Surprise Encounter with a French Paparazzo & Photojournalist, Part II

Or, Just Because You Have Impostor Syndrome Doesn’t Mean You’re Not a Fake

Last week, I wrote about an excursion I took with friends to the top of La Grande Arche—a massive office building in the heart of Paris’ modern business district, La Défense. In the spring of 2023, we had little notion that the 110-meter-high outdoor observation deck would soon be closed to the public, nor that the exhibition underway in the top-floor gallery was the last to be held in the monumental structure. My previous post focused on the history of La Défense and the backstory of Jean-Gabriel Barthélemy, the former papparazzo whose art we’d come to see.

After admiring Barthélemy’s work and reveling in the bird’s eye views of Paris, we were about to leave when I received a surprising invitation. Coincident with our visit, Barthélemy had come to the gallery that day to give a private tour to a few close friends and family members. For reasons that remain a mystery, a woman who turned out to be Barthélemy’s wife invited me to join their intimate party.

Moons and Junes and Ferris Wheels

It’s hard for me to convey the thrill that I felt for the next 45 minutes. I found Barthélemy’s narration fascinating, but it wasn’t only the backstories behind the photos that I treasured. It was the intimacy and exceedingly rare opportunity to listen to French family members interact with one another—the kind of conversation that you don’t usually have access to as a tourist.

Wanting to make the most of the encounter, I listened attentively, hanging on every word. I planned to record much of Barthélemy’s presentation in my journal, but our days were packed, leaving little time for writing. Alas, two years later, I find that I only managed to jot down a few terse paragraphs. I blame this lapse on the cursed Chinese fortune cookie that I received on three separate occasions, which read, The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Versailles

If memory serves, Barthélemy had already described his Notre Dame photos when I joined the party and he was explaining how he’d been allowed to access a machine room beneath Marie Antoinette’s private theater in Versailles. It was from this space that stagehands once operated trapdoors to raise props and scenic elements onto the stage. Sets were also stored in the dim and dank hold, transferred from one area to the next by a series of rails.

All of this equipment was restored to working order in 2001, making Marie Antoinette’s private performance space the only theater in France with 18th-century operational machinery. Few people gain admittance to this once state-of-the-art understage. Barthélemy wanted to capture the space much as the human eye would, taking in variations in light at an angle that would yield the best illustration. Given the dusky atmosphere, he needed sensitive film with a long exposure time.

Barthélemy described the difficulties he faced in positioning his camera. Finally, the scene was set, and he opened the shutter. Conditions in the subterranean hold were oppressively musty. Unwilling to leave his camera unattended, however, Barthélemy waited for several hours to obtain the desired exposure. Perhaps his years lying in wait for a chance to capture a celebrity had honed his patience.

In contrast to the shadowy underbelly of the queen’s entertainment venue was a photograph of a sunlit corridor in the Louis XVI’s living quarters. The Palace of Versailles once employed ten thousand people, few of whom ever ventured into areas inhabited by members of the royal family. Versailles was a city unto itself, where mortals of various social standing—clerks, cooks, musicians, nobility, politicians, guests, foreign dignitaries, etc.—circulated in distinct and separate zones.

While the king’s living quarters were off-limits to the masses, they were hardly private. A series of obligations dictated his daily life, and he was rarely alone. I would have hated being king, and when I saw Barthélemy’s photo, I romantically imagined the airy passage, lined with casements, offering the king a brief respite from his royal duties. Barthélemy adjusted my vision by suggesting that Louis XVI probably watched the arrival of his executioners from one of the open windows.

La Cité des 4000

In 2002, Barthélemy began making regular trips to La Cité des 4000, a massive public housing project outside Paris and the site of the most dangerous tenements in France. Constructed in 1956, this small village of 4,000 apartments once symbolized comfort and potential for members of the working class, a way to gain access to affordable homes and lift one’s family out of the ghetto. As with housing projects in the United States, working-class, two-parent families were slowly replaced by increasingly marginalized populations and the loss of manufacturing jobs further eroded the financial stability of residents.

Working with a reporter from Paris Match, Barthélemy first met with the local mayor who advised them to stay away. « Vous vous feriez tirer dessus », “you’ll get yourselves shot”. Barthélemy proceeded anyway, focusing his lens on two half vacant buildings where squatters had taken root. Over a period of four months, he said he typically worked in this lawless zone between 8:00 and 10:00 am, hoping that the most violent residents had yet to leave their apartments.

Fortunately, Barthélemy became friends with a local resident, Amar, who ran an after school tutoring program for the housing project’s children. Amar was an invaluable guide who Barthélemy credits with keeping him safe while he photographed the dangerous halls and courtyards of La Cité 4000.

One morning, while setting up a tripod on the roof, they suddenly noticed a band of men wearing ski masks and carrying crowbars, walking toward them. An older women was following the group. Amar addressed the woman, « Bonjour Madame ». The leader of the group pulled off his balaclava and yelled,
« Y’a ma reum, y’a ma reum les mecs, on s’arrache ! », verlan slang for “that’s my mother, that’s my mother dudes, beat it!” When they explained that were journalists working on a long-range report about la cité, the atmosphere seemed to cool down. But their primary saving grace was probably the fact that Amar had once been their instructor in the after school program.

Barthélemy’s daughter acted as his co-pilot in this final part of the presentation. The now stunning 20-something had been a little girl when Barthélemy was photographing La Cité des 4000. By the end of the project, residents recognized him and he’d made many friends. He began bringing his daughter with him to the site and she appears in one of the photos. Twenty years laters, she had her own memories of the experience and it was amusing to listen to the two of them debate some of the details—the meaning of certain graffiti tags, for example. Barthélemy’s affection for her was evident, his eyes sparkling when she had the floor.

A Family Affair

As Barthélemy led his tour, it became clear that everyone on the tour, except me, was a relative or close friend. While I was exceedingly grateful to have the up-close-and-personal scoop, I was also perplexed. Why had Barthélemy’s wife invited me to join them? Had she perhaps mistaken me for a reporter or was she just being gracious to a curious stranger. Like many women, I underestimate my abilities and underrate the value of my work—what experts refer to as suffering from imposter syndrome. But in this case, if Barthélemy thought I was someone of importance, he was truly dealing with a fake.

Yet, it soon became clear that I was Barthélemy’s most attentive guest. The younger generation chatted amongst themselves and would wander off and then rejoin. Even the adults, who all knew each other would engage in conversation while Barthélemy spoke.

There was a moment near the end when Barthélemy and I were basically alone. He finished describing a photo, answered one of my questions, and then we stood there waiting for his family to return. I used the interlude to thank him for including me and said it was a thrill for me to get this personal tour of his work, having come from the United States. “I thought you were French. You have a Parisian accent,” he said. My knees nearly buckled from the shock!

Just in case you think that I speak like a native Parisian, I can assure you that I don’t. I still don’t know what made him say that. The fact that I hadn’t said much certainly contributed to this illusion. Nevertheless, his remark remains one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received.

A Million Thank Yous

Americans tend to think of French people as rude and unwelcoming but I have never found this to be the case. Paris is a big city, like New York or DC. Yet, I’ve had perfect strangers help me carry my suitcase down steep metro staircases, get up from their table to track down an inattentive waiter for my check, offer me drinks on the house, give me the correct change to buy a transit ticket, tell me how to get the best deal on museum fares, provide directions, recommend restaurants (even calling the owner to ensure I could get a table once). These are just the incidental favors that quickly come to mind. I’m sure there have been more.

At the top of this list of genial and unexpected services lies Jean-Gabriel Barthélemy’s private tour. I will cherish the experience until my synapses fail to fire properly. If you ever read this post Monsieur Barthélemy, words can not express my gratitude for your cordiality. Nevertheless, merci mille fois.