I stood by my car door. I made a sinuous pirouette. For a great moment I felt like the great George Orwell. I was about to hit the “road” to and pay “homage” to. Sometimes I think my sole purpose as a photographer is akin to a surfer stepping into liquid: To define the heart of engagement. I was about to embrace it all.
I arrived in Geneva from Paris. Vanity Fair Magazine had arranged a photo session with one of the 20th Centuries most intriguing artists. Balthasar Klossowski de Rola, commonly known as Balthus. He had nibbled at my visual aesthetics for quite sometime.
God’s canvas was the universe as some say. But Balthus’s was a few square feet. Imagination is a gift from the universe, but a canvas is a gift to a handful from each generation.
Balthus lured you into the canvas as Peter Greenaway lured you into the final meal from “The Cook, the Thief, his Wife & Her Lover”. You inadvertently saw what Balthus saw, you inadvertently tasted Greenaways’ finale. Human nature lives luridly in the Balthus oeuvre.
Alexander Liberman: The Quintessential Creative Director for Condé Nast and the second half of the 20th century
Pierre Matisse: The pre-eminent art dealer of the second half of the 20th century
Before I shifted into gear I took a second to remind myself that two of America’s cultural elites arranged this moment. ALEXANDER LIBERMAN, the creative editor of Condé Nast long before Anna Wintour. And one of the worlds pre-eminent art dealers PIERRE MATISSE (Henri Matisse’s son). I was locked and loaded with a cultural army to protect my interests.
I took off in the Swiss January snow. Geneva to Rossiniere is a cultural shift likened to tectonic plated shifting. It is almost like traveling through the melting pot of middle earth. So much is the same but so much feels like an abyss apart.
For one cultural second I was stepping into Jack Kerouac’s rant. His “Satori in Paris” had been a huge influence on me. He searched for his family identity. I was questing for accomplishment. His flask of Remy Martin by his side was now mine. I drove fast toward my engagement. The snowy ride spit up visions of the “White Walkers” (from the Game of Thrones). Fear and anticipation vibrated throughout. The nip of Remy served me well. I became a bit dreamy but a bit more excited.
I used to use the word Vroom to jumpstart almost all of my photography engagements. A bit of mental acceleration with of course some “Remy”. I raced through this road trip. I have traveled Switzerland from west to east, north to south. The mountains the valleys the rivers and so much more have been stamped on my brain. It has been an amazing visual history that will find a home in my obit one day.
I arrived in Rossiniere. I was to meet my dream ghost, Balthus. People who knew Balthus, knew Balthus. I did not. My brain spun wildly in my rental car. How was I supposed to be? I had photographed hundreds of portraits by that time. Yet this was my ghost. I needed to find Balthus. I needed to capture history like no other. My visual mission was to connect our cultural history from my life and lives before and lives to follow. I was mapping the topography of the twentieth century. I was passionately looking for me in this moment. I desperately needed to succeed.
The Grand Chalet: Balthus’s home
Balthus’s wife Setsuko greeted me at the front door. I gingerly entered the “Grand Chalet”. I knew this was a magical moment, but not until much later did I realize the significance.
I met the master. The three of us went into the living room for some tea, I had promised that I would show a small portfolio( Dekooning, Noguchi, Nevelson, Jasper Johns, Miro and more). He apparently was expecting Picasso, Henry Matisse and more. I am sure he knew that they died before I was born?
We had a delightful exchange. Then into the dining room where I sat next to their 8-10 year old daughter. The four of us enjoyed a terrific 3 course meal. We easily chatted for a couple of hours. Balthus looked over at me and excused himself.
Quite a bit of time passed. Out of the blue Setsuko explained that Balthus has decided not to pose for the portrait. Maybe if I were to return in a week or so.
I suddenly morphed into the roster of Marvel Comic characters. More specifically the Hulk. My celebratory moment diffused in a few words. I raged internally. This had never happened to me. I was obviously ill prepared. I stalked, I ranted. The cage door had opened and my capture from Safari had escaped. The cat had disappeared into the darkness.
Suddenly as if a cool wind from the north captured my racing heart. “Setsuko, will you allow me to shoot your portrait?” I put up a good front. I produced something I was pleased with. The trailers in my eyes kept flickering as if it was Balthus teasing my camera. I prayed for him to appear. He never did.
Setsuko: The wife of Balthus
I left for my car. He had to be somewhere. But he wasn’t.
I shifted gears past the “White Walkers” and other dreamscapes on my return to Geneva.
The next morning I found road rage as a momentary release. I set my mind on new conquests. I placed the throttle on vroom to the South of France (St Paul de Vence, which is an animated story for another time) and focused on Chagall and the unique southern retreat of many. I raced back north to Paris for Dubuffet and Paris.
I ran from one portrait to another with a smile from ear to ear. I realized that I was a wild bird without a guidance system. I had not a mentor. Advice from just about anyone would have soothed my surging angst. But nothing.
I refreshingly realized I had an open canvas to run in every direction. I ran through every nook and cranny that Paris had to offer. I was on fire. If I had died that month in 1984 It would have been the most satisfying death. I had set my goal to become a photographer. I was shooting who and what I wanted. I was shooting the way i wanted to make photographs. It was everything I had dreamed it to be.I stood alone on a corner in Paris.
I stood alone in the world of photography.
I missed the “ghost”. I headed into my favorite cafe for an omelette and frites. A nip of...
I was divinely alive.