Nicholas Wilder is a man who takes a sense of pride in his new, unfashionable life-style. Some time ago, Wilder - one of the more influential dealers in modern art in L.A. - moved out of a spacious home in the Hollywood Hills and retreated into a simple flat above his gallery. He next moved to a small apartment complex in Valencia which offered such amenities as an electric-powered creek that emptied into a concrete lagoon and a fair amount of anonymity.

Also, Wilder points out, he no longer holds chic little gatherings for the art world "in" crowd at his gallery; he travels infrequently, and tends to wear his imported European designer wardrobe "sporadically." As his long-time gallery directrice Pat Faure observes affectionately, "He's always chic, but now I'd say chic in various stages of dishevelment."

"I'm not your typical art dealer," admits Wilder, sipping coffee in a rather unfashionable coffee shop at a busy intersection in West Hollywood. "I'm becoming a cynic."

There are, of course, reasons for Wilder's cynicism and his Waldenesque retreat, but lack of reputation is not one of them. His stature in the art community remains enormous. Since opening his gallery here in 1964, he has attracted some of the most important West Coast contemporary artists, including abstractionists Sam Francis and Ronald Davis, conceptualist Bruce Nauman and sculptor Robert Graham.

His clients, too, are just as notable: Norton Simon, Robert A. Rowan, Marsha and Fred Weisman, Edward Janss - all internationally known collectors of modern art.

Still, at 40 (looking like maybe 32), Wilder says he has misgivings about everything that goes on in the art world except for two activities - making art and looking at it. "Everything else," he says in an exasperated tone, "is anachronistic.

"I've come to believe dealers are woefully inadequate to handle either activity and that we are subject to believe in the power and fantasy that comes with being who we are and our role. But we are not, and artists are not, special people with special privileges. Struggling artists can turn into absolute monsters when they become successful. Absolute monsters.

"I guess there's a toll for making it in any career - like maybe there's something you didn't bargain for along the way? In my case, it was all those desperate people who'd do anything to get to me, and then watching them turn into monsters if they happened to make it."

As an example of one of the encounters that pushed him to move, Wilder cites a story.

Early one Sunday morning (at the time he was living over his gallery) he padded down to the corner to pick up a cup of coffee. As he was returning he heard someone call his name.

How does a new artist just ouf of school get started? Is it by knowing friends who are more established or through recommendations?

"All of a sudden there's this man and woman facing me and it's obvious they've been waiting a long time. The man has his hand out, saying he's heard so much about me and he has to talk to me and would I please consider his work . . that sort of thing. Anyway, after a while I realize there's something not quite right about his language. He's saying things like he knows I'm famous for getting bookings all over Europe. Turns out he's a struggling juggler, not a struggling artist and he's all mixed up and thinks I'm a theater agent.

"Then it really becomes bizarre," recalls Wilder, smiling at the memory. "He just wouldn't believe me when I told him I was an art dealer. Desperate. Really desperate. I finally ended up taking him into the gallery, and unlocking all the closets to show him the art. Sunday morning, right? And you know what? He still didn't believe me."

Aside from life-style and philosophy, Wilder looks pretty much the way he always has, except for the fact he is a bit thinner and in better shape. He insists he doesn't bother getting tailored now ("I don't need it) and doesn't mind substituting things like sneakers for fancy Italian leather boots if the boots happen to hurt his feet.

"I buy clothes in clusters and wear them that way, too," says Wilder, who is wearing a grey, pin-striped suit, blue open-neck shirt, jet black Porsche wristwatch and Puma sneakers.

"I used to wallow in a kind of snobbery - you know, thinking L.A. is just the Hills, and the Polo Lounge, and Rodeo Drive, Malibu Colony and Scandia's. It's not any of that. It's a huge and very, very flat sprawl." He brightens. "Like Valencia."

"Oh, I'm still accused of looking chic from time to time but I don't have to dress like a celebrity anymore. I mean, how could you nowadays in L.A.? I could be in high drag and nobody would raise an eyebrow.

"In Europe, you know, status is getting into the French Academy. Here, it's the cover of Time Magazine. Everything is tied up with the concept of the best, or the winner . . . for a minute. We are losing our perspective on reality. There are 300 great artists out there instead of one or two. But the art world doesn't have the room for them. Simple as that."

Originally from Rochester, N.Y., and a graduate of Amherst College in Connecticutt, Wilder first came to L.A. in the early 60s to provide a platform for West Coast artists. His reputation - and art collection - grew fast and now, at his home in Valencia, his personal collection spans 4,500 years with everything from Third Dynasty Buddhas and Egyptian alabaster bowls to modern art paintings by John Mclaughlin and Sam Francis. "My tastes are catholic," he says. "That applies to my art, my wardrobe, everything. I mean, I guess I feel art and fashion have the same ends. Both are only worthwhile in the making and in the looking. Everything else," he pauses, searching for the right word, "is anachronistic."