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Ghost Image
Besides writing fiction and personal essays, Hervé Guibert devoted his tragically brief life to the understanding of photography and the elusive nature of images recorded by the camera. To this gifted French photographer, who died of AIDS in 1991 at the age of 36, photographs were objects of wonder and mystery, even possessing a touch of the supernatural.
"Photographs are not innocent." Guibert writes in one of the most provocative essays in Ghost Image, a collection of critical and autobiographical writings on photography translated for the first time into English by Robert Bononno. "They influence and...betray what is hidden beneath the skin. They weave not only lines and grids, but plots, and they cast spells....They are an impressionable material that welcomes spirits." Guibert, photography critic of La Monde for many years, himself weaves a spell with his many topics and moods, delineated in a continually unpredictable mixture of precise descriptions and poetic musing. Guibert recalls family members through the frozen reality of pictures taken at different times. He offers a compact history of the Polaroid, and informative remarks on noted travel journals resembling photography. He confesses to having betrayed an actress he photographed, and silently ponders whether certain pictures should arouse him, adding his views on the differences between visual erotica and pornography. His own occasional role as model causes ambivalence.
A flurry of other incidents and thoughts - some real, others fantasy - crowd Guibert's pages as he struggles to fathom the essence of that which captures life. In an unforgettable conclusion, through his account of an enigmatic portrait and its strange fate, Guibert finally achieves the union of person and picture he sought. Ghost Image is a collection of beautifully and hauntingly written essays on what is and what lies behind any photograph.
"Photographs are not innocent." Guibert writes in one of the most provocative essays in Ghost Image, a collection of critical and autobiographical writings on photography translated for the first time into English by Robert Bononno. "They influence and...betray what is hidden beneath the skin. They weave not only lines and grids, but plots, and they cast spells....They are an impressionable material that welcomes spirits." Guibert, photography critic of La Monde for many years, himself weaves a spell with his many topics and moods, delineated in a continually unpredictable mixture of precise descriptions and poetic musing. Guibert recalls family members through the frozen reality of pictures taken at different times. He offers a compact history of the Polaroid, and informative remarks on noted travel journals resembling photography. He confesses to having betrayed an actress he photographed, and silently ponders whether certain pictures should arouse him, adding his views on the differences between visual erotica and pornography. His own occasional role as model causes ambivalence.
A flurry of other incidents and thoughts - some real, others fantasy - crowd Guibert's pages as he struggles to fathom the essence of that which captures life. In an unforgettable conclusion, through his account of an enigmatic portrait and its strange fate, Guibert finally achieves the union of person and picture he sought. Ghost Image is a collection of beautifully and hauntingly written essays on what is and what lies behind any photograph.
170 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1981
70 people are currently reading
1443 people want to read
About the author
Hervé Guibert
56 books199 followers(Saint-Cloud, 14 décembre 1955 - Clamart, 27 décembre 1991) est un écrivain et journaliste français. Son rapport à l'écriture se nourrit pour l'essentiel d'autobiographie et d'autofiction1. Il est également reconnu comme photographe et pour ses écrits sur la photographie.
Hervé Guibert est issu d’une famille de la classe moyenne d’après guerre. Son père est inspecteur vétérinaire et sa mère ne travaille pas. Il a une sœur, Dominique, plus âgée que lui. Ses grand-tantes, Suzanne et Louise, tiennent une place importante dans son univers familial. Après une enfance parisienne (XIVe arrondissement), il poursuit des études secondaires à La Rochelle. Il fait alors partie d’une troupe de théâtre : la Comédie de La Rochelle et du Centre Ouest. Il revient à Paris en 1973, échoue au concours d'entrée de l’Idhec à l'âge de 18 ans.
Homosexuel, il construit sa vie sentimentale autour de plusieurs hommes. Trois d’entre eux occupent une place importante dans sa vie et son œuvre : Thierry Jouno, directeur du centre socioculturel des sourds à Vincennes rencontré en 1976, Michel Foucault dont il fait la connaissance en 1977 à la suite de la parution de son premier livre La Mort propagande et Vincent M. en 1982, un adolescent d’une quinzaine d’années, qui inspire son roman Fou de Vincent. Il est un proche du photographe Hans Georg Berger rencontré en 1978 et séjourne dans sa résidence de l’Ile d’Elbe.
Il est pensionnaire de la Villa Médicis entre 1987 et 1989, en même temps qu'Eugène Savitzkaya et Mathieu Lindon. Ce séjour inspira son roman L'Incognito.
En janvier 1988, il apprend qu’il est atteint par le sida. En juin de l’année suivante, il se marie avec Christine S., la compagne de Thierry Jouno. En 1990, il révèle sa séropositivité dans son roman À l'ami qui ne m'a pas sauvé la vie - qui le fait connaître par ailleurs à un public bien plus important. Cette même année il est l'invité de Bernard Pivot dans Apostrophes. Ce roman est le premier d'une trilogie, composée également du Protocole compassionnel et de l'Homme au chapeau rouge. Dans ces derniers ouvrages, il décrit de façon quotidienne l'avancée de sa maladie.
Il réalise un travail artistique acharné sur le SIDA qui inlassablement lui retire ses forces, notamment au travers de photographies de son corps et d'un film, La Pudeur ou l'Impudeur qu'il achève avec la productrice Pascale Breugnot quelques semaines avant sa mort, ce film est diffusé à la télévision le 30 janvier 1992.
Presque aveugle à cause de la maladie, il tente de mettre fin à ses jours la veille de ses 36 ans. Il meurt deux semaines plus tard, le 27 décembre 1991, à l'hôpital Antoine-Béclère. Il est enterré à Rio nell'Elba près de l'ermitage de Santa Catarina (rive orientale de l'Ile d'Elbe).
Les textes d'Hervé Guibert se caractérisent par la recherche de simplicité et de dépouillement. Son style évolue sous l'influence de ses lectures (Roland Barthes, Bernard-Marie Koltès ou encore Thomas Bernhard, ce dernier "contaminant" ouvertement le style de A l'ami qui ne m'a pas sauvé la vie).
Hervé Guibert compose de courts romans aux chapitres de quelques pages, qui se fondent souvent sur des faits biographiques maquillés de fiction. Le lecteur est saisi par l'intrigue brutalement exposée (ainsi dans Mes parents), et appuyée par des passages au vocabulaire sophistiqué ou par des descriptions crues de tortures ou d'amours charnelles. Ce texte est en grande partie extrait de son journal intime publié en 2001 chez Gallimard (Le Mausolée des amants, Journal 1976-1991).
Il travaille avec Patrice Chéreau avec qui il coécrit le scénario de L'Homme blessé qui obtient le César du meilleur scénario en 1984, mais aussi avec Sophie Calle. Journaliste, il collabore dès 1973 à plusieurs revues. Il réalise des entretiens avec des artistes de son époque comme Isabelle Adjani, Zouc ou Miquel Barceló qui fait plus de 25 portraits de lui. Il écrit des critiques de photographie et de cinéma au service culturel du journal L
Hervé Guibert est issu d’une famille de la classe moyenne d’après guerre. Son père est inspecteur vétérinaire et sa mère ne travaille pas. Il a une sœur, Dominique, plus âgée que lui. Ses grand-tantes, Suzanne et Louise, tiennent une place importante dans son univers familial. Après une enfance parisienne (XIVe arrondissement), il poursuit des études secondaires à La Rochelle. Il fait alors partie d’une troupe de théâtre : la Comédie de La Rochelle et du Centre Ouest. Il revient à Paris en 1973, échoue au concours d'entrée de l’Idhec à l'âge de 18 ans.
Homosexuel, il construit sa vie sentimentale autour de plusieurs hommes. Trois d’entre eux occupent une place importante dans sa vie et son œuvre : Thierry Jouno, directeur du centre socioculturel des sourds à Vincennes rencontré en 1976, Michel Foucault dont il fait la connaissance en 1977 à la suite de la parution de son premier livre La Mort propagande et Vincent M. en 1982, un adolescent d’une quinzaine d’années, qui inspire son roman Fou de Vincent. Il est un proche du photographe Hans Georg Berger rencontré en 1978 et séjourne dans sa résidence de l’Ile d’Elbe.
Il est pensionnaire de la Villa Médicis entre 1987 et 1989, en même temps qu'Eugène Savitzkaya et Mathieu Lindon. Ce séjour inspira son roman L'Incognito.
En janvier 1988, il apprend qu’il est atteint par le sida. En juin de l’année suivante, il se marie avec Christine S., la compagne de Thierry Jouno. En 1990, il révèle sa séropositivité dans son roman À l'ami qui ne m'a pas sauvé la vie - qui le fait connaître par ailleurs à un public bien plus important. Cette même année il est l'invité de Bernard Pivot dans Apostrophes. Ce roman est le premier d'une trilogie, composée également du Protocole compassionnel et de l'Homme au chapeau rouge. Dans ces derniers ouvrages, il décrit de façon quotidienne l'avancée de sa maladie.
Il réalise un travail artistique acharné sur le SIDA qui inlassablement lui retire ses forces, notamment au travers de photographies de son corps et d'un film, La Pudeur ou l'Impudeur qu'il achève avec la productrice Pascale Breugnot quelques semaines avant sa mort, ce film est diffusé à la télévision le 30 janvier 1992.
Presque aveugle à cause de la maladie, il tente de mettre fin à ses jours la veille de ses 36 ans. Il meurt deux semaines plus tard, le 27 décembre 1991, à l'hôpital Antoine-Béclère. Il est enterré à Rio nell'Elba près de l'ermitage de Santa Catarina (rive orientale de l'Ile d'Elbe).
Les textes d'Hervé Guibert se caractérisent par la recherche de simplicité et de dépouillement. Son style évolue sous l'influence de ses lectures (Roland Barthes, Bernard-Marie Koltès ou encore Thomas Bernhard, ce dernier "contaminant" ouvertement le style de A l'ami qui ne m'a pas sauvé la vie).
Hervé Guibert compose de courts romans aux chapitres de quelques pages, qui se fondent souvent sur des faits biographiques maquillés de fiction. Le lecteur est saisi par l'intrigue brutalement exposée (ainsi dans Mes parents), et appuyée par des passages au vocabulaire sophistiqué ou par des descriptions crues de tortures ou d'amours charnelles. Ce texte est en grande partie extrait de son journal intime publié en 2001 chez Gallimard (Le Mausolée des amants, Journal 1976-1991).
Il travaille avec Patrice Chéreau avec qui il coécrit le scénario de L'Homme blessé qui obtient le César du meilleur scénario en 1984, mais aussi avec Sophie Calle. Journaliste, il collabore dès 1973 à plusieurs revues. Il réalise des entretiens avec des artistes de son époque comme Isabelle Adjani, Zouc ou Miquel Barceló qui fait plus de 25 portraits de lui. Il écrit des critiques de photographie et de cinéma au service culturel du journal L
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 69 reviews
July 24, 2011
This is the kind of intimate and evocative book that one imagines oneself reading during a long, languorous afternoon in a cafe or while curled up in big comfortable chair besides a sunny window, allowing oneself to be caught up in the delicate strands of thought, memory and whimsy Guibert uses to pattern this brief collection of essays, vignettes and assorted musings.
Unfortunately, I didn't read any of Ghost Image in such conditions. Rather, I read almost all of it while being jostled during my daily work commute on San Francisco public transportation, vying for all-too scarce seating, trying to maintain balance through unnecessarily abrupt braking, sandwiched between fellow commuters just as desperate for a cup of morning coffee or anxious to just get home as I was, etc. As such, I wish to apologize to this book—I don't feel like my reading experience did it justice.
But perhaps that pays Guibert a great compliment—because I did want to keep reading in such unideal reading situations, to see where Guibert was going to lead me next. The best sections, for me, were the anecdotes, often serving as a portrait of a person, that often functioned as short stories—the opening memory of "discovering" his mother while taking her portrait, an encounter with a curmudgeonly neighboring pharmacist, the lessons learned from a professional photographic retoucher. There are also a particularly wonderful meditations on the nature of old home movies and polaroid photographs.
From moment to moment this was enthralling reading, but in the end I couldn't help but feel I bit underwhelmed, as if it ultimately hadn't added up to a whole lot. But upon further consideration, I realize that my less-than-optimal reading experience might have caused me to miss the subtle rhythms and wispy, cobweb-like connections and associations I suspect Guibert used to string all of these disparate fragments together. As such, I will simply say that I fully look forward to reading this collection again, and next time around hopefully catch what I might very well have missed.
Unfortunately, I didn't read any of Ghost Image in such conditions. Rather, I read almost all of it while being jostled during my daily work commute on San Francisco public transportation, vying for all-too scarce seating, trying to maintain balance through unnecessarily abrupt braking, sandwiched between fellow commuters just as desperate for a cup of morning coffee or anxious to just get home as I was, etc. As such, I wish to apologize to this book—I don't feel like my reading experience did it justice.
But perhaps that pays Guibert a great compliment—because I did want to keep reading in such unideal reading situations, to see where Guibert was going to lead me next. The best sections, for me, were the anecdotes, often serving as a portrait of a person, that often functioned as short stories—the opening memory of "discovering" his mother while taking her portrait, an encounter with a curmudgeonly neighboring pharmacist, the lessons learned from a professional photographic retoucher. There are also a particularly wonderful meditations on the nature of old home movies and polaroid photographs.
From moment to moment this was enthralling reading, but in the end I couldn't help but feel I bit underwhelmed, as if it ultimately hadn't added up to a whole lot. But upon further consideration, I realize that my less-than-optimal reading experience might have caused me to miss the subtle rhythms and wispy, cobweb-like connections and associations I suspect Guibert used to string all of these disparate fragments together. As such, I will simply say that I fully look forward to reading this collection again, and next time around hopefully catch what I might very well have missed.
June 11, 2024
“The photographer circles around me; bending over me, he does not speak. I no longer control my face or my expression, they no longer belong to me. I say to myself, I’m like a child being tortured. In this position, I am much more uncomfortable than when I’m at the dentist’s with my neck bent back, the ceiling of light shining in my eyes and all that metal in my mouth and under my tongue. The camera prepares to sever my head with blades of shadow and present it—as if to Salomé—not on a gold platter, but on a sheet of photographic paper.”
“But contrary to what … people still think today, I believe photographs promote forgetting,” Marguerite Duras wrote. “The fixed, flat, easily available countenance of a dead person or an infant in a photograph is only one image as against the million images that exist in the mind. … It’s a confirmation of death.” And so, Guibert, like Duras in The Lover, instead features the “ghost image,” the photograph that should have been taken, but wasn’t, and—since, in a way, all writing is elegy, the desperate reaching after an elusive past—the black sun of present absence at the heart of the collection, which he circles like a moth around a candle.
(Just a warning: At one point, Guibert feels the need to add that the person sitting opposite him on a train was black, apparently to hint at why he sat down facing sideways in his seat to avoid having to look at them. There are a few other, more minor, things like this scattered throughout the book, which I thought rather curious coming from someone writing so intelligently about image and identity.)
“But contrary to what … people still think today, I believe photographs promote forgetting,” Marguerite Duras wrote. “The fixed, flat, easily available countenance of a dead person or an infant in a photograph is only one image as against the million images that exist in the mind. … It’s a confirmation of death.” And so, Guibert, like Duras in The Lover, instead features the “ghost image,” the photograph that should have been taken, but wasn’t, and—since, in a way, all writing is elegy, the desperate reaching after an elusive past—the black sun of present absence at the heart of the collection, which he circles like a moth around a candle.
(Just a warning: At one point, Guibert feels the need to add that the person sitting opposite him on a train was black, apparently to hint at why he sat down facing sideways in his seat to avoid having to look at them. There are a few other, more minor, things like this scattered throughout the book, which I thought rather curious coming from someone writing so intelligently about image and identity.)
November 27, 2024
*drukt kus op cover*
June 22, 2024
love this little gay boy’s anecdotal stories about his friendships with isabelle adjani and roland barthes
January 3, 2024
Estoy tremendamente fascinado
«mi imagen del pasado ya me resulta dolorosa, intolerable. Prefiero esconderla, temo que les guste tanto que se detengan a mirarla»
«La foto como cinta métrica»
«mi imagen del pasado ya me resulta dolorosa, intolerable. Prefiero esconderla, temo que les guste tanto que se detengan a mirarla»
«La foto como cinta métrica»
July 31, 2021
Trevi parla nell'introduzione di un dialogo fra questo testo (1981) con La camera chiara di Barthes (1980), dialogo che indubbiamente c'è per via di un rimando a R.B. nella parte finale del libro (e perché Guibert aveva letto e recensito il testo dell'altro). E siamo in effetti in luoghi letterari simili, in cui la fotografia non è affrontata nel suo specifico tecnico o con approfondimento di foto e autori (aspetto deludente per le mie aspettative) ma rispetto all'affettività e alle esperienze personali (soprattutto familiari) e alle pulsioni scopiche. In questo senso è in parte simile a La camera chiara, ma di minore spessore intellettuale (per forza, verrebbe sbrigativamente da dire, anche se di Guibert conosco solo le note biografiche che chiudono questo volume) e un po' fastidioso per la struttura spezzettata che rompe il ritmo e non approfondisce. Non privo comunque di alcune riflessioni generative.
December 20, 2024
«La foto marca la vida cuando nacemos, luego el matrimonio: son los dos momentos clave. Mientras tanto, como la marca de tiza sobre la vara de medir o como esas pequeñas fisuras que aparecen en los huesos a medida que crecen, en cada cumpleaños la foto sigue el crecimiento del cuerpo, luego lo olvida, lo niega. El cuerpo adulto, el que ha dejado de ser virgen, el cuerpo que envejece, cae en una trampa oscura: ya no es fotogénico.
(…)Tengo veinticuatro años, pero en presencia de la gente que amo, mi imagen del pasado ya me resulta dolorosa, intolerable. Prefiero esconderla, temo que les guste tanto que se detengan a mirarla.»
(…)Tengo veinticuatro años, pero en presencia de la gente que amo, mi imagen del pasado ya me resulta dolorosa, intolerable. Prefiero esconderla, temo que les guste tanto que se detengan a mirarla.»
July 10, 2018
Precise and poetic musings on the art of photography. To read slowly and savor. To dip in once in a while.
April 28, 2025
Bufffff, una preciosidad evocadora al máximo (leída, elocuentemente además, en el apagón del lunes 28 de abril, donde no hubo imágenes, ni luz eléctrica, pero sí la traza de la luz sobre todo el mundo que estaba echado a la calle ❤️🩹)
September 6, 2022
Poesia.
(Recensione al più presto)
(Recensione al più presto)
April 3, 2023
sorry i had to stop reading at p48 where he says he saw a pic of his dad at 30 n says if he saw him today he “would want to sleep with him” . mayb will revisit when i can understand artsy white gays but not during ramadan thanks
March 11, 2024
Un libro compuesto de textos breve, reflexiones aparentemente sobre la fotografía pero que, en realidad hablan de la muerte, el tiempo, el deseo, la belleza. El primer texto "Imagen fantasma" sobre su madre y la sesión de fotos que le hace es brutal y arrebatador; hermoso y terrible a la vez. Cuesta creer que Guibert escribiera estos textos con 26 años...
March 12, 2024
''Como é que se pode falar de fotografia sem falar de desejo? (...) a imagem é a essência do desejo, e dessexualizar a imagem seria reduzi-la à teoria...'' pág. 106
''Olhar para uma imagem de pequeno formato, ou olhar para a imagem num livro, é então um tipo de actividade mais secreta, mais solitária, mais perversa, não apenas na proximidade do objecto: é como olhar para os olhos a dois centímetros de distância, ou para uma boca antes de a beijar.'' pág. 130
''Aqui está a prova de que as fotografias não são inocentes, não são letras mortas, objecto inanimados, embalsamados pelo fixador. Aqui está a prova de que elas agem e traem o que se esconde por detrás da pele. (...) Aqui está a prova de que são uma matéria mole, que acolhe espíritos.'' pág. 179
Este livro é de uma preciosidade imensa.
''Olhar para uma imagem de pequeno formato, ou olhar para a imagem num livro, é então um tipo de actividade mais secreta, mais solitária, mais perversa, não apenas na proximidade do objecto: é como olhar para os olhos a dois centímetros de distância, ou para uma boca antes de a beijar.'' pág. 130
''Aqui está a prova de que as fotografias não são inocentes, não são letras mortas, objecto inanimados, embalsamados pelo fixador. Aqui está a prova de que elas agem e traem o que se esconde por detrás da pele. (...) Aqui está a prova de que são uma matéria mole, que acolhe espíritos.'' pág. 179
Este livro é de uma preciosidade imensa.
February 24, 2016
Photography is the ultimate art of abstraction.
The most convincing lie.
The subject of every photograph is what cannot be pulled into the frame, the negative space that is the boundary between the photograph and the things it depicts.
In this collection of pictorial vignettes, Guibert struggles to capture the erasure, distortion and distance of photography, and the impact these dynamics played in his development as a man and artist.
A really great read, with lucid but distorted prose, like the reflection in a glass cup.
(Note, there are two instances of racial animus in the text, that while disturbing did not detract from my overall reading, but are intriguing failures for someone so engaged with the false-memory or catalytic capacities of photography)
The most convincing lie.
The subject of every photograph is what cannot be pulled into the frame, the negative space that is the boundary between the photograph and the things it depicts.
In this collection of pictorial vignettes, Guibert struggles to capture the erasure, distortion and distance of photography, and the impact these dynamics played in his development as a man and artist.
A really great read, with lucid but distorted prose, like the reflection in a glass cup.
(Note, there are two instances of racial animus in the text, that while disturbing did not detract from my overall reading, but are intriguing failures for someone so engaged with the false-memory or catalytic capacities of photography)
August 19, 2014
A brilliant gem that rates comparison with Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography. More personal than Roland Barthes, but more sensitive and introspective as well, there's much underneath the surface of these sketches and memories. Gorgeously translated prose.
March 25, 2020
Intime, décadent et surtout, morbide. J’ai absolument adoré cette lecture, très fluctuante, qui me permettait d’être pensive; de jouer à la photographe, à l’écrivaine, à l’artiste, la meurtrière, l’enfant... C’est parfois une ode au voyeurisme, parfois un reflet de certaines maladies physiologiques ou psychologiques; des excuses ou des secrets dans le désir et l’immortalité. Les images sont belles et la narration est grandement attachante.
October 15, 2015
Interesting and the prose are lovely, but I wouldn't call this "pleasure reading" by any stretch, you are going to have to pay attention
December 12, 2023
Súper buen descubrimiento. Me encantó este libro. El estilo fragmentado, como de diario, los conceptos en torno a la fotografía y el álbum familiar… precioso.
November 7, 2024
— Você tem razão. Os segredos devem circular...
Imensamente tocado pela poética das imagens em Hervé. Escrito como um tipo de micro-ensaios sobre diferentes tipos de imagens e a relação dele com essas imagens, esse livro marca, pois tem um fator melancólico muito grande: nas imagens, todos não param de morrer. Anotei algo enquanto lia um dos textos;
sexta
4 de outubro
18h31
Ler A Imagem Fantasma, está sendo uma experiência assustadora. Avanço devagar. Hoje li um texto que me perturbou enormemente. A Coleção, um texto de duas páginas. Sinto que a imagem fotográfica carrega um mistério para além da captura do real num quadro. Ela guarda um tempo morto, vivido pela presença de quem saiu na foto, e vai morrer, enlutado por quem vê a foto, e vai morrer, transcendido por quem tirou a foto, e vai morrer, escondido sob um véu, que na verdade é uma película que difere o papel fotográfico do papel não fotográfico, que eventualmente vai deixar de existir.
Idk, muitos mistérios e eu sou gay pelo Hervé.
Imensamente tocado pela poética das imagens em Hervé. Escrito como um tipo de micro-ensaios sobre diferentes tipos de imagens e a relação dele com essas imagens, esse livro marca, pois tem um fator melancólico muito grande: nas imagens, todos não param de morrer. Anotei algo enquanto lia um dos textos;
sexta
4 de outubro
18h31
Ler A Imagem Fantasma, está sendo uma experiência assustadora. Avanço devagar. Hoje li um texto que me perturbou enormemente. A Coleção, um texto de duas páginas. Sinto que a imagem fotográfica carrega um mistério para além da captura do real num quadro. Ela guarda um tempo morto, vivido pela presença de quem saiu na foto, e vai morrer, enlutado por quem vê a foto, e vai morrer, transcendido por quem tirou a foto, e vai morrer, escondido sob um véu, que na verdade é uma película que difere o papel fotográfico do papel não fotográfico, que eventualmente vai deixar de existir.
Idk, muitos mistérios e eu sou gay pelo Hervé.
January 9, 2024
WOW WOW WOW
August 26, 2024
would’ve given it 4.5 stars but a handful of sections where lowkey pervy/incestuous
February 22, 2023
I spent years looking for this book without realizing it. Photos never taken. I usually have no problem with bourgie frivolity but he does occasionally dip his toe into taking a bit far. But really beautiful book, deals directly, in that French way, with death as it relates to the practice of art, and the ways photography has changed the nature of both those things.
May 30, 2014
The book is a collection of short journal-like entries about photographs and photography. It is beautifully written and although the pieces are short Guibert has a fascinating way of looking at photographs and memory.
"The photographs that I must have seen many times as a child do not correspond with my own memories; in spite of their tangible reality, they were unable to create any impressions earlier than those formed by memory (even though they existed before it).
This history exists parallel to that of memory. In fact, I have no desire to remember any of those petty scenes when we assembled to have our picture taken-they're dull and much less violent than memory itself. In the photographs my body has been incorporated into the family group like it has in its "playpen," it has no history of its own." 34
"My very first memories must be aural. I have no memories of photographs or which coincide with a photograph-I remember the pictures, but I have no recollection of having lived them." 35
"It is said that the purpose of a family photographs is to preserve memory, but it creates images that take the place of memory, conceal it, and are a kind of respectable history, unnuanced and interchangeable, passed from one family to the next with the vague hope of leaving a trace for future generations. Not a literary history, but a superficial history." 36
"The group of childhood pictures stops abruptly as the age of puberty, when the body grows hair, becomes sexually mature, adult, almost identifiable. From its inception the photograph is an attempt at appropriation, a frame for the prepubescent body-just like the home, or not being able to go out at night, or the fact that parents wash a child's body even when he or she is no longer a child. This body has to present itself for the photograph as it would for a medical exam, an available body that the father can scrutinize at any moment." 37
"I awoke with a start, with the aftertaste of a bad dream." 55
"But the boundary between the erotic and the pornographic is more problematic; it has to do with commerce. Pornography can be made to pass for eroticism, rarely the opposite, there would be no profit in it. The pornographic is that which is not touched by art (or grace). Many pictures of nudes are sold for the body they represent rather than for the photograph itself. They are sold under the pretext and the protection of art. The erotic photograph can be framed, the pornographic comes wrapped in cellophane, like meat in the supermarket.
The body in a erotic photograph can be manipulated-we can take it by the hand and lead it toward pornography, toward its own pornography. We can fantasize: Here's what I would like to do with this body, this is what I would like to touch, this is what I want to submit it to, what I want it to submit me to. This body is open, possible, an ill-defined body. The body in pornography is held in check, it is hyperrealistic, swollen and saturated." 94-95
"But I'm suspicious of the collector's passion-I'm afraid that it will turn into a petty obsession, a form of mechanical accumulation." 112
"The photographs that I must have seen many times as a child do not correspond with my own memories; in spite of their tangible reality, they were unable to create any impressions earlier than those formed by memory (even though they existed before it).
This history exists parallel to that of memory. In fact, I have no desire to remember any of those petty scenes when we assembled to have our picture taken-they're dull and much less violent than memory itself. In the photographs my body has been incorporated into the family group like it has in its "playpen," it has no history of its own." 34
"My very first memories must be aural. I have no memories of photographs or which coincide with a photograph-I remember the pictures, but I have no recollection of having lived them." 35
"It is said that the purpose of a family photographs is to preserve memory, but it creates images that take the place of memory, conceal it, and are a kind of respectable history, unnuanced and interchangeable, passed from one family to the next with the vague hope of leaving a trace for future generations. Not a literary history, but a superficial history." 36
"The group of childhood pictures stops abruptly as the age of puberty, when the body grows hair, becomes sexually mature, adult, almost identifiable. From its inception the photograph is an attempt at appropriation, a frame for the prepubescent body-just like the home, or not being able to go out at night, or the fact that parents wash a child's body even when he or she is no longer a child. This body has to present itself for the photograph as it would for a medical exam, an available body that the father can scrutinize at any moment." 37
"I awoke with a start, with the aftertaste of a bad dream." 55
"But the boundary between the erotic and the pornographic is more problematic; it has to do with commerce. Pornography can be made to pass for eroticism, rarely the opposite, there would be no profit in it. The pornographic is that which is not touched by art (or grace). Many pictures of nudes are sold for the body they represent rather than for the photograph itself. They are sold under the pretext and the protection of art. The erotic photograph can be framed, the pornographic comes wrapped in cellophane, like meat in the supermarket.
The body in a erotic photograph can be manipulated-we can take it by the hand and lead it toward pornography, toward its own pornography. We can fantasize: Here's what I would like to do with this body, this is what I would like to touch, this is what I want to submit it to, what I want it to submit me to. This body is open, possible, an ill-defined body. The body in pornography is held in check, it is hyperrealistic, swollen and saturated." 94-95
"But I'm suspicious of the collector's passion-I'm afraid that it will turn into a petty obsession, a form of mechanical accumulation." 112
March 22, 2023
This is the type of writing on photography I am looking for. Not the act of pushing the shutter with a machine. Taking a picture is merely an act in the beginning stages, metaphorically: if I were to arrive in a one's choice of a desired place, I would have to first perhaps 1.plan 2.get a ticket and then 3.embark on the journey. "The ticket" as your act of taking pictures, is a guaranteed invitation to the photography world (whether you are able to understand the art of it is another issue)."The tickets" are taken but it does not guarantee the arrival -your ability to find the place (said place is where photography stands in the stream of art).
Therefore, sorry to break it to a certain someone, having countless polaroid cameras, the Leica you sold your soul for, and a Canon EOS R5 Mirrorless with RF 24-105mm f/4L IS Lens, does not make you a photographer/artist. You just look like a tourist.
Therefore, sorry to break it to a certain someone, having countless polaroid cameras, the Leica you sold your soul for, and a Canon EOS R5 Mirrorless with RF 24-105mm f/4L IS Lens, does not make you a photographer/artist. You just look like a tourist.
February 14, 2009
小ぶりで端正な書物ながら、印象深い装丁が目をひく。
おそらく著者自身のポートレイトなのだろう。ジャケットと一体になった帯に印刷された、わずかに明瞭さを欠いたモノクロームの写真は、強い視線をこちら側へと放っている。そのように思えたとしても不思議はない。じっさい本書のなかで描かれる彼の視線は、眼前の現実をことごとく「映像」として捉えることを辞さない。神話のメドゥーサさながらに対象を石化する視線（しかし主体と客体の関係はここでは転倒しているが）。
著者のエルヴェ・ギベールは小説家であり、またすでに邦訳のある『写真書物』（ペヨトル工房刊／絶版）などで写真家としてもよく知られている。また、そのキャリアの出発点は『ル・モンド』紙の写真／映像批評を担当する批評家でもあり、本国フランスでは、そのコラムを集成した大部の評論集も出版されている。
本書は、そのようなキャリアを持つ彼の処女作品集である。
そのほとんどが「ぼく」という一人称で書かれている64篇の断章によって綴られた、この小説とも、エッセイとも、評論とも言えるような、そしてそのどれにも当てはめることの困難な物語は、つねに「幻のイマージュ」をめぐって展開されている。
それは些細なミスから、あるいはちょっとした偶然からけっして写されることのなかった数々の「写真」の記憶である。あるいは石と化し永遠に凝結されることから逃れた、儚い映像。
この映像の不在に、原著刊行の前年、1980年に出版されたロラン・バルトの遺著『明るい部屋』を重ねる読者もいるだろう（実際に本書のなかでも R.B. という名の、バルト本人と思しき人物が登場し、二人の間に親交があったことを示している）。
だが、バルトが不在の映像（「温室の写真」と呼ばれる彼の母親の写真）を軸に写真を語るのに対して、ギベールは執拗なまでに映像の不在、ないしは非在について語っている。「それはかつてあった」という写真のノエマは、映像から物語へと転写されて私たちの前に示される。この、写真について、あるいは写真を媒介として自らの欲望を語るギベールのエクリチュールは、しかし、あらかじめ失われた非在の映像が、彼を媒介として写真の欲望を語るかのように二重化されている。
本書の終わり、その最後の断章で彼はいう。
「この物語はぼくの秘密なんだ。……どうか口外しないでくれ」と。
この「秘密」が帰属するところ、あるいは秘密そのものとしての写真。それが「幻のイマージュ」なのだろうか。
※『アサヒカメラ』（1996年4月号）に寄稿したレヴュー原稿に加筆修正。
おそらく著者自身のポートレイトなのだろう。ジャケットと一体になった帯に印刷された、わずかに明瞭さを欠いたモノクロームの写真は、強い視線をこちら側へと放っている。そのように思えたとしても不思議はない。じっさい本書のなかで描かれる彼の視線は、眼前の現実をことごとく「映像」として捉えることを辞さない。神話のメドゥーサさながらに対象を石化する視線（しかし主体と客体の関係はここでは転倒しているが）。
著者のエルヴェ・ギベールは小説家であり、またすでに邦訳のある『写真書物』（ペヨトル工房刊／絶版）などで写真家としてもよく知られている。また、そのキャリアの出発点は『ル・モンド』紙の写真／映像批評を担当する批評家でもあり、本国フランスでは、そのコラムを集成した大部の評論集も出版されている。
本書は、そのようなキャリアを持つ彼の処女作品集である。
そのほとんどが「ぼく」という一人称で書かれている64篇の断章によって綴られた、この小説とも、エッセイとも、評論とも言えるような、そしてそのどれにも当てはめることの困難な物語は、つねに「幻のイマージュ」をめぐって展開されている。
それは些細なミスから、あるいはちょっとした偶然からけっして写されることのなかった数々の「写真」の記憶である。あるいは石と化し永遠に凝結されることから逃れた、儚い映像。
この映像の不在に、原著刊行の前年、1980年に出版されたロラン・バルトの遺著『明るい部屋』を重ねる読者もいるだろう（実際に本書のなかでも R.B. という名の、バルト本人と思しき人物が登場し、二人の間に親交があったことを示している）。
だが、バルトが不在の映像（「温室の写真」と呼ばれる彼の母親の写真）を軸に写真を語るのに対して、ギベールは執拗なまでに映像の不在、ないしは非在について語っている。「それはかつてあった」という写真のノエマは、映像から物語へと転写されて私たちの前に示される。この、写真について、あるいは写真を媒介として自らの欲望を語るギベールのエクリチュールは、しかし、あらかじめ失われた非在の映像が、彼を媒介として写真の欲望を語るかのように二重化されている。
本書の終わり、その最後の断章で彼はいう。
「この物語はぼくの秘密なんだ。……どうか口外しないでくれ」と。
この「秘密」が帰属するところ、あるいは秘密そのものとしての写真。それが「幻のイマージュ」なのだろうか。
※『アサヒカメラ』（1996年4月号）に寄稿したレヴュー原稿に加筆修正。
September 9, 2024
Credevo fosse una "semplice" raccolta di considerazioni intellettuali sulla fotografia, invece Guibert (giovane autore prematuramente scomparso che scopro con questo testo) intreccia tutto con la sua storia familiare, pensieri personali e pulsioni private più o meno divertenti o sconvenienti. Questo ha esiti a volte noiosi, altre interessanti quando non addirittura folgoranti e rivelatori su di noi e il nostro rapporto con le immagini e le persone. Mi ha molto incuriosito e vorrei leggere altro di suo.
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February 5, 2016Short essays by noted photographer Guibert on the photograph and photography as a fleeting, powerful, and ephemeral art form.
August 13, 2017
Beautiful reflections on the practice of photography.
February 22, 2021
After reading the wonderful To The Friend Who Did Not Save My Life, a book I bought on a whim last fall, I wanted to read more by Hervé Guibert. My husband told me he had Ghost Image, that he picked it up, also on a whim, because the synopsis on the back cover sounded good, and the picture of Guibert on the cover was so arresting. Although the author tells us often about his missed artistic opportunities, he was thankfully prolific. From 1980 until his death at age 36 from AIDS in 1991, he published 16 books, and another eight were published posthumously. Guibert is one of those writers who makes the reader feel that the book was written only for them: there is an unmistakable intimacy between Guibert and the reader that develops immediately. In Ghost Image, Guibert presents 63 short essays, mostly on the subject of Photography, and, more specifically, photographs that were never taken. Every good photographer can talk for days about the things they have seen when they didn’t have a camera at the ready: I thought the essay “The Perfect Image” described that well. The essays are also clearly based on his own autobiography: his friend the famous actress “I” must be Isabelle Adjani. “T” must be his lover Thierry. So except for the fantasy interludes, the book has and underlying quality of a memoir. We follow Guibert around Paris, to a bookstore at Rue St. Jacques (the one in question seems to be Editions Bussière); for drinks at la Coupole; on the metro where a mysterious stranger has Guibert’s picture. We learn about the images that “got away”: those taken so carefully of his mother; refusals from the pharmacist and the friend whose mother had died. And we are asked to consider the images in our heads, those where we can no longer recall, the faces of acquaintances, and those which one can never forget, like the faces of one’s parents and lovers. We consider the images that flash before us before we die, if we are so lucky. The 63 essays do not create a continuous narrative but are more like vignettes. It’s more like a book of prose poetry, expertly done by one of France’s more sensitive writers. My favorite essays included “Photobooth (Florence)”; “The Beautiful Image,”; and “The Cancerous Image”; but the whole book was excellent. I highly recommend it.
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