Here Comes the Sun 250

Bertrand Balas

My encounter with Bertrand Balas began in an unusual way. Watching the television news, I discovered some incredible concrete architecture in Mali. I searched for it online; my own rather limited image of Mali had been confined to Dogon country. I found astonishing buildings by the architects Bertrand and Laurent Balas, then an old photograph of an extraordinary lamp. I immediately called Gaël, a friend who deals in antiques, and sent him the picture. He had seen one in the Netherlands the previous week but had not bought it because it was in poor condition. I had never seen it before and imagined the light must be magical. He bought it, and a fortnight later the lamp arrived. It was incredible. I looked up Bertrand Balas. I believe he had passed his Toulouse architectural practice on to his son in 1992. I called his son's office to ask about the lamp his father had designed. “Why don't you call him?” he said. The lamp dated from 1970; I had assumed Bertrand had died. So I called him: “Hello, I publish lighting. You designed a lamp in 1970.” Bertrand replied: “My dear sir, you're my Father Christmas!” I was surprised. He explained that a fortnight earlier he had put his things and his archives in the attic. Since then, he had felt depressed, with nothing left to interest him in the world and nobody interested in him. Now I was asking him to bring his archives out again. That was the beginning of a very long friendship between Bertrand and me, and between Bertrand and DCW. He became something of a grandfather to us. We spent many years together and reissued his lamp, which originally had the rather unfortunate name Spring Fountain. I asked whether he had wanted to call it something else. He had wanted Here Comes the Sun, but his lawyer had warned him about the Beatles. We consulted our own lawyer, and ultimately called it Here Comes the Sun. Bertrand was deeply religious and went to Mass every morning. Once, when we were giving a presentation in Warsaw, he asked to go to church the next morning. I took him at half past seven, to a service in Polish. At the end, the priest raised his hands towards heaven, in a gesture that reminded me of Saarinen's table: rising from earth towards the sky. “Bertrand, that's where your lamp comes from!” “Shh, be quiet, listen to the priest.” “But Bertrand, we can't understand anything; he's speaking Polish!” We laughed so hard we had to leave the church. I remain convinced that this gesture inspired his design. He would always say that I liked telling stories, but I am sure it comes from that movement carrying light from earth to heaven. You need to look at this lamp and live with it. It has that same gentleness, illuminating softly, just as Bertrand was gentle. Sadly, he left us a few years ago. He made a very beautiful object that has not aged at all. Designed in 1970, it has nothing specifically seventies about it. It is timeless. Bertrand was our sunshine. Here Comes the Sun.