Académique Documents
Professionnel Documents
Culture Documents
objets trouvés
found objects
objets trouvés
art, photography, writings
Studio Arago
Place François Arago
Saint Paul de Fenouillet
France
2022
Living Trees
Introducing Studio Arago
L’Arrière Pays, Photographs from the Back Country
Paris, un rêve retrouvé, Rediscovered Images of the City of Light
The Hermit and Other Stories / Sketches from a Sketchbook
Lost Beach Highway: Images and Texts
aglyriversketchbook.wordpress.com
Studio Arago
All the fragments of the afternoon
collect around his airborne form. Shouts, bat-cracks, full
bladders and stray yawns, the sand-grain manyness of things
that can’t be counted. It is all falling indelibly into the past.
6
Evening came, taking everybody by surprise.
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sommaire
Fragments de l’après-midi 12
Photographies découvertes dans une maison
de la haute vallée de l’Aude dans les années 1990
prises par des photographes inconnus dans
les années 1930 et 1940 à la maison, en vacances et à la guerre.
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contents
12 Fragments of the Afternoon
Photographs discovered in a house in
the upper valley of the Aude in the 1990s
taken by unknown photographers in the
1930s and 1940s at home, on holiday, and at war.
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found objects / objets trouvés
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object / objet
object. n.
Something material:
that is perceived by the senses
that stirs an emotion
that can embody psychological identification
Something mental:
an object for study
an object of affection
an art object
Goal, purpose, objective:
A cause for attention or concern
A real-thing symbolizing a dream-thing
objet. n.m.
Quelque chose de matériel:
qui est perçu par les sens
qui suscite une émotion
qui peut incarner une identification psychologique
Quelque chose de mental:
un objet d’étude
un objet d’affection
un objet d’art
But, finalité, objectif:
Une cause d’attention ou de préoccupation
Une chose réelle symbolisant une chose de rêve
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found objects
Surrrealists have an sensitivity to found objects
an affection
a fear
an obsession
an acute awareness
a sensitivity
go read a list of
what objects can be
and you will see that
in the end
an object is
a real thing
embodying
possessing
including
embracing
a dream thing
see the object, enter its presence, hold it, think about it,
react to what it says, does, embodies
what it compels you feel
in spite of yourself
a shimmer along the waves of thought
when you are presented with the object
in a dream asleep
or a dream awake
is it true love
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objets trouvés
Les surréalistes ont une sensibilité aux objets trouvés
une tendresse
une peur
une obsession
une conscience aiguë
une sensibilité
allez lire une liste de
quels objets peuvent être
et tu verras que
à la fin
un objet est
une vraie chose
incorporant
posséder
y compris
embrasser
un truc de rêve
voir l’objet, entrer en sa présence, le tenir, y penser,
réagir à ce qu’il dit, fait, incarne
ce que cela vous oblige à ressentir
malgré toi
un miroitement le long des vagues de la pensée
lorsqu’on vous présente l’objet
dans un rêve endormi
ou un rêve éveillé
est-ce le vrai amour
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Fragments of the Afternoon
Fragments de l’après-midi
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Objects Found from Rome to Syracuse
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Rome to Syracuse
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Rome to Syracuse
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Swooping down over Trapani
we damned near lose it in the dark. Then we see the glimmering
lights of the city and our first-ever sight of the curving Sicilian
coastline, a vision beautiful and damned, a troubled welcome af-
ter a short but bumpy ride from Gerona grace à Ryanair. We will
begin our long-planned travels in Sicily by driving our rented car
to a rendezvous with our host, a certain G. Mancuso, at Buffo’s
Castel, at a roadhouse near Castelvetrano, many kilometers from
Trapani airport, but first a safe landing is imperative. The plane
tilts, giving us a clear view of the dramatic dog-leg of the bay,
PicturePostcard, oh boy, but things get interesting and breathtak-
ing in a different way real fast.
The Boeing 737’s suddenly takes a gut twisting drop onto tar-
mac that feels oddly spon� and may not be pavement at all but
marshland before reaching the airstrip. Seconds go by. Are we
crashing into the Big Nowhere? Then with a thump we feel solid
runway and the engines are roaring in reverse and whatever
brakes the big tires are fitted with are engaged to a screaming
maximum. The plane slows but not much.
Outside, thick darkness. Then we zip past a low building lit
with a few florescent tubes like a gas station on a desert road in
some country we’ve never seen. But wait. This is a country we’ve
never seen and our journey may end before it begins. I turn to
her.
—Sicily, amore mio, I say.
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Finding Buffo’s Castel
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Finding Buffo’s Castel
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Finding Buffo’s Castel
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doing. Hour and a half, then take the Castelvetrano exit and fol-
low the signs toward Selinunte. Watch for Buffo’s Castel.
—What’s a Buffo’s Castel?
—I’m sure it’s a landmark in the area. Castel? That’s like a
castle or something, right? And Buffo? With a name like that, the
place has got to be known to everyone. If we don’t see it right off,
we’ll find help, get directions.
—Oh sure. Like we’ll stop at a bar or cafe and ask? Easy,
right? Us knowing so much Italian? And you’ve noticed all the
bars and service stations along the road.
She’s right of course. So I shut up and pray that my confidence
isn’t futile. In the long silence that follows, I’m intent on what’s
happening on the road, which is nothing but I stay intent on it.
Then I say:
—You’ve got to admit we’re doing fine for now, so let’s not
worry until we have to.
—Buffo’s you say.
We drive on, each gazing into the dark and nursing our anxi-
eties by imagining what it must be like out there in all that si-
lence.
—What do you suppose they’re up to, she asks. —I mean,
working so hard at keeping out of sight and unheard?
—Maybe they’ve all gone to a rugby match in Palermo.
—Or to Buffo’s Castel?
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Finding Buffo’s Castel
per of exhaust appears from his tailpipe and he takes off. After
the bizarre night we’ve had, why not follow him and his compan-
ion? What have we got to lose?
A few kilometers down the lonesome highway, we follow
Mancuso onto a rough macadam road across a treeless landscape
alongside an irrigation aqueduct on tall concrete pilings poorly
maintained and obviously long out of service. After a few kilome-
ters of this, trees appear on the roadside and we turn onto an-
other farm road and into the Mancuso compound, several tree-
dotted acres surrounded by a sturdy fence with a tall iron gate.
There are two houses, a one-story farmhouse in good repair and
a tiny worker’s cabin with a covered patio.
The Mancusos prove to be gregarious and eager to help us
aliens who have dropped into their lives. Once they have shown
us around our cabin, Mancuso warns us not to leave the front
gate open at night.
—I lupi, he says. I lupi.
—Wolves, she translates for me. He doesn’t want us letting in
the wolves.
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En descendant en piqué au-dessus de Trapani
nous avons failli la perdre dans l’obscurité. Puis nous apercevons
les lumières scintillantes de la ville et notre toute première vue de
la côte sicilienne incurvée, une vision belle et maudite, un accueil
troublé après un trajet court mais cahoteux depuis Gerona grace
à Ryanair. Nous commencerons notre voyage en Sicile, planifié
de longue date, en conduisant notre voiture de location jusqu’au
rendez-vous avec notre hôte, un certain G. Mancuso, au Buffo’s
Castel, dans un relais routier près de Castelvetrano, à plusieurs
kilomètres de l’aéroport de Trapani, mais avant cela, un atterris-
sage en toute sécurité est impératif. L’avion s’incline, ce qui nous
permet d’avoir une vue dégagée du spectaculaire coude de la baie,
PicturePostcard, oh boy, mais les choses deviennent rapidement
intéressantes et à couper le souffle d’une manière différente.
Le Boeing 737 fait une chute vertigineuse sur un tarmac qui
semble étrangement spongieux et qui n’est peut-être pas du tout
un tarmac mais un marais avant d’atteindre la piste d’atterrissage.
Les secondes passent. Sommes-nous en train de nous écraser dans
le Grand Nulle part? Puis, avec un bruit sourd, nous sentons une
piste solide, les moteurs rugissent en marche arrière et les freins,
quels qu’ils soient, dont sont équipés les gros pneus, sont en-
clenchés au maximum. L’avion ralentit mais pas beaucoup.
Dehors, une obscurité épaisse. Puis nous passons devant un
bâtiment bas éclairé par quelques tubes fluorescents, comme une
station-service sur une route déserte dans un pays que nous
n’avons jamais vu. Mais attends. C’est un pays que nous n’avons
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Trouver Buffo’s Castel
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Trouver Buffo’s Castel
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Trouver Buffo’s Castel
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Trouver Buffo’s Castel
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My Cousin Billy
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drifted away from the Coast and was lost to the family for many
years. Tales of his wanderings proliferated but none were ever
confirmed. Questions linger to this day. Did his years in the
swamps and métis-blood communities of Terrebonne Parish do
something to his mind? Was he locked in a mental ward in Beau-
mont, Texas, for three years or was sit longer? How long did he
share a house with that voyant, a tall, gaunt Haitian woman—
what was her name? Jacqueline?—on the back side of New Or-
leans’s Lower Ninth Ward, on the road to Chalmette? What did
it do to his worldview to live for a year in the desert near Las
Vegas, Nevada, with a couple of artists from Paris?
Whenever I ask about his association with the artists, he be-
comes strangely silent and changes the subject, but I do know
that he contributed to their explosive performance in the desert,
one of their most celebrated. When pressed, he will only say that
knowing Jean and Niki changed his life, made him who he is.
When he returned to the Coast in the mid-Sixties, he moved
into an abandoned house trailer and worked as a welder and gen-
eral roustabout at the Covich Boat Yard on Point Desang. He
collected scrap metal and other junk on the corner of the yard, a
patch of land given him by Oxliver Covich in partial payment for
his employment. Camille wrecked the Covich Yard in Sixty-nine
and Oxliver sold the failing business to finance his new life as a
nightclub entrepreneur on Emerald Beach. After that, Billy
Danks expanded his holdings on the Point, opened Holy Scrap!
junk yard, a salvage trading scheme, mostly legal, that he got me
involved in, selling junk, some of it with highly dubious prove-
nance.
During these years he began producing his Elegies—Ele� for
Keeley, Ele� for Lost Children, and such like—welded assem-
blages scattered around Point Desang, visual cacophonies of scrap
metal, machine parts, and other detritus. Jean and Niki may have
inspired him, but his Elegies are his own.
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My Cousin Billy
—If that’s all what you want me to do, you don’t have to pay
me, you being in your misery and all. Just buy me a bottle of beer
and a can of sardines and a box of saltines for my lunch and I’ll
be fine.
—Come on, then, said the man. Let’s get to it.
They got in the car. It was an old Chevrolet from before the
war and it was hard for Billy to see how the man was even keep-
ing it running, but they charged along and after a couple of miles,
the man turned on a rutted dirt road and pretty soon they got to
a clearing in the woods where there was an old farmhouse that
had needed painting for many years and some raw outbuildings,
wretched barn, privy, and the like. Hanging over the place like
the chorus of a sad Irish song was an air of defeat and a lack of
ener� for getting on with what needed doing.
—If you’re hungry, the man said to Billy when they got out
of the car, let me fix you something to eat before you get to
work. Ain’t got much, just a few strips of bacon I smoked myself.
It ain’t too rancid. And I’ve got some cold buttermilk. I’ve run
out of corn meal, so I can’t offer you any cornbread to go with
it.
—Oh, that’s all right, said Billy. I thank you very much, but
I’ll pass on the grub. Just let me just get to work. Where is the
dead dog?
—Well, I reckon I got to explain the dog. Yeah. See, the thing
is, Ralph ain’t quite fully dead yet. The poor fella’s sick unto dy-
ing and’s got to be put out of his misery, poor thing, but I just
can’t do it. Not myself.
—So what you want me to do is not only bury the dog, you
want me to mercy kill the poor creature as well?
—I guess it comes to that, yes sir.
—How do you want me to put Ralph to sleep?
—I don’t have a gun, if that’s what you mean. But I’ve got an
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My Cousin Billy
I know little about dogs, mister, but I don’t think that’s good.
—No, it’s not good, said the man.
Billy trailed his fingers down the dog’s chest and across his
front leg, but the animal didn’t move, didn’t even flinch, didn’t
roll his eyes or even appear to have any vision at all.
—Ralph’s blind? asked Billy.
—Yes he is. Been that way for a long time, poor fella. Back
when the blindness came on him, it surprised me he didn’t mind
all that much. Fact is, even blind as a stump, he was always the
happiest soul around the place. Not even when he took sick and
lay down here and kind-a passed out. Ralph was always gentle,
kindly, even, as if he was sorry for causing me worry.
Billy squatted for a minute while they both regarded Ralph,
his chest slowly heaving, his eyelids fluttering from time to time.
Finally the man said:
—Come on inside and let me fix you some coffee or some-
thing and I will tell you a story. It might help you think this
through.
Billy followed the man on back to the kitchen. As he walked
through the rooms, he noticed a silence in the icy air and in the
dust that furred the furniture. Nobody had paid much attention
to the house for a long time. A woman would not have allowed
it to get this way, would’ve dusted table tops, properly placed
chairs, and so forth. And he detected no smells, just a dry tension
in the air, an odor of expectancy. The kitchen should’ve been a
bright room but was gray and cold.
—Go on and sit yourself at the table, said the man, who
talked while he prepared the coffee.
—When this terrible war started, my son couldn’t stand it un-
til he enlisted in the Marines and went off to fight, but he didn’t
live very long. They took him to someplace on the other side of
the Pacific Ocean, some place in Korea that I can’t even pro-
nounce the name of, and they let him get himself in the way of a
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My Cousin Billy
tank and it rolled right over him and crushed him to death. His
body is still in that place, as far as I know.
—My wife, Monique, she took it really hard. She never had
been what you’d call a woman of stamina, but what little she did
have ebbed like sunlight at the end of a long day until she was
gone. We buried her at that church we passed coming in. That
was a year ago. It’s just been Ralph and me to watch after the
place, but I haven’t got much worth doing, not the way I used to,
anyway. When Ralph finally leaves, I don’t know.
The man paused, then said:
—I hope you don’t mind Maxwell House.
M IKE AND HIS COUSIN BILLY sit in the thin shade of a pine in
front of Billy’s trailer on the Point. Twilight is swallowing the
stands of cypress and pin oak on the upland side of Bayou De-
sang. Thunderheads rise over Lake Borgne toward New Orleans.
—But what happened to Ralph?
—I don’t know. That man and I, we agreed I wasn’t a dog
killer, but it wasn’t about compassion. I just couldn’t do it. Call
it me being squeamish, I guess. Anyway, the man drove me back
to the grocery store and left me.
—Jeez.
A rumble over Half Moon Island out in the Gulf. Cold ozone
raises goose pimples.
—Michael, Billy says. Did I ever tell you what sleeping at
night in the desert feels like?
—No, you never did.
—That’s right, I never did, and for good reason. There’s no
way to describe it, not in words. It’d take a shaman’s potion to
get your head ready to even think about it.
—Damn.
—But I can tell you what it did to my brain.
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—All right.
—And even that’s going to be just a story. A simple little tale
that begins with us crazies out in the desert, blinded by delight,
singing into the night, awake in the light of stars wheeling across
the dome of time, a tidal surge. I’m stoked, kid, and at that mo-
ment, yeah, truly gone, really into it when Jean sneaks up behind
me and tickles my bare leg with a branch of mesquite. The shiver
it sent through me was ice cold, yet hot as molten iron. I can still
feel it. So I spin around, my spell in disarray, and yell at him,
What the fuck? I might’ve jumped into the fire! But there is no
fire, says Niki at Jean’s side. This is the fire. She ruffles the
scented air with a long orange scarf.
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Mon cousin Billy
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Mon cousin Billy
B ILLY DANKS S’EST LEVÉ, A TENU SON PINCEAU à bout de bras et,
dans un élan, a signé son nom dans l’air.
Il pense à l’époque où il était un jeune homme encore en train
de s’instruire et qu’il est allé vivre dans le pays Cherokee, dans les
Smoky Mountains de Caroline du Nord. Il est tombé amoureux
et voulait s’installer avec cette fille irlandaise-cherokee du nom de
Keely mais ne l’a pas fait. Il a appris à fabriquer des objets avec du
bric-à-brac. Les gens avec qui il est resté faisaient cela depuis si
longtemps qu’ils n’y pensaient plus, ils le faisaient tout simple-
ment. Il a appris à jouer de la guitare assez bien et a même mé-
morisé des chansons, dont quelques-unes de Woody Guthrie.
En fin d’après-midi, il était assis sous un arbre sur le bord de
la route, en face d’une station-service, loin de tout, en train de
vaquer à ses occupations, lorsqu’une voiture est arrivée et qu’un
homme en salopette propre en est sorti.
—Je te donnerai cinq dollars, a-t-il dit à Billy, si tu viens avec
moi et que tu m’aides à faire quelque chose.
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—Eh bien, dit Billy, je suis d’accord avec ça parce que j’ai be-
soin d’argent mais j’ai des scrupules quant à ce que je ferai pour
autant d’argent alors tu vas devoir me dire ce que tu veux que je
fasse sinon je suppose que tu peux juste continuer votre route et
trouver quelqu’un d’autre.
—C’est très simple, dit l’homme. J’ai mon Ralph, un vieux
chien, et j’ai besoin de l’enterrer. Je le ferais bien moi-même, mais
Ralph est tombé malade et je suis tout seul, ce qui me rend trop
triste. Je ne peux tout simplement pas l’assumer.
—Si c’est tout ce que tu veux que je fasse, tu n’as pas besoin
de me payer, tu es dans ta misère et tout. Achète-moi juste une
bouteille de bière, une boîte de sardines et une boîte de saltines
pour mon déjeuner et tout ira bien.
—Allez, alors, dit l’homme. Allons-y.
Ils sont montés dans la voiture. C’était une vieille Chevrolet
d’avant la guerre et Billy avait du mal à comprendre comment
l’homme arrivait à la faire fonctionner, mais ils ont foncé et après
quelques kilomètres, l’homme a tourné sur un chemin de terre
plein d’ornières et ils sont vite arrivés à une clairière dans les bois
où se trouvait une vieille ferme qui avait besoin d’être repeinte
depuis des années et quelques dépendances brutes, une grange
misérable, des toilettes et autres. Un air de défaite et un manque
d’énergie pour faire ce qui doit être fait planaient sur l’endroit
comme le refrain d’une triste chanson irlandaise.
—Si tu as faim, dit l’homme à Billy quand ils sont descendus
de la voiture, laisse-moi te préparer quelque chose à manger avant
que tu ne te mettes au travail. Je n’ai pas grand-chose, juste
quelques tranches de bacon que j’ai fumées moi-même. Il n’est pas
trop rance. Et j’ai du babeurre froid. Je n’ai plus de farine de
maïs, donc je ne peux pas t’offrir de pain de maïs pour l’accompa-
gner.
—Oh, ce n’est pas grave, dit Billy. Je te remercie beaucoup,
mais je vais passer mon tour pour la bouffe. Laisse-moi juste me
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Mon cousin Billy
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Troubadour Lost / Troubadour Perdu
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Troubadour Lost / Troubadour Perdu
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À PROPOS DE STUDIO ARAGO
Le Studio Arago, situé sur la place François Arago dans le village
de Saint Paul de Fenouillet, en France, est une collaboration artis-
tique de Diana Young et Robert Young. Leur partenariat a com-
mencé dans les années 1980 alors qu’ils vivaient à la Nouvelle-Or-
léans où ils géraient un petit hôtel, observaient la scène locale et
commençaient une série de photographies, d’histoires, de poèmes
et d’autres œuvres, à la fois individuelles et collaboratives, axées
initialement sur la côte du Golfe et dans le temps la communauté
élargie des artistes. Alors qu’ils vivaient dans le sud des États-
Unis, ils ont parrainé des programmes d’art communautaire,
fondé l’un des premiers groupes d’art de la performance multicul-
turels de la région, Club Pyramid, avec des membres issus de
mondes musicaux et artistiques d’horizons divers, y compris le
Delta Blues et l’activisme social. Les œuvres et les programmes
des Young ont été parrainés par diverses institutions, dont l’École
nationale supérieure de la photographie (Arles), la Fondation
Andy Warhol, le Centre d’art contemporain de la Nouvelle-Or-
léans, Art Papers (Atlanta), la Fondation Max Waldman ( New
York), le National Endowment for the Arts, le National Endow-
ment for the Humanities et le Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indi-
ans.
171
found objects / objets trouvés
172