Sound and Vision (and Taste) in the Works of Pierre Louys

Chrysis & Djala, in Aphrodite, by J A Cante, 1949

I have posted previously about the close connection between the writing of Pierre Louys and the art associated with that. I am pleased to discover that I’m not alone in making that connection. The scholar of French literature, Maja Vukušić Zorica, from the University of Zagreb, has observed how, “from antiquity, the ‘graphy’ of ‘pornography’ has always oscillated between writing and painting.” She said this in the context of Louys’ book La Femme, an autograph collection of his earliest erotic verse which was designed principally as a celebration of the female body (his lovers’ bodies) and was illustrated with his own sketches of his partners naked. It is highly intimate and erotic and it underlines for Louys how word and pencil line existed symbiotically, supporting and reinforcing each other and extending our understanding of the author’s literary vision. As the remark by Vukušić Zorica makes clear, the line of text does not displace the pen stroke that delineates form; one is not superior to the other, necessarily. Their relative significance may change from period to period: both within the life of a single artist, such as Louys, and between eras. Perhaps photography and the internet make the present a more visual than aural or textual age.

Book illustration is more than just expanding upon an idea through an image. The message conveyed by the picture is embodied as well in the form of the image itself.  What’s more, this is a complex subject to discuss, because part of the communication that’s involved in subliminal.

My particular interest here is the image that accompanies a text.  Almost always, that text was not written by the artist, who therefore comes to it as a third party, just like any other reader.  Some artists are able to liaise and collaborate with authors, but for most of the texts I have discussed in my postings, that was not possible because the authors were dead (Pierre Louys died in 1925, and it was only after this that many of his books were published, having hitherto been unknown manuscripts).  This fact means that the transmission of the writers’ ideas through imagery becomes a complex process.  Artists must read a text and find their own interpretation of it. They must choose suitable scenes to depict, decisions which hinge upon their own interpretations of what’s relevant to a story or verse.  They must then design an illustration.  What this conveys- and how it complements the text- in large measure depends upon the image itself, but this is not all: the illustration also speaks though its design, colouring, line and overall style.  What’s included and excluded, the manner in which its presented, the realism or abstraction of the draughtsmanship all contribute to the plate’s meaning, and thence to our reactions to the text and how we remember characters and incidents.  The message is the medium as much as it is the subject of the image itself.

Aphrodite 1929

In the matter of illustrating the works of Pierre Louys, the illustrator was confronted with very different tasks, depending upon the commission. Much of Louys’ poetry, such as Pybrac, is very concise and condensed, presenting the reader with a single visual image over just a few lines of verse. Illustrating the author’s poems was rather straightforward as a result; the same applies to his Manual of Good Manners for Young Ladies, which comprises a series of terse aphorisms that are readily translated into single illustrations.

Chrysis & Djala by Firmin Maglin, 1930

The task of illustrating Louys’ novels was, necessarily, more complex, for the reasons already described and, as well, due to the fact that- with some- determining the correct tone or approach for the artist could be fraught. An example of this, I think, is the novella Trois filles de leur mere (Three daughters of their mother), which appeared posthumously. This book is, in my opinion, one of the most iconographically complex of Louys’ prose works, as determining the author’s intent is very difficult indeed. Was it meant to be pure erotica (I doubt this profoundly); was it meant to be a declaration of sexual independence and personal freedom (possibly- in some respects), or was it meant to be a portrayal and condemnation of abuse and captivity (also, possibly, yes)? This uncertainty is reflected by different illustrators’ responses. Louis Berthomme Saint-Andre provided plates that, whilst not avoiding some of the more controversial aspects of the text, still tended in their delicate draughtsmanship and style to reduce some scenes to genteel suburban sex parties. In contrast, Georges Pichard‘s interpretation was to see the story as bleak narrative of violent exploitation (in which he decided to follow the student narrator of the account- although the voice of the narrator is not necessarily that of the author himself). Pichard’s illustrations are, as a result, more explicit but much less erotic, as the text is translated as a succession of unpleasant and desperate scenes. That Pichard also produced fifty-three plates for this 1980 edition compounds the tenor of his work; he was able to portray almost every scene and to bring home in graphic detail many of the more dismally depraved aspects of the text.

Mariette Lydis, Chrysis, 1934

By way of contrast, we might consider the treatment of individual characters in stories, as in Pierre Louys’ second novel, Aphrodite. The depictions of the main character, the courtesan Chrysis, vary widely from one illustrator to another. J. A. Cante showed her with her handmaiden Djala, both clothed and looking like respectable Greek women; the contact between their hands is the only suggestion that there may be more to their relationship (see head of page). Firmin Maglin rendered Chrysis and her servant naked together, but they still look quite staid and sober, rather like middle class matrons pretending to be Greeks. Mariette Lydis‘ response was to present the heroine as a reflective solo nude, a figure who could just as well be one of Lydis’ own lovers as an illustration for a story, although perhaps her pose and her contemplative air is suggestive of the pride that will destroy Chrysis. Pierre Rousseau’s bold design brings out more clearly the courtesan’s awareness of her own physical beauty and her willingness to display this and to manipulate others through it; the bright colours and bold design reflect something of Chrysis’ character, we might say. It is only really in the frontispieces by Clara Tice and Paul-Emile Becat that Chrysis’ full, dangerous vanity is expressed; both artists show her with the stolen mirror, necklace and comb that lead to her execution. In passing, we may note too the illustrations provided by Louis Icart for a 1940 edition of Aphrodite that was retitled Chrysis. The name Chrysis derives from her golden hair, which is a key element in her attractiveness and is much mentioned in the story. Icart, perversely, gave her black hair, as may, perhaps, better suit a woman of Jewish origin who was brought up as Susannah, but it makes a nonsense of the story.

Chrysis, by Louis Icart

In fact, I think the way that two lesser characters in the story of Chrysis were portrayed by artists is far more interesting and informative than their treatment of the heroine of Aphrodite. Present throughout the novel are two Greek flute players, a couple of girls called Rhodis and Myrtocleia from Ephesus. They are old enough to have left their home to seek work in Alexandria; they are also old enough to be lovers and to occasionally share a bed with Chrysis. They are referred to in the text a couple of times as the “little flute players,” yet they are plainly not so little. Clara Tice and Mariette Lydis follow the words of Louys, with Lydis even showing one older and more mature than her partner. Maglin, however, decided to take the adjective ‘little’ literally and has apparently halved the pairs’ ages. They are reduced to children of eight or nine, seen struggling to carry the corpse of Chrysis after her execution and appealing to the courtesan’s friend Timon for help. Their need for assistance is emphasised, but the fact that the couple are in a relationship and plan to marry is quite lost. That this is the case is especially noticeable if we contrast Maglin’s plate with illustrations for the book by Serge Czerefkov (1928) and by Georges Villa (1938): both these artists chose to be explicit about the pair as lesbian lovers, showing them making love together and (very gymnastically in Villa’s case) with Chrysis. 

The essential point is this: that illustrations can shape perceptions, unconsciously affecting our responses to, and interpretations of, a text. Where an artist departs significantly from the author’s conception, this can influence the reader’s impressions. An illustrated book should be conceived as a whole, with one medium supplementing the other; author and illustrator may rank equally in their impact upon the reader experience- hence my series of postings on the many illustrators of the books of Pierre Louys.

Flute player and dancing girl by Clara Tice

Rhodis & Myrtocleia, by Mariette Lydis

Antoine Calbet, 1910

The Death of Chrysis, by Firmin Maglin

Sound and vision are very important in the form of Louys’ work, then, but I’d argue that the sense of taste was also extremely significant to him. Taste (along with smell) is, of course, part of our experience of sex anyway and the entire oral and sensuous aspect triggers associations with eating and food. From my readings of Louys, it appears to me that food took on its own sensual nature for him, so that the boundaries between cuisine and sex became blurred.

For example, two female medical students feature in the Douze Douzain de Dialogues discussing how an ointment including Vaseline, mustard flour and cayenne pepper can (literally) spice up personal pleasure. Mustard is also applied in Trois filles de leur mere and Pybrac to heighten sensitivity- both deliberately and accidentally. Elsewhere, Louys’ febrile imagination found unexpected uses for salad oil, butter, bananas and aubergines and conceived of diners being put off their meals in a restaurant by one couple’s use of their table. The most notable intersection between the physical pleasures of the gourmet and the hedonist is found on Louys’ Utopian Ile aux Dames, in which he imagined a restaurant that provides entertainment for diners beneath the table as well as on top (as it were). This union of bodily sensations represents what may very possibly have been the writer’s conception of the pinnacle of experience.

For more detail, see my Pierre Louys bibliography, most especially my longer note on ‘Pierre Louys and Food.’