Appropriation of memory.
How and why were my eyes attracted to this tan KODAK box, lost in an amalgam of heteroclite objects scattered on a table at the flea market in Geneva, Switzerland? Was it simple curiosity? The desire to finally find something interesting, unique, original in this vast space of the Place du Plainpalais, which is Sunday connects all Geneva? People from every social horizon mingle here: the old crowd looking for a rare book, the immigrant who finds a fade carpet with oriental motifs that remind him/her of home, the Do-It-Yourself fanatical father. Everything is there, objects of envy from a piano to a simple Lego brick. Then, what is so special about this particular box?
What did I secretly expect to find under the cover emblazoned with the letter “K” and a simple sentence written by hand in French, “vielles photos à Roby” (Roby’s old photos.) Who was Roby? Was he Swiss? Most probably.
Opening the box, I had a sudden impression of WOW expressing both my surprise and my joy. Dozens of photos in B/W, pressed one against the other revealed little by little, to my impatient fingers, past moments immortalizing the sweetness of Alpine landscapes.
Framed with white borders that emphasize the subject, the photos reveal the passage of time. Lightly tinted with a yellow film, they nevertheless loss none of their beauty, their expressive force. Was Roby more than an amateur? Was he the only one who photographed this collection of images of different sizes and printing techniques? Why so many different themes, witnesses of different seasons? Was this a deliberate choice of Roby, who wanted to capture these moments of beauty and friendship in the Swiss Alps in a box in order to preserve them from the uncertainties of time? Some of the prints are dated “04/11/37.” Is this a hasty collection put together by Roby’s descendants? It really doesn’t matter at this point because the box that ended up in my house is a testimony to an old Europe that existed before World War II. I find myself “thinking” about the fate of the people naively portrayed in these images. What disruption, what sorrow, what horror did they encounter?
Let’s our thoughts meander and follow the steps of Roby through pristine landscapes. Peaceful underbrush mingles with grandiose panorama of the Alps. A refines handwriting on the back of one photo reveals the name of Megève, an upscale ski resort on the French side. A rocky path leads to an elegant tree, which proudly poses next to a man who needs to accentuate his stature to be noticed.
A vista on the peacefulness of a small hamlet nestled at the foot of the Alpine slopes invites us to meditation. How many family histories, sweet and dark, are hidden behind the elegant simplicity of this house (is this Roby’s house?)?
Then the landscapes fill themselves with people. Friends, family -only one photo with women and children. Berets, hats, hair blowing in the wind. Sweaters, shirts, overcoats. Scarfs, ties, bandanas emblazoned with edelweiss, the beauty of the Alps. Enjoying yourself did not require sports equipment valued at thousand of dollars. Everyday clothes were sufficient to stop the cold. The smiles testify about the moments of intimacy, about the sharing of joy.
At this point in my story, I begin to have doubts. There is a moral difference between showing landscapes and publishing portraits of people who are no longer there today. Am I not appropriating the intimacy of people who are completely strangers? But did I not find this box in a flea market, a place that is so public that each object is stripped away from its origins? To publish the grandeur of Alpine landscapes is equally an intrusion into the mystery of nature. A sort of personal interpretation of what is presented to my eyes. Nature is generous, full and inspiring. And these people who offer their smile to the camera are part of the universe. Their presence captures a moment of reciprocity between their expectations and the intemporal generosity of nature.
Fragility and timelessness coexist in these pictures. Time passes over the fractures of the world. The trajectory of these people’s lives will remain unknown to me. How can I interpret these austere interiors? The metronome has stopped. The chairs are waiting for someone to sit on. Are these visitors lost in nature, lost in time? On the desk, ink is dried, and the pen can no longer align the letters which would tell the moral of this story.
But life is obstinate. It won’t allow me to end my story on a nostalgic note, if not dramatic. In capturing this instant of serenity and of family complicity, Roby invites us to this “déjeuner sur l’herbe” …in 1937…a year before Cartier Bresson!
