When we look at his art, though, few bother to appreciate the articulate genius behind his wisecracking facade, or to think about the psychological burden he has had to endure from years of rejection by government granting institutions, curators, art critics, and members of the art establishment. The works succeed or fail by themselves, of course, but knowing the context in which they were created lends greater resonance to them.
Charles’s struggles to survive and thrive as an artist are ones that he shares with other artists, too. The fracturing of relationships and the forfeiture of any semblance of normal life are common occurrences for many artists. Few readers ponder their sacrifices — the sleepless nights; the years spent alone, painting when depressed, when elated; the self-promoting; the need to be constantly socializing, networking, trying to sell.
Of course, Charles is by no means the only successful self-promoter in the art world. Gustave Courbet was a great painter, but he was also a serious publicity seeker. So was Salvador Dali, and so is Jeff Koons. Andy Warhol was another big self-promoter; he felt that being good in business was the most fascinating kind of art, and that making money is art and good business acumen is the best art.
After decades without any official recognition or support, Pachter began to finally receive acknowledgement for his achievements in the 1990s. One of the highlights of his life was the year he received an honorary doctorate from Brock University in 1996.
The media release stated, “In the 1960s he completed his undergraduate education in Toronto, where his parents hoped he would pass on being an artist and become a doctor.” Finally he had become one.
In his honour, Atwood sent him the following ode:
The Life of Charles
(short version)
There once was a young man named Pachter
in whose life fine art was a factor
He painted and painted
until he was sainted
by an honorary degree for which
we shout congracht[1]
In 1999 Charles became a Member of the Order of Canada at an elegant ceremony in Rideau Hall in Ottawa. The award was itself a great honour, of course, but the whole thing was made sweeter by the fact that Governor General Adrienne Clarkson, an old friend, bestowed it on him. She congratulated Charles before the crowd, and then, knowing how much the award also meant to him, said, “I’m so glad you were able to bring your mother.”
Thirteen years later he was promoted to Officer of the Order of Canada. Letters of congratulations arrived from Shirley Thomson, head of the Canada Council, an organization that had turned him down a dozen times for a grant, and Matthew Teitelbaum, the director of the Art Gallery of Ontario, an institution that has yet to purchase any of his work.
In 2009 Pachter received an honorary doctorate from OCAD University, and a year later another one, this time from his alma mater, the University of Toronto. Following Pachter’s acceptance speech, Chancellor David Peterson told him, “Charles, you gave the best speech I have ever heard at a commencement.”
How I Met Charlie
In September 1969 I was at a friend’s house in Rosedale. I bumped into Charlie Pachter, a twenty-seven-year-old artist who’d already had two solo exhibitions. He was talkative and amusing, attracting attention with his wit and his storytelling. At that time he was living in a house he had just purchased on Shaw Street, where he was building a printmaking studio.
His creative enthusiasm about everything was infectious. Somehow we became friends. Over the next forty-seven years I got invited to his parties and exhibitions, met his friends, and watched collectors acquire his paintings. My wife, Sandy, and I were also guests at his winter home in Miami Beach and at his summer home in Orillia.
What’s he like? Well, for starters, he’s generous, loving, non-judgmental, sensitive, articulate, quixotic, cheeky, mercurial, capricious, and roguish. He’s also self-centred, and has a tendency to tell tasteless jokes — though he does so with great timing. A natural entertainer, he likes working a crowd, and he is a gifted raconteur, a historian, and an outstanding public speaker. He’s also an insightful architectural designer and developer, entrepreneur, promoter, bargain hunter, and negotiator. In short, he’s a Renaissance man. But the most remarkable feature about him, according to those who know him well, is that his kindness is boundless. His generosity is unsurpassed, whether it’s the artworks he gives to charities or the use of his home and studio that he freely provides for fundraising events.
Paradox defines him:
1 His studio is messy, and his clothes are often paint-spattered, but his living space is spotless (thanks to Guida, who has been his faithful cleaning lady for years).
2 He’s happiest when he is surrounded by people, and he’s happiest when he is by himself.
3 He’s a monarchist who loves royalty, yet he delights in satirizing them.
I was given the opportunity to write this book after I dropped in on Charlie a few months ago and he asked, “What are you doing these days?”
Having retired as a lawyer, I mentioned that I was now writing memoirs for various individuals. That prompted him to phone Kirk Howard, publisher at Dundurn Press, to inquire, “Are you still interested in publishing my biography, because if you are I may have a writer for you.”
Kirk’s response was simple: “If you want him to write it, then so do I.”
And so began the process of my researching Charlie’s life.
One of the things that made this easy (and difficult) is the fact that Charlie is a pack rat. He keeps a copy of almost everything he’s done, said, or thought, including records of almost everyone he’s ever met. So there was a great deal of material to look through.
His papers are now in the archives at the Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library at the University of Toronto. I spent my first few weeks working on the book there, poring through seventy boxes of Pachter lore, from his Grade 1 report card, to letters from camp that he wrote to his parents, to the voluminous correspondence between him and Margaret Atwood, whom he has known since they were teenagers.
I had the great pleasure of interviewing fifty of his friends, some of the most interesting people I have ever met. I particularly enjoyed the mischief of John Fraser, the erudition of Michael Marrus, the graciousness of Marcia McClung, the wit of Rosie Abella, the thoughtfulness of Rick Salutin, and the penetrating insights of Margaret Atwood. I chatted with eighty-nine-year-old Norman Jewison and was treated to lunch by philanthropist Nona Heaslip.
I watched Charlie give a funny, informative speech to one hundred elderly monarchists at the Canadian Royal Heritage Trust dinner at Wycliffe College in the University of Toronto about the creation of the Town of York by Ontario’s first lieutenant-governor, John Graves Simcoe.
A day in the life of Charlie, assuming you can keep up with him, entails following him on Dundas Street as he heads for Dim Sum King, one of his favourite Chinese restaurants, where the waiters call out to him “You VIP!” and where everyone seems to know him.
Being at home with him is like living in a circus. The phone rings, the email pings, the doorbell dings, and people come and go. An emerging artist asks him for a critique of his work, a lady
