What a dork, playing the bagpipes. Imagine spending such a ludicrous amount of time, wealth, and your own prestige to validate yourself in the eyes of the public, yet three hundred years later when people google your name, one of the first results they find is an article from a British organization known as The Bagpipe Society, who claim to have been “Promoting the Bagpipe Revival since 1986.” They’ve only been operating for around forty years, and yet they receive the same amount of online traffic and notoriety as you, when you are the one actually being googled. I should respect that, in all honesty. The Bagpipe Society is way ahead of the game as far as marketing goes, luring in undergrad students through writing random articles about 18th century French lawyers that are tangentially related to the instrument of the bagpipes. And you know what? The Bagpipe Society is right. All everyone talks about nowadays in the world of music is “Oh, this person will be the next pop superstar,” or “Ah, this rapper is actually the greatest of all time.” To hell with that. I say bring back the goddamn bagpipe. 

These were some of the first thoughts I had upon researching Gaspard de Gueidan, 17th century French lawyer, aristocrat, and alleged noble. 

It was in May, and I sat in my bedroom on the third story floor of my host family’s house in Aix-en-Provence, white cotton bedsheets strewn around me. There was a near constant heat wave in Aix during my stay, so a pair of towering wooden windows remained open next to my bed, pining for a breeze to come by. It never did, and all the windows really offered was something to accidentally hit my head against when waking up in the morning. On my desk sat a croissant, of which I could not believe it was so cheap for how good it was, and offered a pitiful realization that every time I ate a croissant in the United States, I was getting scammed. Next to it was a European Coca Cola, which I remind my friends on a near-weekly basis to be much better than American Coke. I saved these as a reward for myself after finishing my research for this project. 

I scanned through the couple of documents I haved saved, usually having to translate them from French. As I doid, I feellt like I amwas reading the same thing over and over again, rephrased or paraphrased to not repeat the twigs of information known about Mr. Gueidan. 

“He commissioned art of himself as nobility, of which he was actually not.” 

“Paintings were also made of his family members to improve their public perception, including his wife and son.” 

And finally, “A statue was made of one of his ancestors who fought in the crusades. An ancestor who did not exist.” 

* 

My actual first experience with Mr. Gueidan came from one of my first visits to the Musée Granet in Aix, occurring only a couple of days into the trip. I showed up at the museum in a jetlagged fugue state, already an hour late from a nap that lasted too long, and I began to wander the halls like a zombie. My original choice for this project was actually a self-portrait by Rembrandt and it would be somewhat similar to this, although it would have been a serious dive into the artist’s health and mental state during his life. What can I say, I’m a patron of high art. I stumbled around the basement of the museum looking for this painting, until a tap on the shoulder by my professor and guide, Dr. Silas Zobal, brought me back to reality. He explained that the Rembrandt autoportrait was on loan to a showcase in London and would not be returning for at least a few months (which if anything, contributed to one of the many annoyances I had against the British during this trip. Terrible flights through British Airways, stealing my paintings, and creating the Bagpipe Society. I will not be visiting there anytime soon). Rembrandt’s absence during this time meant I had to pivot to a different art project, as the project had to be about something physically in the Musée Granet. So when I lumbered backwards in my sleep-deprived stupor and ran into this man, I knew it would be love at first sight. I was then given a run down of who this attractive aristocrat was by my other professor, Dr. Catherine Dent, who explained to me an abridged version of the following: 

This guy looks rich, very rich, to the point of being a noble. And that’s exactly what he wanted. Gaspard de Gueidan was rich, by all means, as being an aristocrat lawyer will accomplish that;, however his bloodline was as average as average could be. Not a trace of nobility as far as the eye could see. His family was wealthy, yes, but this occurred through trade, accomplished far before Gaspard had even been born, all the way back in the 17th century. Through entering the world of law and eventually making it into the Parliament of Provence as president, Mr. Gueidan found it appropriate to celebrate in the only way fit for an 18th century lawyer: lies. He would go on to commission multiple paintings from one of the greatest portrait artists of his time and region, that being Hyacinthe Rigaud, famous at the time for his portrait of Louis XIV. Rigaud would go on to make four total paintings of Gaspard, as he attempted to emulate the grandeur of other noble families of the time, who apparently would also commission Rigaud to create portraits of themselves. 

At this moment, I think my brain wasn’t quite sure how to react to all of this information. The haze of jetlag covering the blank white walls of the Musée Granet, with Gaspard of all people being the only one staring back at me, created a surreal and almost feverish environment, and I was feeling a little scared. My mind coped in the only way it knew how to, by imagining how Gaspard commissioned these paintings in the first place: 

Imagine, if you would, a bright summer sun pouring in through the murky, yet comfortable green curtains of the Gueidan estate, a comfortable yet glaring contrast with the red walls and pillows of an aristocrat’s bedroom. No lanterns or candlelight to brush up the old world fugue, and all there is accompanying the bed is a man, looking longingly at the ceiling with rosy cheeks and his nightgown afluster in a way a thinking gentleman would have it, pondering his life on a lazy day. What more could a man ask for? His personal assistant, who, for the sake of keeping track of everyone I will call Benezet, but could really be called anything that sounded Provencal enough. He walks in, and asks the man on the bed a simple question. 

“Monsieur Gaspard, we should start preparing for your meeting with Parliament this next week. I understand they’re very worried about the water systems in–” and before he can say another word, the man in bed sits up, hand draped over forehead. 

“Benezet,” says Gaspard, “What is a bird of paradise that cannot show its wings? Why, it is only as common and mediocre as a crow.” 

Benezet blinks at Gaspard. “Excuse me, sir?” 

“What is an angel with no wings? Or a mermaid that cannot sing or swim?” 

“I don’t know, Gaspard–” 

“Why, they are basically as normal as your average human.” 

“Okay, Monsieur–” 

“Nothing special at all.” 

“Alright–” 

“Certainly not special enough to have paintings made of them, Benezet.” 

“Gaspard!” says Benezet. He stares at Gaspard with his eyebrows raised. “Is there a problem?” He steps forward towards Gaspard. “Are you having, perhaps, self-image problems?” 

Gaspard grabs Benezet by the shirt collar. “Yes! Yes my wonderful little Benezet! But not in the way you would think.” 

“Well, what is your problem exactly?” 

“I… I have no self-image, Benezet.” 

“Oh, but surely you do, sir. Come now, you are humorous and intelligent, your family is rich, you are a well-known character.” 

“No! Ugh, Benezet. You misunderstand. I know how adored I am, I consider myself a little bundle of joy. It’s that,” Gaspard hesitates. “I literally have no self-image.” 

Benezet reconsiders his line of work at this moment. “Sir?” 

“I wish to have a literal image. Of myself.” 

Benezet stands like a stone gargoyle for a moment. “You mean like a painting?” 

“Oh, Benezet, you understand me so well!” 

“I can contact a local portrait artist, Gaspard, we can make something nice looking for you–” 

“Oh, no Benezet, you don’t understand me at all! Birds of paradise, my friend! We must show our feathers and fly.” 

“So, shall I get a more prestigious artist for you–” 

“I want literally the best artist possible, Benezet.” 

Benezet rubs his eyes. “Okay, how about Hyacinthe Rigaud. His painting of King Louis XIV is quite marvelous, I hear–” 

“I expect to have him here within the week, Benezet. And he shall paint a portrait of me as the nobility I was always meant to be!” 

“But, sir, you’re not–” 

“Benezet, why are you even still here? Write to Rigaud, right away! Get him here, he must paint me as splendidly as I deserve to be. And I liked those little compliments you gave me earlier, Benezet, about how funny I am.” 

“You did, huh?” 

“Yes. Because I agree with them. Have him paint me as the quirky character I am. Jolly and carefree. Perhaps I should be doing something in the painting to show off my eccentric personality?” 

“Um, how about feeding the birds, or playing with children in the market square–” 

“What if I played the bagpipes?” 

“Yes, of course, bagpipes. I’ll write that one down.” Benezet rubs his forehead, his poor, 18th century self unable to alleviate his worries with an Advil. 

And this is most likely not at all how this exchange played out, especially considering poor Benezet’s lack of existence. I have completely lied about the creation of these paintings, but their whole existence is built on a lie by Gaspard, so why should I worry?