Balthus: A Biography [Hardcover]

As others have already noted, there is much good study in this book on Balthus. Unfortunately, there is no shortage of autobiography on the part of Mr. Weber, who has painted himself into the Balthus picture as an antagonist with this work. Mr. Weber is relentless in insisting on the importance of Freudian interpretation, as seen, for example, in this paragraph: "He [Balthus] suggested repeatedly that psychoanalysis was unworthy -- and intellectually dangerous. But in fact, in his earlier years -- when most people he knew treated Freudian thought with respect and admiration -- Balthus, like Rilke, may well have been one of those people who believed in 'the primary efficacy of self-treatment' through his work. He, too, may have been afraid that greater self-knowledge and mental hygiene would have prevented him from working through his fantasies and neuroses in the manner he chose -- which was to paint them. Not that Balthus would ever have voiced such sentiments at the stage of his existence in which I found him, but one can easily imagine him having had such views earlier on." This passage seems equally likely to bear out Balthus's concerns regarding psychoanalysis (Mr Weber admits being a patient of psychoanalysis). Mr. Weber is also relentless in tracing in some depth the Jewish ancestry of the painter's mother; you cannot help but feel that it has great personal importance to the biographer himself.

Mr. Weber does not seem to fully understand the 'eternal realities' that lie below the surface structure of a Poussin painting. He has in the same way misunderstood the meaning of Coomaraswamy to Balthus. Here some reading of Platonic thought on seeing the 'real' through the veil of the world, perhaps even through the eyes of Augustine, would have helped. Mr. Weber repeatedly remains stuck in 'the veil.'

Finally, the gratuitous and unkind personal observations which do not serve to elucidate any aspect of Balthus's work or character, but only hurt the artist's family, bring to ruin what had potentially been a fine biography. If only Mr. Weber possessed a fraction of the editorial skill of Balthus!

If Lambert Strether, from "The Ambassadors", or the heroine of "The Portrait of a Lady", had written about their own experiences among the rich and sophisticated old-money types from the continent, their stories would have had many similarities to Weber's. At first he is charmed and approving of the old-world manners with which he is received. Balthus is charming. He answers the phone himself! Just slightly distracted, as older people can be, Balthus regales Weber with anecdotes of the famous and infamous celebrities that he has known, and Weber feels blessed. The great artist has deigned to confide in him. He is in the presence not only of great talent, but of great taste as well, and if such a hero includes him at the dinner table, it must be a kind of validation.

It is later that he feels seduced and misled. Balthus has lied! Balthus has invented stories about himself, to seem more romantic and more mysterious! The sophistication of the great houses holds dark secrets... there is a hint of non-noble blood... there is a hint of anti-semitism.... there is a hint that even the lady of the house can commit a faux pas with the queen of Spain! There were parties in Rome which lasted all night, at which seductions may have occurred! Weber is shocked. It may be the world of the great artists, but it is definitely not the world of which a good American would approve.

There is one major difference, though, between this book and the one Lambert Strether would have written. If James' hero had been invited into the home of one of the world's wealthiest men, to see a masterpiece which few people have had a chance to see in the last 50 years, he would have shown gratitude to the man who allowed him into his bedroom. Lambert Strether, if he had seen a box of hemorrhoid medicine on the night table, would have turned his eyes away with discretion, and made no mention of it to anyone. Yet this is the detail that Weber uses as the climax of the scene, and it is not the only lurid one that seems to hold a fascination for him. When you finish reading this book, what stays in your mind is not a new understanding of Balthus' background, and still less a new look at Balthus' art. What you remember is the roll of flab around Claus von Bulow's middle, or the lovely interviewee who fondles herself.

This is not a book about Balthus. It is about Weber and his disapproval. He should have named it "Lifestyles of the Rich and Slimy". It sure was fun to read.