Ambroise Vollard, Leo Castelli and Denise René exemplify the way gallery owners can become such legendary figures that they remain forever fixed, like silhouettes or archetypes. With Christian Berst, the first contemporary Art Brut dealer in Paris, this tendency is particularly acute, as he works in an area where biography plays such a problematic role. In his very nature, the outsider artist is so strongly defined by the circumstances of his life that the layman is quick to reduce his work to it. For some artists, catastrophe struck on the dark night they were conceived; for others, childhood dramas were the site of misdirections; for others still, the stirrings of adulthood and maturity were marked by an equivocal disengagement. Finally, some artists seem perfectly well-adjusted during the day, but invite the monsters of irrationality in at night. In the best-case scenario, we know nothing about the life of the artist, and can happily explore his works, looking for suggestive clues. In Christian Berst’s case, I have never heard his life story, and I have simply looked for clues as to what drives his passion, his individuality, his centrality to the landscape of contemporary art.
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