I am a devotee of eighteenth century French fine and decorative arts. It's been a consumming passion since I opened a library book when I was aged nine in my ol' hometown. I gasped when I saw the sensuous curve of a cabriole leg on a small Louis XV fauteuil, and I fell in love for the first time. Many years later I found a copy of that book - for sentimental reasons - and added it to my now fairly notable library on the subject. If I had money, I would have about triple the volumes I now possess I suppose. I've had for years a relatively good memory of where each particular item that has excited me is located in this reference world, and it is only now that I begin to wish I were better organized and had indexed my collection. As I attempt the feat now I find it very slow progress. Mais, c'est la vie!
Mark and I have assembled a small collection of furniture and objets d'arts over the years. Much has been reproduction, but of good proportion and line. That which is genuine is simple and pure for the most part. And there are those few mystery pieces which I wonder about - might it be the real thing? Possibly not, but it's fun to imagine having acquired that 'find' which is so much more valuable than your investment!
I practice reading French, avec difficile certain moi, in my monthly 'bible' of the French Arts: L'Objet D'Arts. This gem of a publication is all clarity and depth on these subjects. The French have a pride in their artistic heritage which is unprecedented. I've purchased children's books in France on the important stylistic changes of each period of furniture. Imagine American children being taught routinely about their decorative and fine arts history. We barely manage any art programs. We simply don't value the arts in this country, at least not in a manner which imparts their genuine baseline importance to society. Instead of being a foundation for broad intellectual achievement they are viewed as a superfluous luxury of the elite. But back to L'Objet d'Arts. I delight in each sweet tidbit. This month we have these articles: Masterpieces of French Painting exhibited at the Grand Palais, Two Centuries of Italian drawings in French Museums, the master works of the ebeniste, Pierre Gaston Brion, who worked for the first Empire through the reign of Charles X. Brion's work is fascinating to me, for he seems, to my eye, to be less skilled than his predecessors. The carving seems heavy and unaccomplished, in sharp contrast to the likes of Riesener, Weisweiler, Carlin, Levasseur or René DuBois - a favorite of mine for his whimsical concoctions of his 'secretaire abattant' and 'armoire secretaire', lavished with Chinoiserie decoration and Grecian motifs, mixed together on single pieces which should therefore not be a success - but they are!. Delightful fantasies indeed.
However, in my estimation, la creme de la creme is Jacques Dubois. Oh, Heavens! What an artist he is - I believe his soul surely lives on in each piece he laid a hand upon, and when you see them you may well sense his presence. It is potent. He loved this furniture with all his heart. It is exquisite, refined, tempting us to sin somehow in its delirious obsession with beauty. Ne'er a veneer of Japanese lacquer or slice of kingswood marquetry or twisted leaf of gilded bronze becomes heavy or cloying, no, never, not for a moment. The grace of the rococo is here portrayed as it was meant to be; light and airy and a reminderto me of a beautiful noble garden gone wild from neglect. A garden, slowly being brought back to it's formal glory. It is that moment when, ah-ha, you see the last of the wild ivy scrolling about asymmetrically, but thinned and trimmed and through it, now the gilt bronze, one peers into the hidden order of the formal garden, represented either with imported Japanese lacquer work or beautifully conjoined fine French marquetry, waxed to a gloss with layers of French polish, the sleek, smooth glow of the aged finish sparkles. The rich plateau resting above is of cool sleek and fabulously expensive marble (many of the great marbles were mined out at this time), as if it were the escallier d'honneur to the great house of this, this imaginary garden, oh, no - this commode. My heart swoons even from the photograph, and when I'm present before one of these temples to the high and holy arts of men I have sometimes wept from sheer delight, and quivered as if Mark were making love to me at that very moment. All becomes damp and moist! Should I touch a piece I shall surely be accused of an indecent public act...
There are others! Each strike a chord of their own, and when at a holy place of residence for a fine collection of these artworks, one sees, no hears the sumptuous harmonious concerto that has been captured, held at its utter-most virtuoso up-swell of strings and voices and cast in place for all time. This gives me goose-bumps!
There are so many more. Cressent, Gaudreaus, Latz - pour les pendules! Migeon, Boudin, Baumhauer... too many fine poets of the joinery of the finest woods. I will soon add photographs, in particular a set I shot at the Getty showing the construction of a fine Louis XV/XVI transitional writing table, petitely scaled for a lady. Magnifique!
I hear the voices - enough, enough. Twit boy, its your passion and few others... let the weary world be...
So, for tonight, I shall do just that. For tonight...
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