L'atelier
There are words in the world that fly from one corner to the next, jump form mountains to rivers, and stream to the ocean of forgotten thoughts —these words are the ones written on sand. But there are other words that transform into action —reaction— and such is the case of what once a person, a master of clothing, told me. I shall always remember those words as I experience the leniency and cruelness of my profession.
In a small building —ruined by days of past splendor— in Rue des Grands Augustins XV, the story of Sébastien Beaumont started to convolute. It was then, at age twenty five, with the small resumed franc fortune from his late mother, and verging from madness to fevers, he created his first and last collection. The year, 1937. The collection, one that inspired 20th century greats.
It was imagination and not perception what drove Sébastien’s dreams. Certainty was nowhere to be seen, nor touched or smelled if you had the luck to enter his fabled studio.
To my recollection, I was indeed the only one who ever entered the sacred atelier of the madman. Was I in need to enter? Certainly not, with such vast years of experience. But, was I curious?
It was May, same year, in one of Ambroise Vollard’s parties in Montparnasse. The scene was joyous, even when the host rarely left his seat, except for the occasional trip to the lavatory. There was such a lushness to the place the party theme could easily have been the Amazon or the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. The attendees were dressed in casual-chic garments —hanging box and swagger coats, jacket capes, and chapeaus, or sumptuous chiffon dresses with long gloves, and bouffant skirts. I distinctly remember an amazing woman in an emerald sari whose only objective was to avoid me, and the, younger than most, man in a single-breasted jacket and matching indigo jodhpurs who was standing alone drinking at the bar next to an empty stool, waiting for conversation. People walked in and out of the third floor apartment continuously but not one of them greeted the man while he stirred his drink a hundred times. The light of the place made the velvet of his attire shine in waves. It was beautiful and composed, with a palpable melancholy that I found so very appealing, though made me feel foolish because nobody else seemed to, and so after small talk with two or four guests of name, I walked to the bar and sat beside him. His long wheat wavy hair blocked my view of his face, and I thought, his of mine, but after I sipped my drink, he turned and said “You have not been watching me, you have been gazing at me. If only your work had more intent than your vanity.” People who know me would not believe what at that moment I felt and did; I was puzzled. Was a youngster patronizing me? I who had reinvented the cube, who had swallowed the world and spat it in my own image. “What do you do,” I asked the man, “that makes you think my work is no more than my own position in this world?” And what came next would forever change the course of my following years.
I stood up and walked away form the bar after three minutes of conversation. I stayed at the party for two more hours, occasionally looking at Sébastien Beaumont —as he had presented himself— stir the following three drinks he had until he left. He spoked to nobody. He looked for me not even once. “I am an artist as well, though you nor anybody knows about me. I am developing my first couture collection here in Paris.” As a man of the arts I did not doubt the statement of my counterpart. Though I dwelled on the premise of his art, and his dismissal of mine and my intentions. “For now, know that I am here because my mother, Beatrice de Beaumont, was patron of the host when he was in the prime of his life, and alone in Paris, he looks after me with familiarly regard. I will present my collection, with his favor, at The Ritz, in two weeks time. If by chance you find yourself on Rue des Grands-Augustins, the number is quinze.” To date —Sébastien Beaumont was a man of few dull words— I don’t know if he knew my studio was there at the time, but I am quite sure he knew Balzac, and Le Chef-d’œuvre inconnu.
A few weeks before my encounter with the young couturier I had experienced grief. By the time we met for the second time, three days after the party, I still felt it. War had blasted my country a year before and little did we know of what came next. I walked down the street to the atelier on a Tuesday morning. The door of the small building was gnawed and the knocker was the face of a gargoyle. The windows of every floor were covered by dark grey drapes. I knocked the door continuously and then forcefully for a few minutes, and when it finally opened, dust covered the air and my clothes and face like if the place had been closed for years. On the other side, in front of me already walking away was Sébastien Beaumont going up to the second, third or fourth floor. Closing the door behind me I went up the wooden stairs trying to glance at everything inside the building. Most of the furniture was covered with cream blankets and the few portraits or paintings I could see were somber and badly kept. He was waiting for me on the third floor to show me inside what I could see was the place in the house were he, and I supposed his aides, would work. The spacious room was full of dummies and long wood tables covered with dozens of fabrics. It was messy like the rest of the house but I was positive, since my own method was not the tidiest, he found order in it. “I am terribly sorry about the mess, but I work and live alone and hardly have time to clean.” For a moment his comment seemed common, for my art was individual, but then again, I thought, his was one ruled by time, and of more than one piece, which made his apparent passion even more intense. Walking to a window I said in an out of touch Spanish to myself, but loud enough for both of us, “En peores garitas hemos hecho guardia.” He didn’t seem to pay attention and invited me to look at thirty finished pieces. “I have a long way to go,” he said unassumingly. The amount of work was outstanding —I would later discover he had been working on it for a month, depriving himself plenty of times of food and sleep— and the haute couture, sublime. After so many years, memory can be cloudy, but if it is to serve as historian, I remember appliqué off-shoulder dresses, streamline single-breasted jackets with peplum, princess dresses in silk and organza, voluminous rumba skirts with earthy-tone degrade, opulent smocks with fur collars, and what seemed like soft 15th century-esque visors.
I finished looking at every garment by myself; Sébastien Beaumont had sat twenty five pieces before, in the middle of the room were he had two large jacquard divans with mohair blankets. He invited me to sit and before I could utter a word about his collection, he said “I did not invite you to talk about my work, neither did you come to praise. We are here to discuss art.” At that very moment I remember thinking about Rimbaud; he must have been the very same —maybe a reincarnation.
“There are over 70,000 North African muslim immigrants in France,” he said plainly. “I said to myself, I have yet to see something that resembles that reality. And I did it without compromising my aesthetic convictions.” The collection was conceptual, not obvious, but a tour de force nonetheless.
“Man is condemned to be free, and art is our own freedom —individual— and that of all —collective. We exist in the world, and the notion of our existence, the awareness, allows us to decide who and what we want to be and the roles we play; we do not have a fixed nature. We define who we are by using our freedom, and the way we try to change the world with it. But should we use freedom for such ideal? Freedom grants humans the capacity to bestow attributes on others and the environment, but perception is desire. So intention –in our case artistic intention– leading to consciousness can be the direct answer of an artist or the quest of an observer. If man cannot find meaning in the world, then maybe by ethical, moral, or political association they shall find it in art. But always remember, freedom precedes.”
He stood and walked to one of his tables, were he leaned for support. He looked weaker than before, somewhat pale; self-assured but fragile. “Tell me,” he said after fatigue released his lower back, “with so many realities, how do we choose? Should we prioritize? Think of your realities, and those you share with others. Is our work designed to deceit or show the world is no longer the place to look for meaning and order.”
Sébastien Beaumont then apologized and left. “Today, I am ashamed to say, feel the most tired. I am sorry you have come here for such brevity. You are welcome to stay for as long as you want.”
When he had left the room and I was still sitting on one of the divans. I roamed the area, looking at open drawers, a cabinet filled with old china crockery, and boxes full of buttons. I touched the mohair, the walls, and the tables of fabric when I stumbled across what back then was a recent picture of Sébastien with Moroccan rugs in the background. He was smiling and looked specially dapper with high wasted trousers and a short-sleeve safari shirt. On the same table were his soft visors, almost hijabs. Was his commitment a perfect mix of self-indulgence and love of neighbor?
My country had been terrorized, and we all had to move on, but how we decided to do it, changed ourselves. If art had been my outlet, and by chance, it was the perfect outlet for freedom, then maybe I could also do my duty while representing myself.
I began painting in my studio for long hours; painted black and white and gray, until the day I was to meet Sébastien again. Oh, how long I remember those days were.
In time for his presentation, I arrived at The Ritz in a black high-peaked lapel tux and mother of pearl fish cufflinks. Le Grand Jardin was filled with allium flowers and jasmine strings hanging from the trees. It was a usual Ritz crowd. Coco was there, Schiaparelli, Gide, Mattisse, Dietrich, Dior, and Cristobal. The ground-lighting was sober with little bright dots above the garden like a starry sky. A man at the beginning of the catwalk started playing Prélude á l’après-midi d’un faune by Debussy, and the pieces came out; fifty finished looks parading and then clapping with the crowd in roaring euphoria for the master. It had been bravura, and Sébastien Beaumont knew it. He greeted the audience solemnly and left; left to never be seeing again.
Sébastien Beaumont secluded himself in the Rue des Grands-Augustins house, and four days later, Ambroise’s aide found him on the floor of his atelier, among the things he probably loved the most: his mohair, divans, and clothes. He died, Ambroise would later tell me, from disregarding the symptoms of the yellow fever. His kidney had given up.
I continued my work with renewed grief. Portraying the absurdity of the human condition, but hoping for change. And now, that this phase in my life comes to an end, and I am to move on, remembering the epitome of my run in Paris, is nothing shorter than a homage. A deserved adieu to a great, and the inspiration for what would become one of my proudest achievements, and my conclusive idea of art.
P. P.
Paris, France, 1955
Text by J. Alberto Lizárraga Castro