If there were a Jungian school of photography where they taught the Big Archetypes, the image immediately above would be one of its prime exhibits: placid river running high, iron bridge, shady tree — archetypes galore — men and women resting, fishing, staring at the surface, going about their lives — even a few rungs for the phantom boats that no longer ride the Seine to tie up at. Stillness in the middle of the city, this being a weekend morning in 1955, maybe Sunday before the Paris crowds come out.
What follows is not that.
Overnight from Pau to Paris, long haul from la capitale bearnaise to the big town. I took the night train to avoid the screaming prices and found myself in a car with a crew of Rugby fans who partied all night, singing a bit and drinking much. For some reason the train just sat in Bordeaux waiting for the signal to go on. My seat could have been the one in a police station where they put you before the interrogation. Wasn’t much sleep to be had.
Bye bye sunny, warm Pau at the foot of the Pyrénées hills. Paris had its great gray grisaille in place, a few flecks of rain falling from the smudgy sky behind which hid some painter’s blue visible for seconds at a time. (Anyone who’s lived there will know.) The plan was to race home, repack, figure out what I needed for the next leg of the trip, wondering what the weather would be like as I headed East to where I am now. Pressed for time but there’s always a few minutes for a smoke, isn’t there ? De rigueur ! I crossed the bridge half way, and put my bags down. As all smokers agree, anywhere will do, even on a bridge in the rain.
Wary eyes this way and that. I’ve been robbed enough for this lifetime.
Pont Charles de Gaulle, the ugliest piece of sin crossing the Seine, unworthy of the great General, Paris or anyone crossing it. Clean, late 80s sleek, white husk of satellite fuselage, an unsmoked cigarette, a stick of chalk with pretensions to that decade’s international style. There’s no fate worse than not being noticed and I doubt anyone does as they hurry across to the other side. The absence of recognizable architectural flourish must have felt daring at the time, a radical departure when compared to the other thirty six bridges in this fancy town.
I had a small role in a film not so long ago where the director’s instructions were, in toto, Loiter. Just hang around the busy corner in Belleville while the crowd surges. Good practice. Stand still, take in your surroundings. Don’t keep busy. Tuesday morning, I leaned against the bridge and lit up, watching the mighty Seine surging in from Burgundy on its way to Honfleur. Much like photography itself, you can read messages on its surface about the deeper currents below.
Then the camera came out.
