less warmly dressed, captured by the camera
at that moment in 1977 or thereabouts, are friends, and some of them are lovers
too. For a start, Sollers and Kristeva, obviously, and the two Devades, Marc and
Carla. Those, we might say, are the stable couples. And yet there are certain
features of the photo (something about the arrangement of the objects, the
petrified, musical rhododendron, two of its leaves invading the space of the
ficus like clouds within a cloud, the grass growing in the planter, which looks
more like fire than grass, the immortelle leaning whimsically to the left, the
glasses in the center of the table, well away from the edges, except for
Kristeva’s, as if the other members of the group were worried they might fall)
which suggest that there is a more complex and subtle web of relations among
these men and women.
Let’s imagine J.-J. Goux, for example, who is looking out at us
through his thick submarine spectacles.
His space in the photo is momentarily vacant and we see him
walking along Rue de l’École de Médecine, with books under his arm, of course,
two books, till he comes out onto the Boulevard Saint-Germain. There he turns
his steps toward the Mabillon metro station, but first he stops in front of a
bar, checks the time, goes in and orders a cognac. After a while J.-J. moves
away from the bar and sits down at a table near the window. What does he do? He
opens a book. We can’t tell what book it is, but we do know that he’s finding it
difficult to concentrate. Every twenty seconds or so he lifts his head and looks
out onto the Boulevard Saint-Germain, his gaze a little more gloomy each time.
It’s raining and people are walking hurriedly under their open umbrellas.
J.-J.’s blond hair isn’t wet, from which we can deduce that it began to rain
after he entered the bar. It’s getting dark. J.-J. remains seated in the same
place, and now there are two cognacs and two coffees on his tab. Coming closer
we can see that the dark rings under his eyes have the look of a war zone. At no
point has he taken off his glasses. He’s a pitiful sight. After a very long
wait, he goes back out onto the street where he is gripped by a shiver, perhaps
because of the cold. For a moment he stands still on the sidewalk and looks both
ways, then he starts walking in the direction of the Mabillon metro station.
When he reaches the entrance, he runs his hand through his hair several times,
as if he’d suddenly realized that his hair was a mess, although it’s not. Then
he goes down the steps and the story ends or freezes in an empty space where
appearances gradually fade away. Who was J.-J. Goux waiting for? Someone he’s in
love with? Someone he was hoping to sleep with that night? And how was his
delicate sensibility affected by that person’s failure to show up?
Let’s suppose that the person who didn’t come was Jacques Henric.
While J.-J. was waiting for him, Henric was riding a 250-cc Honda motorbike to
the entrance of the apartment building where the Devades live. But no. That’s
impossible. Let’s imagine that Henric simply climbed onto his Honda and rode
away into a vaguely literary, vaguely unstable Paris, and that his absence on
this occasion is strategic, as amorous absences nearly always are.
So let’s set up the couples again. Carla Devade and Marc Devade.
Sollers and Kristeva. J.-J. Goux and Jacques Henric. Marie-Thérèse Réveillé and
Pierre Guyotat. And let’s set up the night. J.-J. Goux is sitting and reading a
book whose title is immaterial, in a bar on the Boulevard Saint-Germain; his
turtleneck sweater won’t let his skin breathe, but he doesn’t yet feel entirely
ill at ease. Henric is stretched out on his bed, half undressed, smoking and
looking at the ceiling. Sollers is shut up in his study, writing (pinkly snug
and warm inside his turtleneck sweater). Julia Kristeva is at the university.
Marie-Thérèse Réveillé is walking along Avenue de Friedland near
at that moment in 1977 or thereabouts, are friends, and some of them are lovers
too. For a start, Sollers and Kristeva, obviously, and the two Devades, Marc and
Carla. Those, we might say, are the stable couples. And yet there are certain
features of the photo (something about the arrangement of the objects, the
petrified, musical rhododendron, two of its leaves invading the space of the
ficus like clouds within a cloud, the grass growing in the planter, which looks
more like fire than grass, the immortelle leaning whimsically to the left, the
glasses in the center of the table, well away from the edges, except for
Kristeva’s, as if the other members of the group were worried they might fall)
which suggest that there is a more complex and subtle web of relations among
these men and women.
Let’s imagine J.-J. Goux, for example, who is looking out at us
through his thick submarine spectacles.
His space in the photo is momentarily vacant and we see him
walking along Rue de l’École de Médecine, with books under his arm, of course,
two books, till he comes out onto the Boulevard Saint-Germain. There he turns
his steps toward the Mabillon metro station, but first he stops in front of a
bar, checks the time, goes in and orders a cognac. After a while J.-J. moves
away from the bar and sits down at a table near the window. What does he do? He
opens a book. We can’t tell what book it is, but we do know that he’s finding it
difficult to concentrate. Every twenty seconds or so he lifts his head and looks
out onto the Boulevard Saint-Germain, his gaze a little more gloomy each time.
It’s raining and people are walking hurriedly under their open umbrellas.
J.-J.’s blond hair isn’t wet, from which we can deduce that it began to rain
after he entered the bar. It’s getting dark. J.-J. remains seated in the same
place, and now there are two cognacs and two coffees on his tab. Coming closer
we can see that the dark rings under his eyes have the look of a war zone. At no
point has he taken off his glasses. He’s a pitiful sight. After a very long
wait, he goes back out onto the street where he is gripped by a shiver, perhaps
because of the cold. For a moment he stands still on the sidewalk and looks both
ways, then he starts walking in the direction of the Mabillon metro station.
When he reaches the entrance, he runs his hand through his hair several times,
as if he’d suddenly realized that his hair was a mess, although it’s not. Then
he goes down the steps and the story ends or freezes in an empty space where
appearances gradually fade away. Who was J.-J. Goux waiting for? Someone he’s in
love with? Someone he was hoping to sleep with that night? And how was his
delicate sensibility affected by that person’s failure to show up?
Let’s suppose that the person who didn’t come was Jacques Henric.
While J.-J. was waiting for him, Henric was riding a 250-cc Honda motorbike to
the entrance of the apartment building where the Devades live. But no. That’s
impossible. Let’s imagine that Henric simply climbed onto his Honda and rode
away into a vaguely literary, vaguely unstable Paris, and that his absence on
this occasion is strategic, as amorous absences nearly always are.
So let’s set up the couples again. Carla Devade and Marc Devade.
Sollers and Kristeva. J.-J. Goux and Jacques Henric. Marie-Thérèse Réveillé and
Pierre Guyotat. And let’s set up the night. J.-J. Goux is sitting and reading a
book whose title is immaterial, in a bar on the Boulevard Saint-Germain; his
turtleneck sweater won’t let his skin breathe, but he doesn’t yet feel entirely
ill at ease. Henric is stretched out on his bed, half undressed, smoking and
looking at the ceiling. Sollers is shut up in his study, writing (pinkly snug
and warm inside his turtleneck sweater). Julia Kristeva is at the university.
Marie-Thérèse Réveillé is walking along Avenue de Friedland near
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