On the walls of his grand salon, Balthazar Klossowski de Rola has hung only one of his own drawings—a portrait of an adolescent girl—and none of his paintings. If a visitor (ushered into the grand salon by a Philippine majordomo) didn’t know that “monsieur le comte,” as he prefers to be called, was really the pseudonymous painter Balthus, he might believe himself to be in the residence of a wealthy lover of antiques. All kinds of antique furniture can be found in the entrance hall and in the grand salon itself—writing desks, sideboards, bookcases. And there are flowers: bouquets of lilacs in the corners of the room and a garden of rhododendrons in front of the house. A pencil study of French marigolds by Delacroix and a lithograph by Bonnard suggest that the inhabitant of this luxurious place has a taste for the fine arts. It pleases him to recall that the supreme insult of Captain Haddock (the crusty old sea captain from the Tintin cartoon series) is: “Artiste!” Balthus takes up for himself this affectation of scorn. He refuses to pose as an artist.
Thus he lives not at all in the manner of a painter, conventionally understood, but in the opulent and quiet style of a world-weary aristocrat. He allows no casualness in his dress; a cashmere scarf is knotted at his neck; he leans on a dark wooden cane encrusted with mother-of-pearl; he comports himself like a successful country gentleman.
Balthus lives secluded
