white gloves whenever you handle it; the dirt and oil on your skin will damage it.” She reverently handed the object back to me—her hands sheathed in white gloves, of course. “I loved working on your book. All my colleagues here were jealous. It’s really a shame the Metropolitan doesn’t have a copy of it … yet.” She smiled impishly. I pretended not to catch her meaning.

Of course I knew exactly what she was hinting at and was flattered that one of the world’s great museums might want an artwork we owned. Deep down, though, I knew we’d never be able to donate something as valuable as La Prose to any institution. That sort of grandiose generosity was fine for high rollers like Robert Lehman or Leonard Lauder. Judith and I were small fry, earning our living in the penny-pinching world of classical music. To us, the Delaunay was a glorious object, but also our hedge against insolvency.

For 20 years, our gem lay lodged in our bedroom cabinet, often unseen for months on end. During those times I felt an uneasy kinship with Fafner, the giant in Wagner’s Siegfried, who zealously guards the Nibelung hoard in his desolate cave, where no one can see or touch it. (It didn’t go well for him. In the end, the brutish hero Siegfried storms in, kills the poor fellow, and snatches the gold for himself.)

It no doubt seems strange that I didn’t look at La Prose very often, especially since I loved it so much. Part of the problem was purely procedural. Holding it, maneuvering it required clean hands, white gloves, careful unfolding, proper placement on the bed, and lowered window shades to protect it from sun. A rare but fragile masterwork had been entrusted to my care. God forbid I damage it.

We wanted to show it to friends, but most of them were musicians who had little interest in visual art. We didn’t want to force it on them; we didn’t want to brag or show off. I’d had my fill of that kind of nonsense during my years in opera. Trustees or patrons would corner me at their fancy parties and drag me over to admire their (often third-rate) paintings. I’d take a quick look, paste on a bright smile, and say, “Gee, Mr. Moneybags, they’re just amazing!”

Of course, La Prose was the exact opposite of such items. Once in a while, a storybook prince unveiling secret treasure, I’d don the white gloves, open our bedroom cabinet and take it out. I’d carry it over to the bed, unsnap the book’s fastener, painstakingly unfold it, carefully spread it out, and bask in its beauty. Then I’d reverse the process, refold the piece, angle it back inside its leatherette holder, snap it shut, place it in the cabinet, and return to the facts of the day.

Facts prevailed in the end; they usually do. When our first child, Daniella, was four, we welcomed a second daughter, Gabrielle, into our lives and engaged a steady stream of nannies, babysitters, and au pairs to help us raise two girls in New York while actively pursuing our careers.

When it came to their schooling, we were fortunate at first. We found a highly diverse and effective elementary school in East Harlem that allowed a few middle-class kids from other districts to enroll. After our daughters received four or five years of engaged, compassionate education, we began to note that the basics were being neglected. Our daughters needed more English and math, not more political and cultural sensitivity.

We were (and remain) fierce believers in public education. It had worked wonderfully for Judith and me. Even so, we had to put aside lofty principles and enroll both girls in private schools.

Not long after that, both Judith and I felt the need to change professional gears. Never the most practical of men, I decided to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming a writer—a career even more uncertain than that of an opera director. At the same moment, Judith gave up performing and opened Silver Moon Bakery, soon to become an Upper West Side favorite. In its first months, however, it was far from profitable and its future by no means assured.

As if all this weren’t problematic enough, Daniella was about to enter college, with Gabi soon to follow. How would we contend with the school bills?

Brimming with confidence, I called the book department at Sotheby’s to consign La Prose for auction. To my dismay, they weren’t interested. It turned out I had jumped the gun. The commercial art world, that bewildering tangle of dealers, auction houses, art historians, critics, gallerists, and millionaire collectors, didn’t know the book yet, and Sotheby’s didn’t want to take a risk.

Fortunately, Peter Kraus, by now our good friend, wasn’t so cautious. He sensed that the market was shifting, that Sonia Delaunay’s star was rising—and with it, the value of La Prose. He offered us more than triple what Judith had paid for it, and we gratefully accepted. Thanks to him and the genius of Madame Delaunay, our finances were set aright and our daughters never faced the curse of college debt.

Since then, the book’s value has increased astronomically. It probably would sell now for ten times what Peter had paid in 2001.

Do I regret that it slipped through our fingers? No. I’m just grateful that it came to our rescue in a time of great need.

Ian Strasfogel is an author, opera director, and impresario who has staged over a hundred productions of opera and music theater in European and American opera houses and music festivals. His comic novel, Operaland, and his biography of his father, Ignace Strasfogel: The Rediscovery of a Musical Wunderkind, were both published in 2021.

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