Henri Cartier-Bresson, ‘Public Intellectual’?
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Études photographiques 25 | mai 2010 Français-English Henri Cartier-Bresson, ‘Public Intellectual’? Jean-Pierre Montier Translator: Franck Le Gac Electronic version URL: https://journals.openedition.org/etudesphotographiques/3449 ISSN: 1777-5302 Publisher Société française de photographie Printed version Date of publication: 5 May 2010 ISBN: 9782911961250 ISSN: 1270-9050 Electronic reference Jean-Pierre Montier, “Henri Cartier-Bresson, ‘Public Intellectual’?”, Études photographiques [Online], 25 | mai 2010, Online since 21 May 2014, connection on 21 September 2021. URL: http:// journals.openedition.org/etudesphotographiques/3449 This text was automatically generated on 21 September 2021. Propriété intellectuelle Henri Cartier-Bresson, ‘Public Intellectual’? 1 Henri Cartier-Bresson, ‘Public Intellectual’? Jean-Pierre Montier Translation : Franck Le Gac 1 Henri Cartier-Bresson’s photographs taken on a trip to the USSR in 1954 appeared in two issues of Paris Match (nos. 305 and 306), and in the book Moscou vu par Henri Cartier-Bresson published by Robert Delpire.1 I will explore all three publications, with two ideas in mind. 2 The first is that the golden age of photojournalism may be said to coincide with an exchange of identities between the politically engaged intellectual and the photographer. When measured against the stereotypes that prevailed before 1970, it may seem strange to associate the man of letters who lives in his mind with the photographer presumed incapable of writing or expressing himself other than by way of images. But part of Cartier-Bresson’s genius may well reside in his having united the professional image- maker with the thinker. In a geopolitically divided world, the photojournalist came close to the intellectual as defined by Sartre: ‘Since the writer has no way of escaping, we want him to embrace his era – tightly.’2 The essence of the work became conflated with the commitment of its author. The surrealists enlisted themselves ‘at the service of the Revolution’; the new rationale had to do with producing both a record and a judgement.3 Committed intellectuals were neither prophets nor experts, but were able to take note of facts and put them in historical perspective: they were empirical visionaries. 3 The second idea is that the framework for photographic reportage, as a consequence of its institutional acceptance, was derived from literary genres. These genres provided the structural and ideological model for photojournalism. The writer’s travelogue – with its constraints, struggle for influence, and pursuit of public approval – was to rub off on that of the photographer. The photographer could also, rather ingenuously, claim the objectivity of his point of view. Études photographiques, 25 | 2010 Henri Cartier-Bresson, ‘Public Intellectual’? 2 In the Land of the Soviets: The Generic Matrix 4 The trip to the Soviet Union had become a literary genre in its own right, with its failures and masterpieces, and its burden of literary norms and constraints. One of the first attempts in this genre was the work of motorcyclist and photographer Robert Sexé, who, in 1925, did a Paris–Moscow trek, the ‘Circuit des Soviets.’4 In Au pays des Soviets [In the Land of the Soviets], Fred Kupferman lists more than one hundred and thirty writers’ travelogues from between 1917 and 1939.5 For some, the journey was a pilgrimage; for others an expedition to hell. Most sought to confirm their convictions; a few were in search of truth, which was more easily discerned than reported – for who wanted to hear about it? This accumulation of works contributed to the formation of rules for a genre that, while never defined as such, nevertheless existed. 5 The most famous of these trips was that made by André Gide. In the wake of the Victor Serge affair, the writer wanted to know if he had chosen the right side. Warm welcomes and speeches applauded by crowds summoned for the occasion succeeded one after another from June to August 1936, as he made his way around the country. Despite pressure from some of his friends, Gide went ahead and published his Return from the USSR , making public his dismay: ‘And I doubt whether in any other country in the world, even Hitler’s Germany, thought [would] be less free, more bowed down, more fearful (terrorized), more vassalized.’6 In this, Gide was to anticipate Hannah Arendt, but at the time he was savaged by Romain Rolland, Louis Aragon, and Charles Vildrac. When it came to impugning his reliability as a witness, nothing was off limits, including allusions to his sexual preferences: how dependable, it was said, could the opinion of a homosexual possibly be?7 6 Henri Cartier-Bresson did not run into the same problem. Still, he had to conform to the same ritualistic ‘[trip] to the country of the bright future.’8 ‘Had to’ since no reportage worthy of the name seemed possible in a place whose economy and society were an illusion. The dilemma had already been spelled out by writers who had made the trip over the previous three decades. Their accounts formed a patchwork of token fact-checking and illusory projections, but still strove to produce both a record and a judgment, along the same lines as those laid down by Sartre after the Second World War. 7 By then, ideological conditions were no longer what they had been before 1939. The enforcement of communism had become the subject of debates and the Sartrean ‘fellow traveler’ was a more distant figure, a circumspect sympathizer. Communism now had its agnostics: the existentialists. However, the mutually supportive departments of tourism and propaganda had no reason to change a formula that had proved so successful with many writers, some of whom lacked Gide’s scruples and were reluctant to pay the price of repentance. 8 Sartre rejected capitalism and Stalinism, yet he admitted that, should he have to choose between the United States and the USSR, he would unhesitatingly opt for the latter – a position criticized by Raymond Aron, who left the editorial board of Les Temps modernes. In 1947 Merleau-Ponty published Humanisme et terreur,9 which set forth the idea that, while communism could resort to a provisional terror if need be, in the name of a genuine improvement in the condition of peoples, this terror was unacceptable as a system of government. In 1951, a trial pitted Les Lettres françaises against David Rousset, the author of Les Jours de notre mort [The Days of Our Death],10 who had dared draw parallels between Études photographiques, 25 | 2010 Henri Cartier-Bresson, ‘Public Intellectual’? 3 Nazi and Soviet camps, and had used the word ‘gulag.’11 Finally, Albert Camus’ L’Homme révolté12 was the first work to challenge, on a fundamental level, the mystique of the revolution upon which the French intelligentsia still thrived. This resulted in the break between its author and Sartre. At the very moment when Sartre became, in his own words, a ‘convert,’ philo-communism had been called into question: the need of a clear assessment of ‘real socialism’ was all the more urgent in light of the trial of Rudolf Slánský, who was executed in December 1952 in Prague. 9 In the meantime, the USSR was changing. Stalin died on March 5, 1953. On March 27, Khrushchev became the leader of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and over a million gulag prisoners were amnestied by decree. Pospelov was put in charge of writing a report that served as a basis for the famous K Report circulated from April 1956 onward. It marked the beginning of a new era, symbolized by Ilya Ehrenburg’s 1954 short story The Thaw.13 The battered international perception of the USSR needed repair; to that end, a hub of intellectuals needed to be reconstituted on the model of the AEAR (Association des écrivains et artistes révolutionnaires),14 brilliantly orchestrated by Willi Münzenberg in the 1930s. Jean-Paul Sartre – who, despite never having visited the country, had just submitted a text to Robert Delpire for Henri Cartier-Bresson’s book on China15 – was called upon. He accepted the invitation, wanting to confirm the positions he had defended against his rivals (Aron, Merleau-Ponty, Camus) and take over the role played by Gide before the war by producing an anti-Return from the USSR. 10 Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir were put up at the National Hotel near the Kremlin.16 De Beauvoir later wrote in Force of Circumstance that the stay was punctuated with feasts, and that after a banquet held at the dacha of writer Konstantin Simonov, Sartre had, briefly, to be hospitalized!17 Her impressions? ‘Work, leisure, reading, travel, friendships: all these things had a different meaning there.’18 One could hardly disagree. A few days after Sartre’s return, a triumphal interview appeared in Libération, a newspaper headed by Emmanuel d’Astier de la Vigerie, who was close to the Communist party.19 Sartre was delighted: ‘There is complete freedom to criticize in the USSR,’ he declared, a sentence chosen by the paper as its headline. His views were recorded with devotion by journalist Jean Bedel, and published in six installments from July 14 to July 20, 1954. 11 In 1975 Sartre confessed: ‘After my first visit to the USSR in 1954, I lied. Well, “lied” is perhaps too strong a word: I had an article … in which I said nice things about the USSR that I did not believe. I did it in part because, from my point of view, you just can’t pour shit all over people whose guest you have been as soon as you get home; another reason is that I did not really know where I stood with respect to the USSR and my own ideas.’20 12 As it happened, on July 8, 1954, Henri Cartier-Bresson boarded the train for Moscow, where he arrived on July 14, the day when Sartre’s articles first started appearing.