Bernard Buffet, nicknamed ‘the Little Prince of post-war art’ asked his partner’s opinion. He was always well-dressed, the cuff of his trousers breaking perfectly over his polished brogues. He had the features of an angel, with his ethereal gaze and suave voice; to look at him, one could scarcely have imagined the intensity of his creations. He removed his glasses and laid out his canvases on the Persian rug, under the watchful eye of Pierre Bergé. “What do you think of this one?” the painter asked. Pierre Bergé was silent and thoughtful, not being an artist himself. Yet it was he who gave shape to the artist’s life, which was why they called him “the Gardener.” It was he who brought these great works into bloom; he watered them with money and fed them with the warm sunlight of praise, and pruned them into a carefully designed garden of aesthetic coexistence. Doing so required a firm opinion, and sage advice. His reputation was on the line, as was the fate of his companion. His eye and his vision had the power to change the art world.
The two men had met in a café on the Rue de Seine, and their encounter had been a conflagration. Their conversation never ran dry, and they downed their glasses over the course of intellectual debate and outpourings of imagination. Their love was not kindled only in the body, but rather in a meeting of minds. For the past eight years they had woven a tale of intertwining love. “How is it that you can still surprise me?” asked Pierre Bergé with a wry smile. It was a compliment that warmed the Little Prince’s heart. The Gardener’s admiration was priceless.
Bernard Buffet had started painting at the age of six, and had spent long hours in the Place des Vosges learning to draw with Monsieur Darfeuille. The master was a serious man, curt by nature. His lines were precise, and his compliments few. The lessons were difficult, and Bernard often emerged with his heart heavy from worry. Would he ever satisfy the man? Would he ever be able to paint with even passable skill? But soon his talent would rise to the surface, and the classes with Monsieur Darfeuille gave way to a loftier pursuit: the quest to find his own art. In the cold winter breeze, Bernard painted and sketched, drawing curious gazes from onlookers. They were his first audience, and not always his most forgiving. Running contrary to popular taste, he chose to challenge himself by painting in expressionist style. Perhaps you know this intense, shadowy style with its intensity of emotion, as in Edward Munch’s The Scream. Women would gasp in horror, and children would approach in fascination, and sometimes onlookers would complement him by throwing a coin in his hat.
As he leafed through the canvasses, he remembered the time he had spent in that tiny room above a family apartment in the 12th arrondissement of Paris. There he had reworked his paintings over long days without sustenance, and through many sleepless nights. His concentration had been at its apex; he felt no greater desire than to finish the work in front of him. He was hungry for existence, and thirsty to surpass himself. His depictions were often based around visions of misery. On the walls of his dingy little room, canvases hung in layers of screams, tears and nightmares.
But fate would be kind to Buffet, and an extraordinary destiny awaited. He was barely twenty years old when he received his first order from the government, for the most prestigious of institutions: the Museum of Modern Art. The seeds of his success had been sown. A few years later, one of the era’s most influential collectors, a man named Dr. Girardin, purchased a dozen of Buffet’s works, bequeathing them to the same museum upon his death in 1953. The Gardener’s arrival into the artist’s life was no less important an event. Their passionate love did not cloud Pierre Bergé’s business acumen, and he took his partner’s career into his hands. Buffet became a true impresario. Now, though, it was time for dinner. “Let’s go and eat some oysters; I yearn for the taste of sea salt and white wine,” he announced, rising from the divan.
Alan Alfredo Geday
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