Life
Gaultier was born in Paris; two conflicting sources point to either 1597 or 1603 as the year of birth. The former can be deduced from an account by Thorian, who claimed that Gaultier died in 1672 at the age of seventy-five. However, an archival document from the Hôtel-Dieu de Paris hospital states that Gaultier was twenty-three at the time of his convalescence in the hospital, which was from 24 October 1626 to 12 December 1626.
Very little is known about Gaultier's career. He may have studied under Charles Racquet, since he commemorated the lutenist's death with a tombeau. Until at least 1631 Denis's career was closely linked to that of his older cousin, Ennemond; so much that contemporary writers referred to either composer by surname only, making no attempt to distinguish between them. Both lutenists had connections with Blancrocher and Henri de L'Enclos, and both secured a high reputation comparable to that of François Dufaut, Jacques Gallot, or Charles Mouton. In 1635 Denis married Françoise Daucourt. Their son Philippe Emmanuel would later become advisor to the king, but there is no evidence that Gaultier himself ever held a court position, even though his cousin did. Denis most probably gained fame and income through salon playing.
Read more about this topic: Denis Gaultier
Famous quotes containing the word life:
“There is a place where we are always alone with our own mortality, where we must simply have something greater than ourselves to hold onto—God or history or politics or literature or a belief in the healing power of love, or even righteous anger.... A reason to believe, a way to take the world by the throat and insist that there is more to this life than we have ever imagined.”
—Dorothy Allison (b. 1949)
“I’ll bet your father spent the first year of your life throwing rocks at the stork.”
—Irving Brecher, U.S. screenwriter, and Edward Buzzell. J. Cheever Loophole (Groucho Marx)
““Maman”, said Annaïse, her voice strangely weak. “Here is the water.”
A thin blade of silver came forward in the plain and the peasants ran alongside it, crying and singing.
...
“Oh, Manuel, Manuel, why are you dead?” moaned Délira.
“No”, said Annaïse, and she smiled through her tears, “no, he is not dead”.
She took the old woman’s hand and pressed gently against her belly where new life stirred.”
—Jacques Roumain (1907–1945)