I walked into a vintage furniture store (that claimed to specialize in mid-century modern furniture), and it was just sitting there—what appeared to be a Wassily chair— a celebrated modernist piece of furniture. I spent hours admiring one at the Corcoran Museum during its Modernism exhibition in 2007. I have a poster of the chair hanging in my apartment.

It’s a bit much. I know.

Although I was originally smitten with the curves and minimalism of this chair, I ended up being surprised by how it molded to whomever chose to sit in it. I wanted to spend time in the chair, with the chair, and reading in the chair.

When I walked up to it in the store, I examined the leather that was slightly worn, followed the curvature of the metal frame with my hands, and acknowledged the clean lines and immaculate design.

More than anything, I wanted this chair to be a Marcel Breuer B3 chair—designed with bicycle lines in mind—but I wasn’t sure. I walked back and forth and looked at it, and thoroughly confused the young man working that afternoon.

For the sake of honesty here, until last week, I only knew the chair by its pet name, the Wassily chair, a tip of the hat to the painter with the wild geometric canvases.

The steel design of the chair lent itself to mass reproduction. Now, the chair is reproduced for those able or willing to invest in an original. I hoped that I had found one. I asked about the provenance of the chair and if I could turn it upside down.

If it were a B3 chair, there would have been a mark of identification from Breuer, Gavalia, or Knoll. The young man assured me that it was the real deal. He didn’t turn over the chair.

The price tag was reasonable if the chair was authentic.

It turns out that it wasn’t.

And so I decided to look for something else.