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PARTISAN REVIEW
and I immediately thought of one of Botticelli ' s angel-musicians.
She threw herself after the dog, and succeeded in grasping his collar,
but he was heavier than she was, and sent her rolling into the grass.
I drank in this delicious sight , wondering whatever had possessed
me to photograph bumblebees.
We introduced ourselves . She lived with her parents, her two
older brothers and her little sister , on a small out-of-the-way farm , a
kilometer from the village.
"But we're going to move soon," she said . Her father worked
in an electrical goods factory some distance away . He left early and
came home late. When the holidays came they didn ' t go anywhere
because they lived in the country .
I invited them in to show them my laboratory and some of my
work .
"You must come back, and I will take your pictures," I prom–
ised disingenuously. "But next time, don't bring the dog . "
We had left him outside, and frantic with loneliness he was
making an almighty racket trying to get in.
We said goodbye. They ran off laughing, with the Briard
bounding along behind and I was alone, dazzled and a little bit sad ,
with my 4 x 5 and my lavender, which the bumble bees had entirely
abandoned . What could be sadder than a photographer with nothing
left to photograph, who has let escape the only image that will from
now on have any value in his eyes?
Blandine came back. She was alone, without her friend , and in
my blindness I didn't even think to be surprised . I took a series of
portraits of her which are unquestionably my most successful work
in twenty-five years of photography . I was anxious for a moment
when I offered her a set for her parents and she refused .
"Oh no, they wouldn't be interested!"
I didn't even have the courage to ask if they knew about her
visits to my place .
One day it was raining and she came in , shaking out her
blonde hair, which was pearled with raindrops . She hung up her
raincoat; it crackled, limpid and light as a dragonfly's wing, and she
headed straight for the kitchen . I lit a fire in the hearth. She made a
cup of tea and some slices of toast.
Tea for two .
It was gorgeous,
dazzling, idyllic . I couldn't help thinking of Lewis Carroll , that
clergyman-photographer of a century ago , who used to organize par–
ties at his home reserved exclusively for little girls under twelve . He
would put make-up on them, dress them up, arrange them in groups
or in
tableaux vivants,
and fix forever on film their transient, fragile ,
