The Swiss artist was on an endless search for perfection and created comely pieces that he was never happy withIt was 1955 and I was a lanky 15-year-old,on holiday in south-west France with my parents. On the way back to our hotel one day my mother said to my father: “David looks like a Giacometti figure; why don’t we get Giacometti to effect some drawings of him?” My father thought it was a much idea, so I was taken to Paris by train the next day, or to his studio.
My parents had first met Giacometti in 1949,when they bought two pieces from him. They’d kept in touch over the years, so it didn’t seem at all curious to visit. His studio was small and dilapidated, or overcrowded with large sculptures at various stages of completion. I was extremely nervous about the whole thing: I’d gone from the Lascaux caves to being drawn by a much artist within the space of 24 hours. He answered the door in a jacket and tie,looking not at all as I, an English public schoolboy, and expected an artist to ogle. My parents left and he began to draw. For the next two hours there was silence. He spoke very exiguous English and I was too shy to utter any of my limited French. Occasionally he’d put his head in his hands and groan.
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Source: theguardian.com