Michel de Salzmann

The Gurdjieff Institute of Geneva

The reflections and memories at the heart of this text have been contributed by the Swiss pupils of Michel de Salzmann (1923–2001), many of whom discovered the Gurdjieff teaching under his direction in the early 1960s. In their experience, he incarnated the Work unforgettably. This memoir is a collective homage from those who still follow the path on which Michel was trail blazer, guide, and companion.

ichel de Salzmann’s special link with Geneva was certainly rooted in the familial link to the city of his mother, Jeanne de Salzmann. The first Geneva group, later the Gurdjieff Institute of Geneva, was formed in 1957 with her encouragement. She entrusted initial responsibility for the group to Lizelle Reymond (1899–1994), who with Madame de Salzmann’s agreement quickly turned to Michel to animate and direct the work of the group. Lizelle helped him with unsparing devotion.

Far from Paris, Michel seemed to benefit from more space to search for a voice and approach capable of touching a new generation of pupils and sustaining their work. Called by the need to give meaning to their lives, that generation began to arrive in large numbers at the end of the 1960s and the beginning of the 1970s. Coming to Geneva for one weekend each month, Michel also spent many summer weeks in Chandolin, a village in the Valasian Alps at an altitude of 2000 meters. Work sessions there for members of the Geneva group attracted guests from all over the world.

We were to discover many facets of Michel in his role as a teacher. Little by little, with much tact and patience, supported by his undeniable charisma, he succeeded in awakening in us a lasting and deep interest in the Work.

What immediately struck us about him was that he truly loved life, loved it in all of its forms. Always ready to seize occasions as they arose to open our eyes to our reality, he manifested a creativity and freedom that fascinated us. Whether in a group or in private conversation, we could be pierced in an instant by the sacred force of his words. But then he might take up a completely different topic—and finish with a remark evoking laughter and smiles.

There could be no doubt about the seriousness required by our engagement in the Work, but a formal tone and dogmatic rigidity had no part in how Michel was with us. His great mobility of thought and resourceful intelligence reflected his interest in all things human. This allowed him to explore new forms whenever he glimpsed the possibility of fanning the flames of our thought or feeling.

He would show us how an intentional act could produce a new intensity and thereby call us to an extraordinary energy. We had the impression that he understood what was needed to transform a given situation into a moment of exploration and work, just as he could know the inner state of one or another of us and help us develop our attention and free ourselves from obstacles.

In fact, everything served to provoke friction and confrontation with oneself. In addition to initiating various workshops in Geneva and sometimes herculean construction projects at Chandolin, he continuously introduced the most diverse activities: theater improvisation, translation projects, vocal studies, memorable journeys (Mount Athos, Iran, Afghanistan), studies of the Work Ideas, conferences on contemporary scientific themes. Nothing was off limits if it could serve the Work, nourish our questions, and permit those who rose to the challenge to better understand how they functioned and, as well, to see their lacks.

In response to our heartfelt questions, Michel would invite the questioner to come back to himself and in that way better see what was at stake. He never preached or dramatized. This approach to Work, so light and subtle, belonging to him alone, bore witness both to his genuine humility and to his respect for the candidate-seeker who took the risk of coming out of his rut. He didn’t hit us over the head with truths; he made us feel that it was up to us to discover or rediscover and, above all, verify them. So doing, he created the taste of a living search, free of all considering—an indispensable preparation for real initiation, which one can only receive from oneself.

Michel was an awakener. Depending on the situation, he could encourage the seeker by a look or word, or, on the contrary, like a Zen master he could shake you unsparingly, administer the needed blow with the stick, so to speak, and the scales would instantly fall from your eyes. He kept watch so that we too might remain aware for as long as possible, but when he saw that we were lost in a whirl of associations, he would seek us out directly, address us personally. Waking up was painful then.

Some of us, in moments of shared silence and receptivity, experienced the sudden discovery of an entirely new dimension of reality, an authentic revelation, confirmed by Michel through an almost imperceptible expression, and leaving the pupil profoundly shaken.

Faced with tenacious subterranean suffering, he could offer a quality of restraint nonetheless full of compassion. This is what came to pass during a summer session when a seemingly innocuous event prompted him to question the person concerned. She was a reserved, discreet, silent individual with a painful past from which one felt that she had not yet been able to free herself. After an exchange of a few words, Michel said to her with profound empathy: “We are not responsible for what our parents did.” He said no more and looked at her with great gentleness before closing his eyes. A long silence ensued that absorbed all questions.

In his approach to teaching, Michel rarely came across as authoritarian. In general, he preferred indirect means to activate our vigilance through his own actions, essentially by example. Seeing him double-check the condition of all of the buildings and spaces just before the beginning of a session allowed everyone attending camps at Chandolin to understand that he neglected nothing and that nothing should be neglected. There is no end of anecdotes about his “inspections” of the kitchen and of the pantry where all the supplies needed for meal preparation were stored. He could spend hours, surrounded by companions sometimes beside themselves, arranging in minute detail all the different food supplies—emptying, refilling, arranging, rearranging without end containers of all sizes. What was the meaning of this ritual at the beginning of each camp, when a thousand other aspects of the organization of the week were urgently waiting? By dint of watching him act without stress or haste, seeing him question himself about the soundness of this or that change, weighing each possible option, his imperturbable activity succeeded in putting an end to our impatience and perplexity, and opened us to a new understanding: everything has its importance, nothing should be neglected, attention embraces everything, excludes nothing, every detail counts and has its place in the unfolding of each and every situation. It was a memorable lesson for us—and in thinking about it, was it not perhaps for Michel also a way of preparing for what was to come?

Michel also used an indirect way, dear to the Sufis, to make a particular person understand something specific to him: he would deliberately address someone else who knew nothing of the issue in question. Of course, the person addressed would sometimes be startled or embarrassed but often became inwardly “active” thanks to this procedure. As for the person actually targeted, as if by capillary action he or she could be struck by a flash of understanding that would burn inside for some time.

Thus one Sunday when we were at table together, Michel congratulated one of our number about a certain task that had been carefully completed. Now, the person whom he addressed was not the one who had done the work but rather a secondary participant. The one actually responsible, seated beside Michel, managed to contain himself and not claim credit for the task. Nonetheless he felt rise up in him a strong sense of injustice. This situation recurred more than once for the man in question. Then, one day, Michel saw that he had understood the meaning of this recurrent scenario and no longer expected to be congratulated in front of others for the satisfaction of his self-love.

Another example of Michel’s indirect teaching will allow us to stress again his force and benevolence. “I remember as if it was yesterday,” recalls the person concerned. “After I had shown a lack of candor and openness toward him during a private conversation, far from directly reproaching me, sometime later Michel asked me in passing if I was willing to translate a text from Ouspensky which he apparently needed with some urgency. Naturally, I accepted at once. Imagine my surprise when I discovered why he had entrusted me with this task! There was an altogether explicit passage on the sincerity and transparency required of the pupil toward the master. The sharp lesson remains indelible…”

Michel’s unconditional love of life and his singular personal journey gave him enough perspective to cast fresh eyes on the human condition—no concessions, no blinkers. Free of bias, and certainly helped in that regard by his professional life as a psychiatrist, he knew how to listen to others in the fullest way. His profound knowledge of the human psyche allowed him to perceive both our difficulties and our potential. Often intuitively, he detected the crux of a situation and could help us by personalized indications or by giving us tasks in the practical life of the Work which helped us find our place. Some benefited enormously from Michel’s penetrating advice or precise directions and, thanks to him, were able to better find their way in professional or social life.

Such situations created very strong emotional links. Nevertheless, Michel was careful not to allow the inevitable process of identification to develop. Deliberately adopting a certain attitude, shouldering a determined role, he sought to nip in the bud excessive idealization of himself through various behaviors—he might systematically ignore someone, or, on the contrary, submit someone to a battery of excessive demands until the moment that person awakened and at last understood.

The attention he gave to each person was both benevolent and rigorous, warm and yet impartial. But he recognized that, while he was fair to everyone, he had more affinity for certain people. And in manifesting his interest in the capacity of one or the talent of another, he showed everyone the faculty he appreciated in them: creativity, independence of thought, engagement, generosity, loyalty, a sense for the appropriate. Sometimes this produced tension that cannot be avoided in any intentional group, including a group dedicated to this teaching. It was yet another opportunity to work.

By his attitude, Michel reminded us that the Work is a more and more demanding enterprise that leaves nothing in the shadows. He rarely mentioned the ideas of “conscious labor” and “intentional suffering,” which are at the core of this practice. He suggested them by his own presence, he lived them in front of us, underlining in this way the price to be paid—that is to say, the necessity of redoubling our efforts, of trying to open to another quality of energy, and trying again and again. He did this to the limit of exhaustion, never wishing to evade. His way of giving himself entirely to the task with no concern for his health shook us. It showed a man—not a sage or saint or realized being—simply a real man, conscious of his responsibility, at the service of that which is beyond us, the enemy of laziness, always active and lucid—a man such as one rarely meets in a lifetime.

There was not a single dimension of Mr. Gurdjieff’s teaching that was of minor importance for Michel. He looked at every aspect with equal care. It’s true that he gave particular attention to the Movements, an invaluable support for inner work. By means of them, by what he called “this science of movement,” we could better understand how our lower nature might submit to an axis of fine energy. It was possible to experience this truth at Chandolin, a more than special place for this work. Michel showed his interest by entering directly into a class, giving us exercises appropriate to the situation, and often enough proposing a Movements demonstration at the end of a session, as both a challenge and a mirror of our state.

After the death of his mother in 1990, Michel found himself at the head of the various Gurdjieff organizations throughout the world. We saw him work ceaselessly to bring these organizations closer to one another, to gather in a spirit of sharing now more necessary than ever. He put the accent no longer on the search of the individual for himself but on the community of seekers, the sangha of the Work. Michel put this new dimension into practice in summer sessions at Chandolin, where he emphasized the importance of “work together” and the mutual help resulting from that. Under his inspired leadership, in the course of a week the disparate troupe that arrived the first evening became a living entity, similar to an orchestra made up of different instrumentalists. The tuning took several days, until each participant was able to read the score and play his part. The score might change slightly from one year to the next, but it remained centered on self-remembering and the mystery of attention.

It was in the shared activities, that is, sittings and meals, that we could best become aware of the progressive transformation of the whole of the group into a true spiritual community. At the beginning of the week, meals would be almost completely silent. Then, gradually, they became animated, evoking moments of intense questioning. This process of renewal, this inner transmutation unfolded in stages: concentration, harmonization, liberation of energy, and then the quality of the atmosphere changed, in turn influencing the quality of what people brought.

After serious or sometimes dramatic moments: relaxation, always within bounds, a wish for simplicity and sincerity. In these moments of real brotherhood, traditional stories, jokes, and banter provoked laughter, sometimes uproarious but, above all, deep impressions of existing, of being. Each of us could feel that a new freedom was possible that transcended limited, personal points of view. It was only at that moment, to sustain this nascent opening of feeling, that Michel—who was very sensitive to the role allotted to music—asked the pianists to play some of the Gurdjieff / de Hartmann music.

Communal life became richer, broader, more normal, as Michel would say, while preserving periods of silence and contemplation. All of this we had to live and feel in the deepest part of ourselves to taste its beauty and grandeur. It offered a setting in which each of us, respecting others and the present moment, could experience a sense of unity, of wholeness. The real meaning of community showed itself in front of our eyes, and we realized what it could mean to live together, to be together. One person’s understanding immediately became everyone’s understanding. This proved, as Michel said, that the whole is always greater than the sum of its parts.

Questioning himself without respite, Michel watched over this community and kept us free of certainties. He would turn aside an untimely remark with a joke, remain silent in front of a statement of no interest. False humility, pretension, self-satisfaction did not survive his gaze. On the other hand, as soon as he heard a question filled with fire and relevance, he would respond with understandings that opened vast horizons. As we recalled on an earlier page, faced with tenacious or unstated suffering, he responded with compassion. Each of us would directly see in action the transformative process specific to the Fourth Way. Based on interdependence and reciprocity, the relation between master and pupil took on its full dimension. But when we sank into heavy silence, when we were captured by inertia or passivity, we would see a veil of sadness come over Michel. That wrung our hearts.

For decades Michel’s subtle influence acted on many of our companions. Those for whom circumstances and wish allowed them to work regularly with Michel in Geneva, Chandolin, Paris, Beau Préau, or on travels, had the privilege of witnessing his evolution over the years. His voluntary efforts and merciless demand on himself made it possible for him gradually to become more inwardly oriented, natural, and benevolent. He emanated a presence that was immediately perceptible. It enveloped you and inspired trust; it was a sign of deeper and deeper understanding of what he called “the next attention,” which was the center of his teaching in his last years.

For many, Michel was a spiritual father, a paternal figure, a mentor—challenging some, supporting others in their sometimes chaotic lives. But for all of us he remains fundamentally a teacher, with no complacency toward himself, no regard for fatigue or trials, who bore witness by example to the primacy of consciousness. He understood how to intensify the wish to be, which the Work reveals, and urged us to stay in front of the lack and suffering brought to light by our efforts.

The last camp Michel organized took place at Beau Préau, near Paris, in July 2001, shortly before his death. His illness was very advanced and gave him no respite, but he didn’t yield to it, on the contrary. Always active, he went from one project to another, from one place to another, observing, correcting, encouraging his companions. It was an unforgettable session, filled with notable moments but also imprinted with sorrow for those who foresaw the inevitable outcome.

One night, summoned by Michel for professional advice and just leaving his room at the end of the conversation, one of our companions turned back for a moment and saw that Michel was sitting upright and motionless, seeming to gaze at an invisible point. Then, moving his head slightly in our companion’s direction, Michel looked into his eyes for a long moment and, with a barely perceptible movement of his eyelids, seemed to signal that this is how it was, there was nothing to do but accept what was coming. His look was filled with benevolence and serenity, unaffected by death which was approaching, and which a few days later would receive him. □