When we approach the middle of our life, (what Dante calls, “Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita”), when carefree days dissipate in the clouds, a desire suddenly crystallizes: to retain something of the flow and the foam of the passing days. And, in stillness or tumult, we need to go back looking for elusive moments which, perhaps, demand to be saved, as would a drowning person. Thus memoirs and autobiographies are flourishing throughout the world. And who would complain about that? Who would ever tire of the memoirs of Churchill, of Chateaubriand, or of Kafka's journal?
It's to a certain extent her autobiography that Bettina Rheims offers us. She spent months traveling through her photographic past, examining her thousands of photos, classifying them, retaining certain ones, putting aside others, each one a particle or star or a black hole in her multiplicity of universes. The day-to-day universe, the whimsical and fantastic universe, the universe of phantasms, which is perhaps the most interesting and most revealing of all. I asked myself what sort of portrait a psychoanalyst who knows nothing about this photographer (as hard to imagine as that may be) would be able to discern by examining and tuning in to the retrospective of Bettina Rheims which ran in Paris from January 28-March 27 of this year, adorning the walls of the Maison Européenne de la Photographie. But in exhibiting the 190 large-format photographs that this artist has retained, it's her life and her dreams and her results and her desires and her battles and her disillusions that she is allowing to be exposed, to unwind in front of our eyes.
There was, first, the Black and White period--the one where talent forges, demands make themselves heard, influences show themselves, including those of film and painting--before distancing, without leaving any traces.
And then the gloomier the times become, the more the colors rush in and dapple her palette. In the last photos, the reds and golds explode.
From that time onward, there is a style immediately recognizable from the very first glance: that of this woman born of the excellent and the stirring, and gifted, and a touch of the great Jewish bourgeois libertine, of this woman dizzyingly married four times, of this artist so offhand when she speaks of her work, but who is so rigorous, implacable, and infinitely intransigent while executing it. Nothing ends up captured on film that she hasn't chosen with extreme care, modified, illuminated, suppressed. A film director where even particles of dust become the subject of essays and reflections.
Women--it is as manifest as the manifesto of a political party--are her subject of choice. Young, fleshy, slender, granddaughters of May '68, they are thrust on stage, an elaborate stage that tells much about the intentions of the author. Yes, her photos speak! They reveal the splendid and the lugubrious, which blend together intimately, like the reverse side, or the destiny of all things.
In your bowels swallow my mutiny.
My sin abdicates to obey your cruelty
No one must see, hidden
through the modest redness of my hood
My desire of evil.
No one must understand
Your enchantment upsetting my senses
Your wicked soul that will give me my womanhood
I yearn for punishment
I want to be a victim
I am your longing for evil.
I knew it all! About the woods… about the wolf…
And now I am meeting you:
You cannot disappoint me.
Be what you’re not
There is no hope for you
Seduce me slashing through my body with the frenzy of your claws
Scratch me by the sweetness of your lies
Swallow me…do not spew me!
Swallow my misunderstood loneliness
Swallow my inept nonentity.
Hurt me, really hurt me badly
So badly as to be understood,
So badly as not to be hurt anymore.
So badly as to become someone
In the dark wood of hypocrisy
To be someone
From all appearances, this photographer is in love with the sight and perhaps, but I don’t know, the touch of the female body. She glorifies it but in its truth, without artifice, without the lure of clothes, of jewels, of finery. The gorgeous scantily-clad blonde who adorns the invitation extends her arms to you, her hands with their outstretched fingers, her eyes already half-closed.
She is inviting you to joy.
Even though she most certainly has not read John Keats, in listening to her, I heard her murmur: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Beauty is truth, truth beauty."
Translated from French by Diane Joy Charney.