EUGÈNE ATGET

Afterimage from our latest publication the movement of our bodies by Elle Pérez:

Eugène Atget, Parc de Sceaux, 1925.

My favorite photograph of Atget’s is deceptively simple. It is from 1925, two years before his death. He made it during the seven-o’clock hour as winter turned to spring in the Parc de Sceaux. A tree cuts the frame vertically, splitting our view of the water in half. This formal choice creates the illusion that the pond is a waterfall—or a portal to another plane of existence. Atget might have been surprised by how familiar this view on the ground glass felt, even in his twilight years. And, as photographers know, this feeling of surprise can often inspire the making of a photograph, quickly turning into intention.

Having spent his formative years as a cabin boy at sea, he would have regularly stood watch on deck as part of his duties. The tree, dead center in the frame, recalls the view of the water from the helm of a ship, mast bifurcating both water and the horizon. The branches of the tree softly lay over one another to form an X in the top left of the frame.

Perhaps Atget recalled the intersecting ropes that he would have used to control the sails of the ship, through which his view of the sky was mediated, day in and day out. Or did he remember the chill that came over the crew whenever someone would tell stories of the high seas? The crossed bones, red flags, creatures, and treasures that plagued the sailors of the previous century? Or maybe he recognized the symbol from the international code of maritime signals, which was standardized the year of his birth, and already in use during his tenure at sea.

Even after all those dry and steady years on land, the message would have been clear to him: ‘I require assistance.’

In the winter of 1925, Atget could likely sense the nearing end of his own cycle of seasons. An existential plea was probably quite resonant to his state of mind—strained, I imagine—as he witnessed the fast decline of his wife’s health. Valentine died in June 1926. In August of the following year, Eugène followed her.

At only seventy years old, he slipped away into the warmth of the late summer light.

For those in New York, check out Elle Pérez's The World Is Already Beginning Again: History with the Present at Arts and Letters.