LABYRINTH
They’re seated. They’re looking at the camera. They are, from left to right: J. Henric, J.-J. Goux, Ph. Sollers, J. Kristeva, M.-Th. Réveillé, P. Guyotat, C. Devade and M. Devade.
There’s no photo credit.
They’re sitting around a table. It’s an ordinary table, made of wood, perhaps, or plastic, it could even be a marble table on metal legs, but nothing could be less germane to my purpose than to give an exhaustive description of it. The table is a table that is large enough to seat the above-mentioned individuals and it’s in a café. Or appears to be. Let’s suppose, for the moment, that it’s in a café.
The eight people who appear in the photo, who are posing for the photo, are fanned out around one side of the table in a crescent or a kind of bent-open horseshoe, so that each of them can be seen clearly and completely. In other words, no one is facing away from the camera and no one is shown in profile. In front of them, or rather between them and the photographer (and this is slightly strange), there are three plants — a rhododendron, a ficus and an immortelle — rising from a planter, which may serve, but this is speculation, as a barrier between two quite distinct sections of the café.
The photo was probably taken in 1977 or thereabouts.
But let us return to the figures. On the left-hand side we have, as I said, J. Henric, that is, the writer Jacques Henric, born in 1938 and the author of Archées, Artaud traversé par la Chine, and Chasses. Henric is a solidly built man, broad-shouldered, muscular-looking, probably not very tall. He’s wearing a checked shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He’s not what you would call a handsome man; he has the square face of a farmer or a construction worker, thick eyebrows and a dark chin, one of those chins that needs to be shaved twice a day (or so some people claim). His legs are crossed and his hands are clasped over his knee.
Next to him is J.-J. Goux. About J.-J. Goux I know nothing. He’s probably called Jean-Jacques, but in this story, for the sake of convenience, I’ll continue to use his initials. J.-J. Goux is young and blond. He’s wearing glasses. There’s nothing especially attractive about his features (although, compared to Henric, he looks not only more handsome but also more intelligent). The line of his jaw is symmetrical and his lips are full, the lower lip slightly thicker than the upper. He’s wearing a turtleneck sweater and a dark leather jacket.
Beside J.-J. is Ph. Sollers, Philippe Sollers, born in 1936, the editor of Tel Quel, author of Drame, Nombres, and Paradis, a public figure familiar to everyone. Sollers has his arms crossed, the left arm resting on the surface of the table, the right arm resting on the left (and his right hand indolently cupping the elbow of his left arm). His face is round. It would be a gross exaggeration to say that it’s the face of a fat man, but it probably will be in a few years’ time: it’s the face of a man who enjoys a good meal. An ironic, intelligent smile is hovering about his lips. His eyes, which are much livelier than those of Henric or J.-J., and smaller too, remain fixed on the camera, and the bags underneath them help to give his round face a look that is at once preoccupied, perky and playful. Like J.-J., he’s wearing a turtleneck sweater, though the sweater that Sollers is wearing is white, dazzlingly white, while J.-J.’s is probably yellow or light green. Over the sweater Sollers is wearing a garment that appears at first glance to be a dark-colored leather jacket, though it could be made of a lighter material, possibly suede. He’s the only one who’s smoking.
Beside Sollers is J. Kristeva, Julia Kristeva, the Bulgarian semiologist, his wife. She is the author of La traversée des signes, Pouvoirs de l’horreur, and Le langage, cet inconnu. She’s slim, with prominent cheekbones, black hair parted in the middle and gathered into a bun at the back. Her eyes are dark and lively, as lively as those of Sollers, although there are differences: as well as being larger, they transmit a certain hospitable warmth (that is, a certain serenity) which is absent from her husband’s eyes. She’s wearing just a turtleneck sweater, which is very close-fitting but the neck is loose, and a long V-shaped necklace that accentuates the form of her torso. At first glance she could almost be Vietnamese. Except that her breasts, it seems, are larger than those of the average Vietnamese woman. Hers is the only smile that allows us a glimpse of teeth.
Beside la Kristeva is M.-Th. Réveillé. About her too I know nothing. She’s probably called Marie-Thérèse. Let’s suppose that she is. Marie-Thérèse, then, is the first person so far not to be wearing a turtleneck sweater. Henric isn’t either, actually, but his neck is short (he barely has a neck at all) while Marie-Thérèse Réveillé, by contrast, has a neck that is long and entirely revealed by the dark garment she is wearing. Her hair is straight and long, with a center part, light brown in color, or perhaps honey blonde. Thanks to the slight leftward turn of her face, a pearl can be seen suspended from her ear, like a stray satellite.
Next to Marie-Thérèse Réveillé is P. Guyotat, that is, Pierre Guyotat, born in 1940, the author of Tombeau pour cinq cent mille soldats, Eden, Eden, Eden, and Prostitution. Guyotat is bald. That’s his most striking characteristic. He’s also the most handsome man in the group. His bald head is radiant, his skull capacious and the black hair on his temples resembles nothing so much as the bay leaves that used to wreathe the heads of victorious Roman generals. Neither shrinking away nor striking a pose, he has the expression of a man who travels by night. He’s wearing a leather jacket, a shirt and a T-shirt. The T-shirt (but here there must be some mistake) is white with black horizontal stripes and a thicker black stripe around the neck, like something a child might wear, or a Soviet parachutist. His eyebrows are narrow and definite. They mark the border between his immense forehead and a face that is wavering between concentration and indifference. The eyes are inquisitive, but perhaps they give a false impression. His lips are pressed together in a way that may not be deliberate.
Next to Guyotat is C. Devade. Caroline? Carole? Carla? Colette? Claudine? We’ll never know. Let’s say, for the sake of convenience, that she’s called Carla Devade. She could well be the youngest member of the group. Her hair is short, without a fringe, and, although the photo is in black and white, it’s reasonable to suppose that her skin has an olive tone, suggesting a Mediterranean background. Maybe Carla Devade is from the south of France, or Catalonia, or Italy. Only Julia Kristeva is as dark, but Kristeva’s skin — although perhaps it’s a trick of the light — has a metallic, bronze-like quality, while Carla Devade’s is silky and yielding. She is wearing a dark sweater with a round neck, and a blouse. Her lips and her eyes betray more than a hint of a smile: a sign of recognition, perhaps.
Next to Carla Devade is M. Devade. This is presumably the writer Marc Devade, who was still a member of Tel Quel’s editorial committee in 1972. His relationship with Carla Devade is obvious: man and wife. Could they be brother and sister? Possibly, but the physical dissimilarities are numerous. Marc Devade (I find it hard to call him Marc, I would have preferred to translate that M into Marcel or Max) is blond, chubby-cheeked and has very light eyes. So it makes more sense to presume that they are man and wife. Just to be different, Devade is wearing a turtleneck sweater, like J.-J. Goux, Sollers and Kristeva, and a dark jacket. His eyes are large and beautiful, and his mouth is decisive. His hair, as I said, is blond; it’s long (longer than that of the other men) and elegantly combed back. His forehead is broad and perhaps slightly bulging. And he has, although this may be an illusion produced by the graininess of the image, a dimple in his chin.