Art: Obiter Dicta

On sight, no one would take Louis Bouché for a modern artist. A tall, portly gentleman of 54, he sports a mustache of Edwardian proportions, wears a black derby and totes a walking stick when in town. Bouché’s paintings and his opinions about art in general may seem similarly oldfashioned, but they make sense.

The paintings, on exhibition in Manhattan last week, are unassuming oil sketches of things Bouché likes to look at: old farmhouses, city streets and hallways, suburban backyards, antique wooden toys scattered on a table, shop fronts, roadside stands, and now & then a pretty girl. Quiet scenes lovingly painted in quiet colors, they utterly lack the shock value most moderns strive for. Instead of shocking, Bouché seduces the eye.

The son of a French-born interior decorator, Bouché grew up in Manhattan, ran an art gallery in his youth. During the ’20s and ’30s, he painted “miles and miles” of chic murals, which earned him a lot of money but little self-satisfaction. Today he concentrates on the minor easel-painting he is best at, and to teaching at Manhattan’s Art Students League. Bouché’s students are apt to be startled at first by such obiter dicta as: ¶ “Artists are multiplying to such an extent it’s a national disease. Their terrific concern is with art and not with life.”é”Art isn’t the only thing in the world —the cemeteries are full of great people who never made a name. And what has success got to do with art anyway? Everybody can’t be top man. If you love painting, the only reward you need is to paint.” é”Of course every artist has to borrow from others. Picasso is the greatest thief of them all, but still, when he walks down a street he keeps his eyes open.” é”The reason I like painting from nature is that you can’t beat it. God is the greatest artist. You can’t imagine anything nearly as rich.” é”Good taste is a great curse to the nation. It spells only one thing, an inferiority complex. People can’t afford bad taste because it means they’re jerks, that they don’t belong. If this keeps up, no one will spit on the floor any more.” é”It’s a good life, being a painter. You can live like a millionaire; off to the country for the summer, back to the city in the winter. Art is just love, that’s all; when I’m messing paint around, my blood pressure goes up like the devil. Sometimes one of my students will have something delectable to paint, and put it off till tomorrow. I don’t get that. If you have a wonderful girl, you don’t postpone kissing her! But then, I’m 100% Latin.”

The word “love” runs like a refrain through Bouche’s conversation; it is implicit in his art. Humility shapes his art, too. The fact that he can never match the overflowing vigor of a Rubens or a Picasso does not bother him. He is content with painting quiet, tender little pictures as beautifully as he can.