François Halard — 56 Days in Arles

Notes on François’ Days in Arles
Foreword by Oscar Humphries

Most of us have an attachment to objects. It starts in early childhood
– teddy bears and toys. For some of us this connection to the material
continues into adulthood, the stuff of bedrooms and nurseries moves to
drawing rooms and libraries. For collectors it is not, of course, the object
or painting or photograph that compels us to buy and keep it. We may
think it is, but it’s not. It’s the idea of the object. Its meaning, to us, is
more powerful than its visage. Inside of every pretty vase or illustrated
book are secrets, ideas, lost worlds, memories – real and imagined. It
is the human interpretation and reaction to art that gives art its power.
Without us, art is inanimate. Without the viewer, it is invisible – art
needs us as much as we need it. François Halard has an especially strong
connection to interior spaces and objects – this attachment runs through
all his work. He says, “For me, collecting and living with art is like a
romance. In a way if you surround yourself with beautiful objects you
love, you have no deception. Because they are things you choose, they
belong to you. They never lie. It’s a romance without risk.”
François Halard’s house in Arles – documented in this book – was
bought 30 years ago, long before the city began its renaissance and became
fashionable. When he told friends about his plans he reminded me that
“everyone thought I was crazy.” His 18th century hôtel particulier is an
artwork in itself. An artwork made of brick, fabric, wallpaper, objects and,
finally, light. Light is that essential ingredient that gives houses and
architecture life and magic. It is also that mercurial shape-shifting element
that photographers and painters use like alchemists to create and capture
beauty. You can see his love for what is around him in every image. “I find
comfort here, I find peace and inspiration here.” Indeed, these Polaroids –
which I encouraged him to make and share – were difficult to take because
the light had to be right. Yes, just a click, but the click has to be at the right
moment. There were days when I asked François if he had taken new ones.
His answer was often: NO. The light was bad. The camera broke. He’d
run out of film. Great artists make difficult things look easy and these
Polaroids are the best of dozens that didn’t work. We’ll never see the
mistakes, which are like paintings that artists repaint, hide, or destroy.

That’s not to say some of these works aren’t happy accidents – something
that Polaroid cameras and their film allow for in a unique way in the
canon of photographic techniques and apparatus. For me, this medium is
more like painting than photography – it is the impression of something
far more than a literal depiction of it.
The photographs in this book were taken during François’ confinement
in Arles. We all dealt with COVID-19 and its effects in different
ways; François had to continue to make work and his only subject became
the things around him. It is not uncommon for beauty to sit against a backdrop
of tragedy, like a Puccini aria. These Polaroids are little moments of
joy, or pathos, that on a personal level were an antidote to the anxiety and
fear we were all grappling with. There is also a sensitivity to them – born
of the artist’s hand – but also perhaps connected to the sympathy and
empathy we all felt for those acutely affected by the crisis. In the storm of
early 2020 François had the house and its contents as anchor, muse, and
a source of solace. Of this time he says, “For me that period of isolation
was connecting with lost memories. It reminded me very much of when
I was young and I was in my room a lot. All I had was that room and its
contents – and later a camera. So for me this period and how I felt was
like a reminiscence of my adolescence, which was not a happy time for me.
I grew up in a house full of art and objects, but I have very few of these now.
In Arles I have objects which I have created memories around, it’s a fantasy
world. It’s my own imagination, finding objects that could have been family
objects – but are not.” It was a love of beauty and beautiful things that made
François want to be a photographer. “Since I was a kid I always found joy
and happiness and security in beautiful things. And I wanted to give my life
to that.” He is a believer in the power of art to change our lives – ascribing to
them a kind of secular Voodoo. “When you surround yourself with beauty,
it helps you go on. Beauty is medicine for the soul.”
Finally, though, this book is a celebration of beauty and art as
told through the 56 images here within. These Polaroids, taken March
through May 2020, are a document of a love affair, or many love affairs
– with rooms and objects and the house. I was lucky enough to share and
exhibit them as they were being made – it brought me so much happiness
and inspiration when I needed it most. In these images we see African
masks, Japanese vases, fragments of textiles and wallpapers – many original
to the house. Flowers bought at the market, antiquities, faux antiquities.
When I asked what some objects were I was simply told, “I don’t know.”
We see his love of books in the library, which during “lockdown” doubled
as a gym. “Somewhere to exercise my mind and my body.” We see the influence
of Cy Twombly – a hero and someone with whom François shared
a love of myth and the ancient world and whose own Polaroids, of lemons
and flowers, inspired François. This book gives us a window into the
private space of an artist. Some of the rooms are grand, others, such
as the kitchen, are simple. We could describe it all (the house and the
works in this book) as a kind of self-portrait; François turning ideas and
dreams into something touchable, material, and tangible. Photographing
it and making that image an object, or group of objects, or space into a
10.7 × 8.7 cm object. These Polaroids are objects of objects, and when
published here in this book, they become another object. “With the house
and everything in it I have created an imaginary past, it’s like a novel,
it’s not true. It’s a novel in objects: not a biography, but a total fantasy.”
A great painting never reveals all of its secrets, which is why we
return again and again to it. François is always changing his house in
Arles, adding and subtracting, a process of creation. And the light is
always changing. Therefore, every image is different. Part of a whole
– but a whole that is forever evolving. I asked François three times to
photograph the lemon Cy Twombly gave him in 2005. Now dried up
and mummified, it is a memento of his visit to Twombly’s house and
studio in Gaeta. It passed from one artist’s hand to the other’s. It’s
a precious thing. And perhaps a private one. Symbolic, charged with
memory and a memento mori. All glory fades, as do lemons (rapidly)
and even, eventually, with enough light and time, Polaroids. The lemon
I’ve never seen. It’s hidden somewhere, perhaps in shadow, or drenched
with light. The house in Arles will retain its secrets and no matter how
much we think we know it, it still has more to reveal. Even to François.

à Isabelle