The vision of Robert Rauschenberg, outstanding artist,

Last week a man at the vanguard of the arts passed away. Bob Rauschenberg may not be known to many reading this column. He was the consummate artist, the perfection of what it means to push the boundaries of human endeavor, and not least, he was a hell of a nice person.

He was admired around the world (perhaps publically more in Japan and Europe than here) and had major exhibitions of his artwork in virtually every major city and all the top art museums worldwide. He had a reputation for being demanding and difficult.

I always found him a child in an adult’s body, childlike in his ability to see clearly. Treat him with kid gloves and he relaxed, was kind and open.

I produced an exhibit for him in a defunct monastery deep in Provence, France. Turning back the clock over 20 years, I can remember his arrival. Coordinating his journey from Captiva Island off the west coast of Florida, along with his single piece of artwork (a 40-meter single photograph), had been troublesome.

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     He took a flight from Tampa to La Guardia, then took a taxi to Kennedy Airport, then flew to Paris and transferred the next morning to the four-hour train south. At the station, we picked up an exhausted 60-year-old, who proceeded to complain by smiling and charming everyone.

After the mayor and other dignitaries in Arles welcomed him, he turned to me and asked, quietly, “Do you think I could get to the hotel for some sleep, please?� Lucien Clergue, the famous photographer (and head of the Rencontres Internationales de la Photographie, Arles; the RIP), and I husbanded Bob away, immediately.

 Over the next week and a half, he never complained once, was thrilled to have his photograph exhibited on a ribbon of aluminum curling around the apse of the church (Lucien had designed the setting  and  overall  proved the most charming and gracious artist.

His one-man audio-visual presentation in the 1,500-seat Roman Amphitheater was a sensation. The minister for culture, Jack Lang, was thrilled to have him there, of course, as were his contemporaries, artists Cristo, Lartigue, Clergue, Beard, Hockney and a host of other luminaries.

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      During the opening party a strange thing happened, one that shook Rauschenberg. When I met him over the years, he always mentioned it. And to this day, no one has any credible explanation.

Standing for a Polaroid portrait on the veranda of the host’s palatial estate, Christo and Bob stood together for a snapshot taken by Clergue. Click, whir went the Polaroid and out popped... an image of the two torsos, one with a head (Bob Rauschenberg’s) and one without (Christo’s).

OK, Lucien Clergue thought, take another. Now bear in mind Lucien is a master of photography, the contemporary of Ansel Adams, the Westons, Lartigue and the like. Another Polaroid popped out and again, Christo’s head? Nothing. Bob quietly popped the first one in his pocket.

Clergue thought it was a trick of the light, so he moved them over and took another. Same result. There was a slight blur where Christo’s head should have been, but otherwise nothing. Lucien took four quick shots with his Leica and later they proved to have the same “fault.�

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     Over dinner, I asked Bob what he thought it all meant. Smiling, shaking his head, he said he had no idea. Several years later, meeting outside MoMA by chance, he brought up his fond memories of the RIP events. He mentioned Christo and his new work (wrapping in Berlin, I think it was), which he admired. And then he mentioned the Polaroid. I explained that the still images Lucien took were similarly blank. He was not surprised. So, I again asked him what he thought it meant. He smiled and said, “It’s just light, it plays tricks.â€�

“But why did you pocket the Polaroid?�

He laughed, “You saw that? I still have it, it’s important. Light bends, light refracts around stars, with gravity. We know that. Why should it not bend here on earth sometimes? Sometimes things happen here that are small but equally amazing, it is what makes living so worthwhile.�

A great visionary shall be missed.

Peter Riva, who formerly lived in Amenia, now is at home in New Mexico.