Christian Deydier, 57, leads a high-powered double life: He is Paris’s foremost dealer in ancient Chinese bronzes as well as the president of the Syndicat National des Antiquaires (SNA), the organization of 393 art and antiques dealers that stages the prestigious and glamorous Biennale des Antiquaires at the Grand Palais, running this year from September 11 through 21. Born in Laos to French parents, Deydier studied Chinese language and history at the University of Paris and the earliest significant Chinese writing at Taiwan’s Tai Ta University. In 1987 he opened a London gallery specializing in archaic Chinese bronzes; a Paris branch followed a decade later. Today his sole space is an elegant two-story gallery at 30 Rue de Seine, which opened in February.

Deydier—who’s involved in every aspect of the Biennale, from deciding which members will be among its 94 exhibitors to arranging security and planning the decor—says the SNA occupies 60 percent of his time in the months before the Biennale. That may explain why this serious amateur chef has cut back his stints in the kitchen of the Paris Ritz from once a month to four times a year. Wednesday, March 26, is a typically full day.

9:00 A.M. Arrives wearing a beautifully fitted shirt and tie and minimalist glasses at 30 Rue de Seine, which until that moment was occupied only by spotlighted ancient bronzes, each on a separate pedestal. Crouches to unlock the door and let in a journalist. Moves upstairs to a large library filled with books about Chinese art, his own 1980 Chinese Bronzes (Rizzoli) among them. Between the three windows of his office stand baskets of tall white orchids. Deydier, who has a shaved head and rosy cheeks, sits at one of two large, back-to-back black desks. The other is for his assistant, Raphaële Hervé de Sigalony.

One phone rings. Then another. Deydier juggles two cell phones, occasionally reaching for a white landline. It’s like eavesdropping on an up-market audio version of the European celebrity gossip magazine Hello! The name of Bernadette Chirac, the wife of the ex-president, sails by; so do those of the current president, Nicolas Sarkozy, and of LVMH head Bernard Arnault. Rachida Dati, the French minister for justice, is mentioned often: The SNA is lobbying the European Union to drop droit de suite, the surcharge on sales of artworks, proceeds from which go to artists or their estates.  Deydier shares the widely held view that the tax has shifted trade away from the EU to Switzerland and the U.S.

9:55 A.M. Sigalony arrives and sets to work at the computer and on the phones, displaying competence and cool. In a whirl of scarves and coats, Deydier is off downstairs to a waiting black limo. At the Avenue de l’Opéra headquarters of the Conseil des Ventes, the court that rules on auction disputes, Deydier, one of the adjudicators, disappears into a hearing about a contested purchase.

11:15 A.M. The hearing over, he races down the marble stairs and into the car which will take him to the headquarters of the SNA, located in one of the solid buildings lining the Boulevard Malesherbes.

11:30 A.M. With Marie-Françoise Bezzina, the SNA’s administrative secretary general, at his side, looks over the plans for transforming the glass-domed Grand Palais into a luxe conservatory garden—Deydier’s concept for this year’s Biennale—that were submitted by the architect Patrick Bazanan, who designed Deydier’s new gallery. Bazanan is competing for the project against Louis Bénech, a top landscape designer working with event planner François  Marcadé. Bénech’s high-profile restorations include gardens at the Tuileries and the Élysée Palace.

1:25 P.M. By limo with Sigalony to Thiou, a quietly sumptuous Thai restaurant on the Quai d’Orsay. Deydier has been invited to lunch by Patricia Goldman, who until this year handled the Biennale’s public relations. He is seated at a front table facing the Seine. Goldman, a blonde in designer jeans and leather jacket, enters along with a swarm of paparazzi. They crowd around a table in the corner occupied by Xavier Bertrand, the minister for labor, and Nadine Morano, the minister for family matters, who pops up and poses in her short, tight skirt. As Champagne and spring rolls are served, talk at Deydier’s table turns to the guest list for the Biennale dinner. Eventually, he pays the bill and excuses himself. Goldman wants a few words in private—perhaps she is hoping to regain the SNA account.

3:00 P.M. Back at the gallery, Deydier has a meeting with a potential client who wants his expert opinion on some Chinese pieces. But the phone rings, and the meeting is postponed until the following morning. Another call, and Sigalony passes it to Deydier, who explains tax law to a dealer. “He’s an art market Google,” says Sigalony. “People call him all the time with questions.”

4:00 P.M. Drops in on neighboring dealers, who not coincidentally all show at the Biennale. Sees a chic beige upholstered Ruhlmann chair at Vallois, specialists in 20th-century French furniture. But it is across the street at Pascal Lansberg’s contemporary-art gallery that he is really smitten. “It’s too late,” he sighs, standing in front of a lush Wesselmann still life of roses and a smoking cigarette. “I can’t afford it.” Then, propped in a corner, an eye-popping Kenny Scharf—like a Kandinsky with cartoonish black octopuses—grabs him. Lansberg is asking €140,000 ($221,000). Deydier mulls it over.

5:10 P.M. The car crawls across Paris to the office of Françoise Dumas and Anne Roustand, specialists for 30 years in staging charity galas. They are arranging the Biennale dinner; all 1,300 tickets—at €1,000 ($1,580) each—have already been sold, leaving 600 people disappointed. “Françoise knows everyone,” Deydier says. Implied is that she also knows everything about them, including who is no longer talking to— or sleeping with—whom.

5:30 P.M. Hellos all around. With Dumas and Roustand are Marcadé and Bénech, who present their garden design. Deydier seems bemused as they talk. When shown the digital projection of the border edging, he says, “C’est horrible, horrible.” Bénech seems philosophical about it, but Marcadé’s mouth twists in disappointment. A tea tray is brought in. The china pot and cups are painted with lions, giraffes and palm trees. Deydier appears more delighted with them than with the fake palms of the plan.

6:45 P.M. The car takes Deydier home to the 8th arrondissement.

THE NEXT DAY
11:30 A.M. Sigalony shows in the man who canceled yesterday: Robin Lobatto, an English dealer in classic cars. He shakes hands with Deydier, sits down and takes from his leather satchel a greenish, clearly heavy statue of an elongated man on a pedestal, about two feet high. Lobatto says this is one of 50 objects his father brought back from visits to China.“Yes, but it’s a reproduction,” says Deydier, “sold in the museum shop to tourists. The original is a life-size 12th-century B.C. bronze from the Sanxingdui site in Sichuan province. I know it very well.” This one is not even bronze. Charming and considerate, Deydier entertains the disappointed Lobatto with amusing stories of deceptive practices. “Next time you come to Paris, bring me a bronze,” he adds. “I will have a look. You never know.”

"A Day in the Life" originally appeared in the June 2008 issue of Art+Auction. For a complete list of articles from this issue available on ARTINFO, see Art+Auction's June 2008 Table of Contents.