Marc Riboud: 50 Years of Photography 208030447X, 9782080304476

Citation preview

|

Flammarion

“| photograph the way a musician hums.

Looking is like breathing.

When

luck

comes my way and offers me a good picture, joy is surely at hand.” For the past fifty years, Marc Riboud has traveled the world recording the harmo-

ny of landscapes and the beauty in faces in

Angkor,

Huang-Shan,

Vietnam,

Istanbul, India, Bangladesh,

New York

and China. Riboud captures images of history in the making alongside those of everyday life. From a painter

balanced

like a dancer on the metal girders of the Eiffel Tower to a young girl facing down a rank of riflemen Vietnam

war,

in protest of the

Riboud’s

photographs

reveal a deep passion for seeing, an intrinsic

compassion

for the

human

struggle, and an intense and insatiable desire to understand

and to compre-

hend. While many of his photographs depict the anguish of war, others catch the evanescent delight of a swim in a sun-dappled river or children learning to

whistle in a Shanghai street.

This, retrospective cludes

Riboud’s

most

book—which_ famous

in-

photo-

graphs as well as unpublished vintage

prints from Leeds in 1954, from Africa, and from Europe—is the first to span his

entire, remarkable career.

WONQURU Meramec Library St. Louis Community College 11333 Big Bend Blvd. Kirkwood, MO 63122-5799 314-984-7797

MARC RIBOUD 50 Years

Photography

Translated from the French by Deke Dusinberre Copyediting: Linda Gardiner Design: Maurice Coriat

Proofreading: Fui Lee Luk Color Separation: Snoeck-Ducaju & Zoon

Simultaneously published in French as Marc Riboud 50 ans de photographie

© Editions Flammarion, 2004

English-language edition © Editions Flammarion, 2004

Photographs © Marc Riboud, 2004 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, photocopy, information retrieval system, or otherwise, without written permission from Editions Flammarion. 26, rue Racine 75006 Paris

www.editions.flammarion.com

04.05 064321 FC0447-04-II| ISBN: 2-0803-0447-x Dépét légal: 03/2004 Printed in Belgium_—

ines

” r —

i

=

MARC RIBOUD

Translated from the French by Deke Dusinberre

Flammarion

Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2023 with funding from Kahle/Austin Foundation

https://archive.org/details/marc!

Foreword

Every time a photographer places a few prints in front of me, even before judging the quality of the work | find myself trying to locate the “humanist”—it’s always a question of humanity—on Jean-Paul Sartre’s well-defined scale of values. Sartre claimed he knew “humanists who love people they way they are, humanists

who love them for what they should be, humanists who love the mortality of men and women,

and humanists who love the life in them.”

Marc Riboud is one of those humanists who loves life. Clearly. Right from his very first photographs. A haughty peacock strutting in Jaipur, a retired couple slouched in their armchairs, the mists clinging to Huang Shan, his gleeful daughter playing with her giant rabbits: those are what Marc calls the pleasures of seeing. He Is also someone who takes sides, who reveals how hard it is to be an Arab or

Congolese, who conveys the horrors of war without dipping his camera in blood.

Though there are no flowers in gun-barrels, his contact sheets show us a flower that stands up to the guns. Everything we know about Marc, we've learned through his pictures: his modesty, his sense of proportion, and, above all, his thirst for the truth.

Marc claims he is neither philosopher nor sociologist. True enough. But, equally true,

he’s an artist. This book

transcends

the ordinary,

provides

surpasses

proof of that.

the anecdotal.

It reveals an artist who

Marc's

attentiveness

to form

confers specificity and exceptional distinction on every single image he produces. Robert Delpire

Annick Cojean

For days on end I've been looking for just the right word to describe him. For days on end I've been culling memories of times spent in his company, of long conversations in his country garden near Tours or in his studio on rue Monsieur le Prince

in Paris. I've fumbled, I’ve juggled, I've toyed with nouns, adjectives, and metaphors in an attempt to describe Marc Riboud the way he has described his times. Poring

over his books—images of Angkor, Huang Shan, North Vietnam, Istanbul—| resented the fact that | possessed nothing but a little pile of words from which to choose or to combine—preferably in the right order—whereas he, the photographer, managed

to reveal a soul so swiftly, with a single photo. The mere sight of some of his portraits made me feel helpless. Would

a thousand

words, as the saying goes,

be worth even one of his pictures?

It would take winged words to describe this man with his seven-league boots. Sky-blue words, like his eyes, snowy words like his hair, fiery words for the passion inside him when he speaks, travels, makes images. It would take a hectic rhythm to suggest the personal tempo that perpetually drives him—fit as a fiddle—to hit the road again, thus preventing him from enjoying for more than a few hours at a time the garden that he designs and plants with his wife Catherine in their home on the

banks of the Loire. It would take a dramatic dialogue to convey his sense of repartee, his intellectual agility, and his keen sense of story-telling that, triggered by the sight of a photo, can send him far—very far—into time and space: from scaling the Jade Screen Tower in the Huang Shan mountains, to a reference to Mao, then on to Sartre and Raymond Aron, then back to his own father in Lyon (a legendary figure once feared, now

revered). Finally, it would take texts in several different typefaces to depict the scraps of paper that peek from his pockets, bags, and notebooks, all bearing quotations, poetry, and ideas torn from just about everywhere.

Proust, Confucius, Cocteau,

René Char. “Hey!” he says enthusiastically, brandishing one of these many scraps, “here's a present!” Curious. Of that, at least, I’m certain: Marc Riboud is curious. Blatantly, avidly,

curious.

Curious about everything—the

Curious

about the wider world,

beautiful, the comical,

but also about

his own

the emotional.

village, curious about

society and politics, curious about passers-by, tradesmen, artists. He tries to see,

wants to know how something works or why it doesn’t. He likes to understand.

In fact, he’s wildly interested in life. And he delights in picturing it. What a great way to live and navigate your way around the world! But first he had to weigh anchor, of course, leaving Lyon and his family, then Paris and the Magnum

crowd. To seek adventure,

“trying to see up close what

everyone talks about from afar.” First he headed for the Orient. India. Roaming in a Range Rover, spending nights in guest-houses, witnessing the 2,500th anniversary

of Buddha’s enlightenment and the coronation of the king of Nepal. And then the streets, the Ganges, Calcutta, and Bombay, all with their poverty, elegance, overcrowding, and suffering—but also divine grace. So he pushed a little further east, until he reached China. Another planet. “It was so fascinating,” says Riboud. “It was just so fascinating!” Carried away by his exploratory, photographic enthusiasm, he neglected to compose true photo spreads, to “construct” pictorial essays. “Come on,” scolded his mentor, Henri Cartier-Bresson, in numerous communications, “you

need to be methodical and consistent in order to develop a story!”

Story? But Riboud wasn’t a reporter. He wasn’t covering the news, he wasn’t after a scoop. Riboud enjoyed discovering the world, simply collecting all the visual

surprises that dotted his route. He delighted in them, framing and reframing them until he had a shot in the can. And then he would continue on his way. Curious about everything, | tell you: a face, a fold, a reflection. He’s an insatiable collector

of beauty and little delights. You have to picture him in summer, strolling up and down his garden, Leica around his neck, alert to everything. He knows every tree, every flower, every patch.

And yet, who

knows why, something

will suddenly surprise him.

He'll study,

observe, monitor: the growth of a tree, the shift of a shadow, the flight of a white heron. At any moment

he may be amazed

by what he sees. Have you seen the

picture of the lively, wild grasses, the domestic jungle in which he perceived curves, coils, stripes, a crack? It may look like the work of a painter, but it’s the work of

nature—which Riboud managed to frame. You have to picture him in Shanghai, lost among the crowd, walking on the right-hand sidewalk, then switching to the left, observing faces, posters, mini-skirts, and skyscrapers. He lifts the camera to his eye, frames things one way, then another,

then click! and he’s gone. Always on the lookout for an alleyway to take, a porch to enter, a window through which he can steal a quick look—you never know.

You have to picture him on vacation in Roscoff in Brittany, gazing dreamily at the gray granite of a very old church, then suddenly training his lens on a carving of a lewd

little Breton goblin performing

an insolent pirouette near a sundial that

solemnly warns us to “Fear the Final Hour.” As far as | know, no guide has ever shed light on this surprising detail. Riboud’s eye, however, is always sharp. Once, when

fog shrouded the little port, | expected him to be disappointed. Well, | was wrong. Camera

around

his neck, he was delighted. Riboud

has always loved mists—in

China, in England, in Brittany—“that sharpen and refine the planes, prune the superfluous,

eliminate

clutter.”

After

fifty years

of taking

photos,

he’s

still

looking forward to the next one. Blasé? Never. Curious, yes—how very curious! But footloose? Could footloose describe a man who prefers long stays to constant travel? Footloose means free to take your time, to remain open, to nose around for no specific rhyme or reason. With no aim other

than looking around, which is Riboud’s true passion. “The eye is the heaven of the soul,” he states, quoting an eye-doctor who was elected Pope John XXI in the year 1276. “Come on,” | chide, “an eye-doctor who became pope?” Riboud pretends to

be offended by my skepticism—he races to his bookshelves and returns with a finely bound old volume titled Ce/ebrations of the Eye, which extensively quotes the doctor-cum-pope.

When

it comes

to the eye, it’s pretty clear that Riboud

has

already read everything. “Taste, hearing, smell, and touch are essential, of course, but none of them are absolutely vital. Whereas sight governs pleasure and all the

emotions. Sight is life.” And life is chaos.

A huge jumble of shapes, piled high, all

confused. “A vast tangle that you have to cut through in order to find some order, to pick out one thing from the rest.” That's what taking photos means. Having an eye, selecting from the chaos. Knowing how to distinguish, to recognize. Recognize the beautiful, the unusual, the right image. Riboud is certain of that. Because just

as music can go off-key, so a photo can ring false. So: footloose—because he has a passion for wandering around to see and picture

tiny fragments of the world. Though not to bear witness. Let’s get that straight: never has Riboud claimed to perform any social role, to be a “committed” photo-

grapher, or to have proclaimed the truth. If his photos of China, before and after the Cultural Revolution—including his most recent images—have anything to do with politics, economics, society, and culture, then that’s because we can interpret

them thus. Riboud’s subtle, always elegant images are what Claude Roy called “nuggets of meaning.” They strike, penetrate, and resonate for a long time. Yet

Riboud never sets himself guidelines or mission. He abhors labels, just as he hates long discussions about a process that stems more from instinct, he insists, than from discipline. In the end, Riboud

is the freest photographer around.

He has no cage, no

chains. No ideology, no preconceptions. No schedule, no deadlines. He has even

freed himself from technique—he

doesn’t bother with multiple cameras,

bulky

flashes, heavy zoom lenses. He usually carries only his famous Leica; and on weekends or vacations I’ve even seen him pull a disposable camera from his pocket. He’s free, is Riboud. Free to spend months in a country, where others spend hours. Free to avoid planning, to refuse to “work” on an imposed subject, to turn down exclusive commissions. Free to play hooky all the time. Free to turn his back on paralyzing violence and dizzying bloodshed. Back in the 1940s, as a young man in the French Resistance he probably saw, experienced, and fought enough war to feel a real aversion to it; he prefers to show something other than scenes of torture and open wounds. Yet he was still free to cover the war in Vietnam, both north and south. Free to break free of the authority of Cartier-Bresson, even as he remains ever

grateful to his fascinating, powerful mentor. Free, finally, to return to lands where he has already set foot many times over because, like old friends, he feels an urge to see them again. Riboud never tires of returning, of rediscovering. Fraternal. In my hesitations over the right word, | also considered “fraternal.”

Riboud is a fraternal photographer, but not just because he came from a family of seven kids, a family that weighed heavily on his personal development. Nor because his handshakes and hugs reveal a brotherly warmth and sense of friendship. But because his view of others is always benevolent and full of empathy, without an ounce

of contempt. He always adopts the right distance—never too close, where he might be taken for a voyeur, never too far, where he might seem a mere bystander. In the

end, this sums it up: the humanity that emanates from his images, the brotherhood that emerges page after page, the extraordinary communication with the sorrowful women of Bangladesh who saw their husbands killed before their eyes, in the athletic

Ghanaian boatmen whose rhythmic chant you can practically hear, and in the comical Chinese boy who takes a picture of us armed with only four fingers and his imagination.

I've already eliminated the word “mischievous,” knowing that, on its own, it’s too limited. And yet you don’t know what mischief is if you don’t know Riboud. Just

look at the little rabbit concocted from a plastic bag left by some pretty lady in a Chinese mandarin’s garden. Apparently the lady, embarrassed by the photographer, quickly came back to look for the bag that must have contained her make-up. Too late! The photographer had already recruited it for a prank. Or consider this crossroads in Afghanistan: fast-moving cars to the left, slow-moving camels and mules to the right. (If | were a cyclist, I'd be mighty puzzled.) Then in China there’s the

man rushing along, legs striding, head lowered, unafraid to swim against the tide of people who according to the poster in the background are all united in solidarity!

There are many nods and winks in Riboud’s oeuvre, along with meaningful juxtapositions and visual echoes—a wry smile is never far away. It’s obvious, for that

matter:

a man who, still young at eighty, would swing from a little cable—arms

stretched, legs bent—to sweep across a large pond in his garden just to startle his daughter, must be a scamp. I've suggested curious, footloose, free, fraternal, mischievous. | might also have said humane and generous. But if | had to choose one word, and one word only,

| guess I'd go for sensitive. That's it. Have a look at this book, now, and you'll understand why. Elsewhere Riboud has recounted the story behind his very first photo, now lost (and for good reason!). He was eight at the time, riding his bike, when a pair of lovers pulled up on a motorcycle and asked him to take a picture of them. The shy boy agreed, blushing, and took the camera held out to him. He pointed the lens at the young

couple, who spontaneously embraced.

Terribly embarrassed,

Riboud

pressed the button, quickly handed back the camera, and sped off wordlessly on his

little bicycle. The scene is still etched in his memory,

associated with a double

tension: the fear of invading privacy by getting too close, combined with the appeal of being able to photograph something you wouldn't dare stare at. Sometimes a camera can serve as a good excuse as well as a passport!

The adult never outgrew the child’s modesty.

Riboud

would

never

invade

anyone’s privacy. Riboud never steals a picture—he claims he hates to train his lens on a face. I've seen him carry on a conversation with a friend all the while taking photos, camera at chest level. I’ve witnessed his gracefully silent, invisible balancing

act as he photographed Mikhail Gorbachev during an interview. He never embarrasses

or flusters people, nor reduces them to the level of mere subject. Turning to the only

nude photo included here, it is striking to note how the words gentle, modest, and sensitive still come to mind; elements of framing play off one another—the nude young woman in the cracked mirror, the cards on the mantelpiece, a book on love, a strange statuette, a completely ecstatic cat. Riboud has tactfully and carefully conceived his shot. He has composed a whole universe. An affectionate, private view.

Nothing indiscreet. He is sensitive, Marc Riboud, because enormously respectful of others. Sensitive, because incapable of cynicism, bitterness, or provocation. Sensitive because a lover

of poetry. Sensitive because subtle and modest, rejecting the title of artist—which

his family of bankers and industrialists willingly accord him. Sensitive and delicate like the acrobatic painter on the Eiffel Tower.

:

It is impossible not to conclude with the most symbolic of Riboud’s photos, perhaps

the most legendary: the girl with a flower. It was taken in Washington,

D.C.,

on October 21, 1967. The Indian-summer sun was shining on a vast and joyous demonstration against the war in Vietnam. There were radical student groups, civil rights activists, Black Power advocates,

middle-class liberals, hippies, and govern-

ment employees. There was theater, music, and sessions of Buddhist meditation, plus all the chants, laughter, and hugs. There were armfuls of flowers to hand to the soldiers, there was the scent of marijuana. And there was Jan Rose, fervent, idealistic, non-conformist. Aged sixteen, she was convinced she could change the

world. She could make a difference. The demonstrators came dangerously close to the Pentagon, that bastion and

symbol of the most powerful military force in the world, defended by hundreds of helmeted soldiers with bayonets fixed to their rifles. Jan Rose marched right up to the sharp points. She wanted to talk to the young soldiers, to reason with them,

maybe unsettle them—or at least catch their eyes. “Do you realize what you're

doing? You accept this shameful job? You think it’s right to spill blood?” They avoided her gaze, which shocked her. So she provoked them, coming closer still, opening her arms wide and thrusting out her chest as though to say, “Okay, stab me!” She became theatrical, displaying true showmanship. And then suddenly she took a flower and held it before her face like a vulnerable, holy object. Riboud feverishly

recorded

the scene. And then immediately ran out of film—Jan

Rose and her

marguarite daisy was his last shot.

The picture would be seen around the world. It incarnated non-violence and the sweet face of American youth. It inspired pacifists and idealists everywhere. It was timeless, its heroine nameless and ageless—at least until the day the two met up again,

a humanist photographer with graying hair and a somewhat

sad former

hippie who had taken some knocks in life but was now a mother. She threw herself into his arms. Jan Rose was so proud to have been part of the struggle back then. So when she answered the call once again, in February 2003, to march in London against the war in lrag, she telephoned

Riboud from Denmark, where life has led

her, and they met up in Trafalgar Square. She marched with a huge poster of her

younger self, in perfect unison with 1967. She calls often, Jan Rose. And

she writes.

Her life has been

no bouquet

of

roses—or daisies—but she defends all the right causes, launches petitions, campaigns to abolish the death penalty and defend human rights on every continent. Riboud’s photo, she says, forces her to stick to her ideals, to stand tall, and to teach her

daughter to keep the faith. It has given her lasting dignity. “Know what?”

she said softly on the phone not long ago. “As far as I’m

concerned, Marc's the king.” A king—yet fraternal. And sensitive.

| photograph the way a musician hums

“Marc, you're the first of my seven kids who's learned how to have fun,” exclaimed my father one day, admiring the way |I’d jazzed up my model train set with lots of clever additions. Today, many years later, | realize that my father—to whom | hardly dared to speak, so shy was I—really grasped my true nature. What have | been

doing for the past seventy years? Simply having fun? Yes, having fun. I’ve been

having fun looking, concocting visual things that | thought were beautiful and would get the attention of my elders.

After the wonderful loops of my model train layout, after the unlikely architecture of my tree houses, after all my model planes, | finally had to grow up and “show” people something else. Here again, my father’s perspicacity was decisive:

for my thirteenth birthday, he gave me the Vest Pocket Kodak he had used in the First World War. The dented little camera, with its patina of age, was equipped with a tiny metallic pencil for writing captions straight onto the film. The camera stirred my imagination, for it had its own story to tell: it had witnessed the mud and the courage, the suffering and the absurdity of the trenches. And |—like most kids,

| guess—loved stories. | had the good luck to belong to a family full of stories. My grandfather would describe the siege of Paris in 1870, during the Franco-Prussian war, when hunger forced him to eat rats. Then there were the stories told by my father, who traveled around the world with his three best friends in 1910.

In

Cambodia he came down with the plague, and his account of the disease would make me shudder every time. Then there was Uncle Jules, a part-time playboy and adventurer who recorded his early twentieth-century travels to Africa in a diary illustrated with panoramic photos that would make Koudelka green with envy.

When | look back on my childhood, | see little white pebbles marking the early paths that would lead to the road | finally followed. One little stone was the keyhole to my mother’s bedroom, through which | hoped to steal a glimpse of my little sister being born; another

pebble was

my great pride at having my first

photographs of the Loire chateaux stuck into the family photo album; yet another

little pebble was the family heritage of tales of travel and interest in the great wide world. What more was needed to spur an adult to cut his moorings and head for new horizons with a camera around his neck? Not much, except perhaps a little luck

and an encounter, at just the right moment, with Henri Cartier-Bresson (thanks to my brother, who had the bright idea of falling in love with a young poet named Nicole Cartier-Bresson).

Fortunate are those individuals who at some point in their lives have encountered—though not for too long—a tyrant. Henri Cartier-Bresson was my salutary

tyrant. He told me exactly which books to read, which museums to see, which political opinions to espouse, and which pictures to take and not to take. But it was

his enthusiasm for life and culture that taught me more than all his lessons. Thanks to Henri, | joined the Magnum family in 1952, when Robert Capa took me under his wing. With a pat on the back, rather than a sermon, Capa said: “Go to London,

boy, meet the girls and learn English.” | went to London, but | didn’t meet the girls or learn English.

| did, however,

take thousands

of pictures,

including

some

of

Leeds, where Capa managed to get me a commission for the Picture Post, which was then publishing a major series on English cities. Leeds was the only one left.

“Perfect,” said Capa to Len Spooner, the editor-in-chief, “because it’s the dreariest town in England, and Marc comes from Lyon, the dreariest town in France.” No one

could resist Capa’s charm, so Spooner agreed. A few days later, | went to visit Capa in his London hotel. He received me in the bathroom, unwinding as he took one of

the long, hot baths he so liked. | can still hear his voice: “Photography's finished. Television will soon be all over the place.” | left for Leeds, and when | reported back to Spooner a month later, he greeted me with the words, “Capa’s dead.” | had only

been with Magnum

for two years, but like all the other photographers | felt

orphaned. | returned to Paris at once, forgetting all about my pictures of Leeds. John Hillelson, Magnum’s London agent, unearthed them fifty years later, making it possible to publish them here for the first time. In the 1960s,

photographers

India and China were

still terra incognita,

which

meant

that

had something to show their audience. These days, millions of

tourists roam the world and see things for themselves. So photography has had to take a different tack, to adopt new forms. | admire young people who innovate. They refresh and enrich our vision. Sometimes I’m tempted to follow them, but

everyone has to find his or her own path, alone. One thing is certain: I'm always on the look-out for surprise, for just the right note, whether comical or moving. Although I'd like to go back to Bengal to see the elephants bathing, | also enjoy photographing the wild grasses in my back yard as they trace lines and rhythms in front of my lens—it’s a visual surprise. Finding order in all the chaos creates fleeting joy. Beauty is everywhere,

as is strangeness,

which

came

my way in

Shanghai last year in the form of a small plastic bag left in the garden of the Mandarin Yu: tied with a bow in the shape of a pair of ears, it looked like a little

lost rabbit. Wanderings,

solitary

treks,

long

waits—eyes

always

peeled.

As

evening

approaches and fatigue sets in, | wonder what meaning should be given to all those

faces, those landscapes, those street scenes, those encounters. Doubt and a feeling of pointlessness always hover nearby, but | photograph the way a musician hums. Looking is like breathing. When luck comes my way and offers me a good picture, joy is surely at hand.

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