Ulysse

It was Sunday by the sea, near Calais.

When I took this picture with a plate-camera,

I saw upside down on the frosted glass

the man on his head, lower right,

the boy center-right instead of left,

the goat floating in a sky full of meteors, like a sign of the Zodiac.

And yet,

I first saw it from a cliff top, lying still,

probably stunned by the fall.

A dead goat was a prize subject

for the kind oi pictorial composition I loved then.

A still life or a landscape with figures, as the old masters said.

Figures, that is, nudes in the open.

Here, a man and a child: my models.

The goat was born and died in St. Aubin-sur-Mer.

The child was born in Denia, Spain, The man in Alexandria.

He never saw the child before that Sunday.

And I hadn't seen the Egyptian since.

How long has it been?

How long since I've seen you?

I don't know... 30...

Maybe 28, 26 years.

Not since 1955, '56, '54.

Fouli Elia is the art director of Elle.

I brought you the picture and some pebbles.

I don't especially remember this one.

I do remember the boy.

Remember his name?

I believe it was...

- Ulysses? - Yes, that's it, not Maurice.

I remember him. Didn't you have to carry him?

I don't think I ever saw him walk.

I remember you often took pictures

of dead things on the beach.

I remember one particular bird.

I remember you made us pose without clothes.

You liked that.

I don't remember much else.

We were shy and didn't know how to act.

So you told us, ”Like this, not like that...”

You didn't do pretty landscapes.

It was usually...

Dreamlike things.

I do like to look out at the sea.

I was waiting for it to happen.

We were glad to put our clothes back.

And this portrait of you in your clothes?

I don't remember it at all.

It was...

I remember the sweater and the shoes,

but not where we were.

It was near Veules-les-Roses.

We used to go on weekends.

I don't even remember this coat. I remember the shirt,

but I don't remember the person.

How strange!

You remember the clothes but not who you were.

I don't want to remember.

If we don't remember, we're in trouble.

I'm just talking.

What do I know?

Well, now that I'm 100,000 years old,

I begin to understand.

Me, too, and I'm 50,000.

But do I know where my head was at, 28 years ago,

when I placed this child in the middle of a beach,

in the middle of the picture that now bears his name?

Ulysses Llorca owns a bookshop on Rue de Rivoli in Paris.

He is married to Isabelle, They have two daughters.

Aurore is the age Ulysses was when I first met him.

He was my first child.

Well, my favorite child, not really my child,

for he had a mother,

Bienvenida, whom we called Bienvé,

and a father, Juan, bricklayer and Republican.

They were Spanish, of course, political exiles.

We shared the same courtyard on Rue Daguerre,

as did the Italians in the back:

the Antonuccis, Adelgisa and Mimi

and Horace, who was not at the window that day.

From my bedroom,

I would go to my old-fashioned camera,

which in French is called room,

in Latin camera obscura,

then on to the dark room, the lab,

where Bienvé worked, singing as if picking olives in Alicante.

The Llorcas, starting with Ulysses,

inspired me with love and with many pictures.

This image of

of Bienvé and you...

I never saw it before.

Does it touch you?

No. I know it was at home on Rue Daguerre.

In my studio where I used daylight,

like Daguerre, like Nadar.

Near or far,

daylight's my delight.

Any memory of this photograph?

Of that day?

None.

You don't see yourself on the beach?

You don't remember the animal?

Or that guy there?

I really have no memory.

And yet, at the time, Ulysses did a painting from my photo.

In his version, the child touches the man.

Does he remember it?

I used to see it on the closet door, in your studio.

It was always there.

In any case, I don't remember doing it.

It's evidence, a statement from your childhood,

but you don't want to admit it!

I mean, for you this image is fictitious.

Yes, surely.

It's real but not for you. You must imagine your childhood.

Yes, that's it.

It's my version of the facts.

To each his own story, after all.

Even if it's strange, between reality and fiction.

Among my pictures of Ulysses,

the one on the beach isn't your favorite, is it?

Is it because of the memories, or because of the image?

It's not quite the image, it's the memory.

It was beautiful on the beach, but also a little sad.

- You mean for Ulysses? - Of course.

- You were very worried? - Very.

You had good reason to.

Ulysses suffered from coxa plana, a hip-bone condition.

A doctor said he'd limp all his life, if not treated.

A season by the sea, for instance, and seaweed massages.

That's why we were at St. Aubin-sur-Mer,

and why we carried him.

At first he was in pain and he lost weight.

But there was hope.

In fact, he recovered very fast.

Three months earlier than expected.

Do you remember the pain in the hip?

Perfectly.

Then you remember your body, your pain.

The body, the pain, and also where I was.

Where?

At home, Rue Daguerre, stretched out for 9 months.

But I don't remember the trip,

the photo, the beach, nothing.

As for the goat,

not that which rotted away so long ago,

to become pebble sand and bone dust,

the image of a goat,

not that of Picasso

made from scrap metal, by hook or by crook,

and later cast in bronze and immortalized