The Man on the Watch
Richard Peduzzi

This text was published in 2001 in the Exhibition Catalogue "Charles Auffret (1929-2001), Sculptures-Dessins", Paris, Galerie Nicolas Plescoff

The last time I saw him, we were in his studio talking and looking over his sculptures and his latest drawings, the three of us sitting with Jean-Baptiste.

Night was falling, and the figures seemed to dance around us, participating in the gracious moment that we shared. We were so content, isolated from noise and others’ attention; we continued to talk in the darkness, and then I went off into the night. I look back at myself and see the decisive instant that determined the direction of my life.

I had my dreams, but no references, no foundations, only my intuitions and instincts guided me and guide me still.

I pushed open the door of the studio in the rue Malebranche where he taught drawing. I had gotten there late and stood in a corner of the room. I saw him walking around the students, going up to each one in a religious silence, explaining, dwelling on some difficulty or other. I had never felt so much tension, so much emotion emanate from someone; his gaze seemed to penetrate to the very depths of the beings and things around him.

He seemed to be a man of great goodness and yet also like an animal on the watch, ready at any instant to pounce on his prey. He was a young man in the prime of life, and I didn’t know then that I was standing in the presence of a truly great teacher and exceptional artist. I watched his students, armed with charcoal, plumb lines, and drawing boards held like shields, and realized that I was there to join in what looked like a fight with life, with forms, with light and shadow, and with time itself.

Among the students, there was a red-headed young woman, beautiful, with a mischievous and commanding look; he corrected her drawing and looked at her with tenderness. It was Arlette, who would become Jean-Baptiste’s mother.

I didn’t know then that I would so love and admire this man throughout the rest of my life. Coming out of my dream, lost in the middle of nowhere, I found myself deep in thought in the sad, dark street.

I knew that Jean-Baptiste had to prepare him a long and difficult voyage and accompany him to the door of that strange territory unknown to all. I imagine him somewhere now, lost in his thoughts. He contemplates the world that he loved so well, his heart and eyes in the stars, juggling with time, as he knew so well how to do, to the rhythm of silence and solitude. He had so much left to say, so much more to teach us. Suddenly, the fog in the street dispersed, the lights and the music of the city surged forth, and landscapes appeared and faded like memories, and with the directions that he had given me, I got reoriented and headed off again on my way.