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Memories, 2 - by cls

Recollections of a Presenile Old Codger [2]

Those who know me vaguely, perhaps even those who think they know me rather better, or even know me well, not to mention the ordinary two-legged creatures who don't know me at all, are liable to think—when they think, that is, which not everyone does—that I am first and foremost a printer, and that, as a printer, I am nothing more than a foul-mouthed, backward-looking devotee of old-fashioned hot-metal typesetting. Or next to nothing else. If that's what you think of me, potential reader, assuming you actually exist, or young lady reader of my dreams, "ce que tu te goures, ce que tu te gourres" (Both spellings are possible in French, even though Queneau opted for the first.) Approximatively: boy (or girl), are you wrong! Wrong, wrong! Of course, there's a grain of truth in these misleading assumptions, but that's by no means the whole story.

I learned typography, because everything can be learned, even the trade of international criminal or head of state (which amounts to much the same thing). I learned it to make books, and only to make books, so that I could master every aspect of the process, from writing my own texts—or choosing someone else's—to the finished product, taking in the layout, any illustrations, the printing, and the folding of the printed sheets along the way. But before I learned that damned hot-metal typography, I had learned screen printing with some friends who, like me, had taken part in the events of May 1968. And it was by screen printing that I made my very first book.

The year was 1973. I was in my first year at Estienne, the Paris printing school, but I had already had my own screen-printing workshop for some time, a workshop I had built with my own fair hands, apart from the squeegees and the ink, which I bought from Tripette et Renaud. At Estienne in the 1970s, you simply did not talk about screen printing. Screen printing was taboo. Letterpress, offset, and rotogravure were our trinity of goddesses, to whom we were expected to give thanks at every hour of the day and night. Things have changed since then. Screen printing is now accepted there, and the religion of Estienne has become monotheistic. These days, they worship that cow, IO—or rather, 1 0—the goddess of all things digital.

So, 1973. Classes were over, summer was beginning, and with it came an overwhelming urge to make a proper book. I mentioned the idea to a friend (someone I rarely see these days), and we decided to work out the contents together. Twelve texts that might be called poems (or might not…), six by each of us. Each of us would illustrate three of our own texts and three of the other's. I would take care of the layout and the actual production, using screen printing, while my collaborator went off on holiday.

I was bursting with enthusiasm, filled with an indescribable happiness at the prospect of embarking on this adventure. It was my first real book layout, and I conceived it so that the book would be impossible to leaf through. When you hold it in your hands and try to turn the pages, all you see is blank paper. I was rather pleased with myself, I can tell you. I then hand-lettered the texts with a brush on the transparent film used to expose the screens, and turned our drawings into films for printing as well. July and a good part of August went by in the making of the book, right through to the final assembly. Sixty copies, in A4 format, five of them not for sale.

It was while making this book that I discovered the wonderful possibilities of manual screen printing. Of all printing techniques, it is the only one within the reach of ordinary mortals like us that allows white (or any other light colour) to cover black (or any other colour) without becoming dirty, remaining truly white or retaining its original hue. A quasi-mystical technique that makes immaculate conception possible, even for donkeys and great big oxen. A genuine miracle for those of sound mind!

To tell you that I am still proud of this book today would be an exaggeration. I still appreciate the practical achievement, certainly… but as for the contents… The title of the book is an exquisite corpse that my friend and I came up with together, the first and best of a little series. The cover drawing was done by Nicolas Stavropoulos, who was in charge of the visual arts workshop in Villejuif, where we attended classes in drawing—still life, the nude, clothed poses—and in lino and woodcut printing. We printed our engravings, of all things, on a lithographic press!

There is no need to be ashamed of one's early work. This book is the first tangible witness to an evolution that was my own. The same is true of anyone who ventures into creative work, unless he or she is irredeemably hopeless. So, here it is. I'm not passing judgment on it. I'm simply showing it to you.

Click to browse and read

As those curious enough to leaf through the PDF I made from a copy in my personal collection will have noticed, this book contains a great many blank pages. The explanation lies in the structure of the layout. Each text is illustrated by an image, and the text and image are printed on one side only of a separate sheet. They face one another, tucked inside a four-page folder, whose first page bears the title of the text. The first six texts are by Michel Tabanou, who illustrated the first three; I illustrated the last three. The next six texts are mine: Tabanou illustrated the first three, and I illustrated the last three.

You are perfectly entitled to like it or dislike it. Make the most of that freedom, in every possible way, while you can. Before long, freedom of opinion may no longer be quite what it is today…

Published on 12/10/2026 @ 21:21

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