Wood, Ivory, Cotton
George Gershwin is at a piano. His teeth grip a pipe. His hair recedes. His brain has cancer. His pajamas are polka-dotted. He must be home; the smile must be for a friend with a camera. There are curtains behind him, a window, maybe the reflection of a chair at a table with a white tablecloth.
Here's another snap, same piano, same curtains, same window, same cancer, same pipe, but the smile is closer, his lips are set on his pipe, and he wears a herringbone suit.
Here's a picture of Gershwin, whose curtains are certain, but he looks like he just won at Hialeah. As he plinks the piano, he doesn't know, the poor schmo, that something else is having that idea.