(https://tonidanca.

com/civilization-in-transition-7-conference)
Support Us
(https://parabola.org/subscribe/)
Help support Parabola
by making a tax-
Days with Michel Conge, Part One, by Rami Kalfon deductible donation.
Your support is deeply
Michel Conge was a physician and a disciple of G. I. Gurdjieff in appreciated. Read More
Paris in the 1940s. After Mr. Gurdjieff’s death in 1949, Mr. Conge »
continued the Gurdjieff work under the direction of Mme. de (https://parabola.org/s
Salzmann, with groups of people who gathered around him, in Paris, upport-parabola/)
Strasbourg, Reims, Vichy, and Clermont Ferrand. There were also
groups in Brazil and Israel who were in contact with Mr. Conge
through his elder pupils. This testimony of a young man, who met
Michel Conge in the years 1981–84, does not pretend to give a full enter searchsearch
terms
picture of him. A broader view of him and his work can be found in
his writings, and his music.

(https://parabola.org/s
PRELUDE
ubscribe/)

A
t the beginning of my army service, when I was about
eighteen, I happened to meet a master for the first time. He
Connect
was Japanese. I don’t know his name even now, but I
remember him well. He represented the Zen tradition in We'd love to connect
Israel, and received visitors in his house on the Mount of Olives in with you on any of the
Jerusalem. following social media
platforms.
When we met, I was a new soldier in uniform. He looked at me and
said, “Be what you are right now. If you are a soldier, be a soldier.” (I
had, in fact, a great resistance to the military establishment.) “When
you pee, do not think about anything else, just pee.”

In this apparently simple suggestion there was immense force, the

force of an active inner attitude in the face of life’s events. What
matters is not what I do or what I think about it, but how I live. To be
there in what I do; not thinking about life, but living it. It is very simple
and basic, not to think about anything else when I pee.

He spoke unpretentiously, with no criticism or attempts to persuade,

without doctrines or dialectics. He related to the person who was in
front of him at the moment, with warmth and tenderness, although he
made no show of affection.
made no show of affection. #

I ask myself what brought me to an inner search. There were certain (https
things in my childhood that awakened me to the presence of another
kind of influence. My father told me stories about Haifa under the rule " ://w

of the Ottoman Turks; one of them was about a dervish family who ! (https ww.fa
lived in his neighborhood—a tailor and his sons, living their daily life
like ordinary people, quiet and hardworking. He recalled the (https ://twi ceboo
processions of the various orders of dervishes that were held
://pa tter.co k.com
sometimes, when the quiet, modest tailor would leap high in the air in
an ecstasy of faith. The impact that this event made on my father rabol m/Pa /Para
also impressed me deeply.
a.org/ rabol bola.
And then there were the years I spent at the commune of Yodfat in
feed/ aMAG Maga
the Galilee, where a group of people were trying to “live seriously” in
a wide framework of communal living, agriculture, and inner search. ) ) zine)

THE FIRST MEETING

I
had heard about Mr. Conge through P–, a French pupil of Mr.
Conge. P–visited Israel regularly to direct the Gurdjieff groups
here. This group assembled in the late 1960s as a result of a
short visit of Mr. Conge to Israel, and was composed of people
from Yodfat, Jerusalem, and Tel Aviv.

I had been participating in these groups for several years, and

became well acquainted with P–. I spoke with him about the
possibility of working with Mr. Conge in Paris. P–’s deep commitment
to Mr. Conge resonated in his words; he held him in great respect, as
one who had revealed to him a great secret. Among other things, P–
asked me to study Turkish in preparation for the trip to Paris. I
understood why only later.

P– knew that my mother was Turkish, but he didn’t know that I had
spent many childhood summers in Turkey, and that it was part of the
world that had formed me: an ancient and archaic world, a little
frightening to a foreign child, with strange, inviting tastes and smells,
and stories of cruelty and indifference to life and death. The ancient
past, full of legends about sultans and heroes, veiled women and
harems, was still alive. Roasted chestnuts sold on the street, thick

yogurt made from water buffalo milk, morning mists pierced by +

yogurt made from water buffalo milk, morning mists pierced by +
minarets on both sides of the Bosphorus, and the hawking of street
merchants: Istanbul. (https

The Turkish language has a unique inner logic, enigmatic, yet exact ://plu

and concise. I enjoyed learning the language, and as practice, I s.goo

translated the stories of Nasradin Hodja with my mother. She was
pleased that I took an interest in her language. gle.co

On one of my last visits to Turkey, I had asked my grandmother to m/11 %

accompany me on a trip to Konya and the tomb of the Sufi master 1441 (https
Jalaladin Rumi, who founded the Mevlevi Order of dervishes in the
thirteenth century. At the time I was there, the Turkish government 7207 ://w &
was still rather hostile to the dervish orders. Konya in the 1970s was
8290 ww.in (http:
a backwater town; we arrived from Ankara by a dirt road. In a
remarkable way, the day passed in an atmosphere of enchanted 5925 stagra //par
quiet. Even my grandmother, an impatient woman, had an unusual
inner calm. 000/ m.co abola-

posts m/pa maga

I wrote Mr. Conge a short letter, although my French was rather poor,
asking to join his group in Paris. I asked someone to correct my ? rabol zine.t
errors, but I insisted on my own formulation. It was just after my
father had died. I was living for a short time with my mother and rel=a amag umblr

writing my master’s thesis in agriculture. uthor azine .com/

I awaited the move to Paris and meeting Mr. Conge with anticipation, ) /) )
but also some apprehension. I thought, or at least I told myself, that I
could begin to know myself through my contact with him, but I also
suspected I would encounter great difficulties, about which I had
heard hints here and there.

After a while, an answer arrived from Mr. Conge. It was typewritten,

Categories
short and to the point, and to my surprise, friendly. Mr. Conge invited
me to join his groups in Paris.
Select Category

I prepared for the trip in a rather haphazard way. I postponed my

departure date several times, and finally realized it was going to be
difficult. I sensed that significant adaptations would be required, and
that I could not remain as I was. I did not consider backing out; going
was the right thing to do.

I FIRST MET MR. CONGE when he was already very ill with
Parkinson’s disease. When I arrived in Paris, it was sunny; not the
Parkinson’s disease. When I arrived in Paris, it was sunny; not the
gray skies I was expecting. On the way to Mr. Conge’s farm in the
countryside, we stopped to pick up a friend whom I knew from Israel,
who was also in the Paris groups. She was surprised to see I had a
moustache, which made me look rather Turkish. She told me that “le
Docteur” (this was how we referred to Mr. Conge; it seems to me that
Gurdjieff called him by this name) did not like beards and
moustaches, probably because it is possible to hide behind them. I
was convinced. Within a few minutes, my moustache flowed down
the drain into the Paris sewers.

The same evening we arrived in Vichy, an elegant city known for its
therapeutic spas and mineral waters. The next morning we went to
meet Mr. Conge at his small farm. A rather large group of people was
assembled there. I saw a tall man with big wide ears, bowed, but not
stooped by his illness; a look, a smile, in spite of the pain. I did not
understand his look; it was different from anything I knew. He saw
me, through the mantle I wore to guard from seeing myself; he knew
everything and was silent.

Afterwards, I defined the look (and maybe I should not have) as an

all-encompassing seeing of who I am, with all my illusions and
possibilities, without any discounts and without criticism. A look that
could not be imitated, with an impartiality that gave it its power.

Mr. Conge asked me if I was Israeli, and I quickly replied yes. He

suggested, calmly, that I looked more Syrian or Egyptian. I did not
understand, and he continued, “Be suspicious of yourself.” At that
time, I did not understand at all what he meant.

Years later, I saw that it was connected to a complex inner division.

The same naive illusion tells me that all of me really wants to know
myself and to work on myself. There is in me, perhaps, a part that
really wants this, and a part that only pretends to want it. There are
those parts of me that are not interested at all, and there are those
that use this energy to further my standing in my own eyes and in the
eyes of others around me.

After the morning meeting, there was work at various activities until
noon. I went with several others to a small forest on a hill, where we
noon. I went with several others to a small forest on a hill, where we
pruned the undergrowth. Some people whom I knew from Israel
were there, including P– and his wife, N–.

N– asked me what was different here from what I knew of “work

sessions” with the groups in Israel. I said something. Not satisfied
with my answer, she said that here, there is the presence of Mr.
Conge. Also this, I understood only years later.

After lunch, Mr. Conge called me for a private conversation in a small

room. His wife was seated next to him. He spoke unclearly as a
result of his illness, and his wife helped me understand him when I
had difficulty.

He asked simply—what is my question? In spite of the directness of

his demand, I felt I was being tested, and did not give myself time to
listen to the moment itself.

I asked him, “What is attention?”

I remember even now the taste of disappointment with myself for

asking a question that had already been prepared and formulated in
my head, something that sounded right. I had run away from the
encounter.

He answered, with the same simplicity, that attention is energy, the

finest energy that we have.

This also I did not really understand for many years.

He asked me how many years I had been working in the groups in

Israel. I answered with confidence, “five years.” I thought it was a
long time. He smiled and patted me on the shoulder in
encouragement. Later, in a group meeting with him, one of his
helpers, a relatively young man, said, “There is someone here who
has become five years younger today.”

The meeting with him seemed simple, but was really quite
remarkable. He did not ask me at all who I was, my life history, what I
did, or what my family status was. He took an interest in me as a

person who, perhaps, bore a question. The fact that I did not know
how to express my question was entirely legitimate.
We returned in a crowded car to Paris, a ride of several hours.

Back in Paris, a week of organizing my daily life awaited me: a visit

to the Pasteur Institute where I was to work, looking for a place to
live, and first acquaintances. My French was ludicrous. But there
was something light in all this. I was very happy that I had dared to
jump into the water. For several days I remained in this atmosphere
of simplicity, without my usual self-image that I knew from within
myself, and that was reflected to me by the reactions of others
around me.

LESIAU

The weekend work sessions with Mr. Conge were held in Lesiau, a
farm on a large piece of land in a rural area. There was a small
farmhouse that had been enlarged, a vineyard, a barn, a tool shed,
and a small vegetable garden. Places had special names, reminders
of the aim of the work at the farm. For example, the entrance
driveway was called “Le Chemin de Rappel” (“The Way of Self-
Remembering”). After the long ride from Paris, by car or train, we
would arrive at Lesiau, and almost always, the remarkable process
of self-remembering occurred. At that instant, we would recall, or
reconnect with, the need that had prompted us to start out on the
long journey in the early hours of the morning. It had been in the
background all through the ride; we knew, of course, where we were
going and why, but something central had been forgotten. And
suddenly, the renewed contact with the place, the living reminder in
Mr. Conge’s look, the silence, my need to be in touch with this.

At the end of the path, between the parking area and the house,
stood JPF with a small jar in which each one put five francs for
expenses. He stood there, already related to the atmosphere of the
place. He represented the presence of Mr. Conge, a gate between
worlds—between the outside world and Lesiau. He always had a
friendly morning pleasantry.

From there we went to a short meeting to begin the day. Mr. Conge
was there, seated in the small kitchen, and we stood around him. He
gathered us for a moment with a quality of attention that spread out
gathered us for a moment with a quality of attention that spread out
from him into the whole room. For that moment, the room was filled
with a kind of substance, something above us all, but in which we all
took part, a moment out of time, for a moment. Each of us was given,
for that moment, the possibility to be attentive to himself. We lived
that possibility together; we participated in the same experience.

He observed us, and received us into his world, a world of quality

and subtlety, of presence, of a completely different attitude towards
myself and others.

At the same time he was very ill and suffering. He did not complain,
not from warrior-like toughness, but from the gathered attention of a
finer energy. Sometimes he asked someone or another how he was,
or gave a greeting.

There was a theme for the day which he, or another of those
present, proposed. The theme gave a direction for self-observation
during the day.

The teams for the various tasks were read out, and a reminder of the
hours of meals. During our work there was also a task of studying
foreign languages, Spanish, English, and Turkish, with the aid of
papers that had been prepared by different people.

From there we went off to work, getting our tools on the way.

During all this, somewhere inside us, the impression of the moment
of penetrating silence, of presence, of the question “who am I?”
continued to work.

WORK IN THE VINEYARD was an ongoing task. It was an old

abandoned vineyard that we maintained and weeded by hand over
the years. The amount of wine the vineyard produced was negligible
and the quality was mediocre. This lack of results provoked a
reaction and a question.

There were all kinds of rules concerning the environment, such as a

taboo on killing snakes.

Now and then there were breaks during which we studied languages,
conversed, and got to know each other. Throughout all this, there
was a continued effort on several planes: an experience of being
was a continued effort on several planes: an experience of being
attentive while doing physical work; the relationship between free
attention of the thought and the body, balanced with being open to
the other and attentive to what is around me.

There were people of all ages, some of whom had been coming
continually for more than twenty-five years. They were like a
milestone; they had a quality accumulated in them during long years
of experience and fidelity. They worked conscientiously, did not
chitchat, and were serious without being heavy. Generally, they were
patient with the sometimes lightheaded young man that I was.

I once shared a ride from Paris with an elderly French doctor, whom I
did not previously know. He had participated in the Work under the
guidance of Mr. Conge for decades. During the long ride we
sometimes spoke, sometimes we were quiet. I asked him about the
effect of the years, of accumulated work on oneself. He answered
me seriously. He said there was a sort of difficulty, or absurdity, that
when I remember myself it is only that moment, and thus the years
have no meaning. On the other hand, there is an accumulation of
experience that with the years makes the meeting with such
moments different. He spoke of Mr. Conge with warmth, and said
that what he is, is out of the ordinary. He spoke of his special smile.
The sound of his voice carried a deep emotion that touched me. We
felt a shared experience, like a comet that passes through our lives.
We were silent together.

DURING LUNCH there were discussions centering on the theme

that was given that morning. Those who wished shared their
experiences and questions with the others. A panel of elder people in
the Work tried to broaden the experiences that were brought.

Mr. Conge was there. Sometimes he made a comment, which had to

be repeated because of his speech impediment. He looked at us with
a look that had the capacity to change the atmosphere.

There were all manner of little tasks: serving the meal, serving
beverages, making coffee. One of the first times I was there, I was
asked to serve drinks. I was given detailed directions about how to
do this, including instructions on how to fill Mr. Conge’s glass during
do this, including instructions on how to fill Mr. Conge’s glass during
the meal. He drank with the aid of a straw because of the trembling
of his hand from the disease, and I was supposed to refill the glass
before it was empty. I wasn’t sure exactly what to do. But when the
moment came, I stood up, looked in his eyes, and filled his glass with
quiet confidence. I was not worried. I was present, within myself. I
had a clear feeling that he saw all this, directly, and from then on my
relationship with him was simpler and more comfortable.

Sometimes he made a toast. Making toasts was one of Gurdjieff’s

teaching methods. Once he toasted the land, blessing it with the
same peace as reigned in that room. This shed light on the
relationship between a small group of people in a certain place at a
certain time, and the world and the cosmos. Our small scale
experience together, which was made significant by Mr. Conge’s look
and by the seriousness of the experience, was part of the world.

After several months, the winter got worse. Our feet froze while
working outside. Frost covered the farm. Mr. Conge, who was
extremely cautious (it was said he never drove because he was so
cautious), would warn the drivers before our departure to drive
carefully. Now he asked for a break for several

weeks in the activity at Lesiau. During those long cold weekends, the
difficulty of being alone in Paris suddenly struck me. I wandered
around, sometimes going to the courtyard of the Pompidou center,
where there were shows with gypsies and bears. ♦

From Parabola Volume 34, No. 3, “The Path,” Fall 2009. This issue is
available to purchase here (https://store.parabola.org/vol-343-the-
path-p135.aspx). If you have enjoyed this piece, consider
subscribing (https://parabola.org/subscribe/).

Part Two can be found in Parabola Volume 34, No. 4, “The Future,”
Winter 2009. This issue is available to purchase here
(https://store.parabola.org/vol-344-the-future-p136.aspx).