Christophe Carlier

L’Eau de Rose by Christophe Carlier. Published in French by Editions Phébus, Paris, January 2019.

L’Eau de Rose literally means rose water, a natural face cleanser. Metaphorically it means sentimental. A roman à rose is a romance novel. This play on words in the title hints at the double meanings to come.

L’Eau de Rose is a complex little book that allows easy entry but rewards long reflection. At first we think we know what it is: a braided narrative that goes back and forth between the story Sigrid, the narrator, is living and the story she is writing. The two sections are in two different genres. Sigrid’s story is told in the style of realistic literary fiction, with emphasis on character development and style; and the story of Priscilla, the romance novel heroine, is plot heavy, fast moving, with a big dose of fantasy.

At least that’s what we think at first. But as we read, we become more and more invested in the roman à rose strand. It begins to seem like the more plausible part of the braid. We wonder: Is Sigrid such a skillful writer that her characters seem real? Or does the writer give so much to her art that she sometimes loses the vitality in her life?

At first the two main characters seem familiar. There’s the romance novelist whose life does not resemble those of her characters at all. And the romance novel character, who seems to be nothing but “adorable” and “irresistible.” But, as in the best novels, nothing turns out to be what it seemed.

We think we know who Sigrid is. She’s one of those middle-aged women (“between two ages” is the author’s more elegant phrase) who are invisible. At first her invisibility is metaphorical. As an author, she speaks through her characters and disappears in them. As a woman long past her twenties, she is used to not being noticed. Everything changes, though, when she checks into a hotel on a Greek island to write. She becomes aware of a young woman whose gaze offers her “a silent invitation.” Who is this mysterious stranger, and why would someone so beautiful be drawn to Sigrid?

The woman’s name is Gertrude, Sigrid discovers during their first dinner. Gertrude dresses in black because she is mourning her late beloved aunt, who left her an inheritance sufficient to travel to places such as this far-flung island.

Halfway through the book, Sigrid disappears for an evening to spy on Gertrude, whom she has become obsessed with. She looks in the mirror and doesn’t see her reflection. The maids in the hall don’t see her, and neither does Gertrude, out on the beach. Thus Sigrid’s invisibility becomes literal. Or does it? The next day, word spreads that the poppy seeds in the breakfast bread can sometimes cause hallucinations.

This metaphor-turned-literal seems to ask, Can middle-aged women use their invisibility as an advantage? Can it give them power? The power to take people by surprise, to become something our culture does not expect them to be able to be?

The questions that drive the two interwoven plots—are Sigrid and Gertrude going to have sex and are Priscilla and her fiancé going to get married and live happily ever after—are answered in delightfully unexpected ways. Subplots involving other guests at the hotel (a magician, an opera singer, a burglar, and the devil, to name just a few) contribute to the book’s odd magical quality, as well as to its suspense.

I have been a fan of Christophe Carlier’s work since I read his first novel, l’Assassin à la Pomme Verte, which won the Best First Novel Award in 2014. Since then, Carlier has been prolific, publishing three more novels and one book of essays/criticism/homage, on the subject of the cartoonist Sempé. (My other reviews of his work can be found here and here and here.)

The link between Sempé’s work and Carlier’s is worth noting. They both share an economy of expression (Sempé can create an idiosyncratic portrait in just a few lines, and Carlier’s short books never waste a word). Their cartoons and novels seem simple at first, but are far from it. They also share the same spirit: of whimsy, curiosity, and innovation.

L’Eau de Rose is, in the end, a cleanser. It will cleanse you of your preconceptions. You’ll question your assumptions about literary genres, the erotic lure of middle-aged women, betrayal, loyalty, and the power of the imagination.

[Note: The French translation follows the English review.]

Happé par Sempé by Christophe Carlier. Paris: Serge Safran, 2013.

Happé par Sempé (Caught by Sempé) is a slim volume of first-person criticism, an art appreciation mixed with memoir. Perhaps most of all it is a long love letter from an acclaimed novelist to an iconic cartooonist.

Jean-Jacques Sempé is best known in the United States for his New Yorker covers, more than a hundred of which have featured his whimsical drawings. His importance in France, a country obsessed with cartoons, is perhaps second to none.

At the start of the book, Carlier has missed his train by a few seconds. He faces a long, boring wait, with nothing to do but watch the punctual passengers on the other side, who seem ludicrously happy just to not be him. What happens next is magical. Even though we know that we are following the author’s ripe imagination, what unfolds seems fabulously real and delightfully immediate.

Waiting at the train station, Carlier recreates a Sempé drawing in his head. Then he becomes a Sempé character. The world around him transforms into Sempé’s whimsical universe of slippery, splotchy, watercolored joy. The author imagines his suitcase covered with travel stickers, and he can no longer feel the weight of his baggage or his tardiness. A woman across the track is seized with a crazy laugh. He is saved. Sempé allowed him to observe himself from the outside, with the amusement of a spectator. He can see the absurdity of our daily lives and troubles, as well as the happiness that soaks through our days the way watercolor soaks through the paper.

Once Carlier, our narrator and guide, learns to draw Sempé’s characters—in his head—these drole, balletic creatures can follow him everywhere. And, lucky for us, we can use this technique to imagine our own Sempé-populated world wherever we go.

What is Sempé’s irresistible appeal? Not nostalgia, but something more edgy and innovative. Carlier tells us that the artist doesn’t evoke the past but instead precisely observes the present. Sempé’s gift is giving close attention to small things: Bicycles with frames so thin their riders resemble tightrope walkers. Angry people who look so much like children that we are moved by their troubles. Politicians and other bigshots who wear their ties on their shoulders like flags in the wind.

Calling Happé par Sempé criticism is like calling MFK Fisher’s luscious stories about food cookbooks. Both authors write lovingly about their chosen topics in a deeply intimate way. Both give us abundant and amusing narratives that can add adventure to our quotidian lives and remind us of the hidden beauty in small, seemingly insignificant things.

The combination of invention and documentation in Happé par Sempé reminds me of Patrick Modiano’s Dora. In that brilliant nonfiction work about a Parisian Jewish girl who died in the Holocaust, Modiano leads us on a quest to discover and imagine who Dora was. He enters into the experience of research in the same, first-person way that Carlier does. Both Happé and Dora are hybrid kinds of writing: nonfiction about a real person that is participatory and involves active imagination on the part of the author. Both are written in elegant, spare, melodious prose. Prose so beautiful, evocative, and precise that we can imagine the drawings when we read the book and then venture out into the world, even when we don’t have the pictures in front of us.

Happé par Sempé par Christophe Carlier. Paris : Serge Safran, 2013.

Happé par Sempé est un mince volume de la critique intime, l’appréciation de l’art mélangé avec mémoire. Peut-être d’abord et surtout, c’est une longue lettre d’amour écrit de la part d’un romancier primé à une cartooniste emblématique.

Jean- Jacques Sempé est le plus connu aux Etats-Unis pour ses couvertures du New Yorker, plus d’une centaine qui ont présenté ses dessins fantaisistes. Son importance en France est difficile de surestimer.

Au début du livre, Carlier a raté son train—de peu. Il attend une attente longue et ennuyeuse, avec rien à faire que de regarder les passagers ponctuels de l’autre côté, qui semblent ridiculement heureux juste de ne pas être lui. Ce qui se passe ensuite est magique. Même si nous savons que nous suivons imagination de l’auteur, ce qui se déroule semble fabuleusement réel et délicieusement immédiate.

Attente à la gare, Carlier fait un dessin de Sempé dans la tête. Puis il devient un personnage dessiné par Sempé. Le monde autour de lui se transforme en univers fantaisiste de Sempé, un monde de glissant plein de la joie aquarellée. L’auteur imagine sa valise couverte avec des autocollants de voyage, et il ne peut plus sentir le poids de ses bagages ou des sa manque de ponctualité. Une femme à travers la piste est saisie d’un rire fou. Il est sauvé. Sempé lui a permis de s’observer de l’extérieur, à l’amusement d’un spectateur. Il peut voir l’absurdité de nos vies quotidiennes et les troubles, ainsi que le bonheur qui absorbe à travers nos jours la façon aquarelle absorbe à travers le papier.

Une fois Carlier, notre narrateur et guide, apprend à dessiner les personnages de Sempé dans la tête ces créatures balletique et drôle peuvent le suivre partout. Et, heureusement pour nous, nous pouvons utiliser cette technique pour imaginer notre propre monde Sempé peuplée n’importe où nous allons.

Quel est irrésistible chez Sempé ? Pas de nostalgie, mais quelque chose de plus innovante. Carlier nous dit que l’artiste n’évoque pas le passé mais il observe précisément le présent. Sempé nous enseigne comment donner une attention particulière aux petites choses : vélos avec des cadres si mince leurs cavaliers ressemblent funambules. Les gens en colère qui ressemblent tellement à des enfants que nous sommes émus par leurs chagrins. Les politiciens et les autres gros bonnets qui portent leurs cravates sur leurs épaules comme des drapeaux dans le vent.

Appeler Happé par Sempé critique serait pareille d’appeler les histoires succulentes de MFK Fisher les livres de recettes alimentaires. Les deux auteurs écrivent amoureusement sur leurs thèmes choisis d’une manière profondément intime. Les deux auteurs nous donnent des récits abondantes et amusants qui peuvent ajouter aventure à nos vies quotidiennes et nous rappeler la beauté cachée dans les petites choses, en apparence insignifiants.

La combinaison de l’invention et de la documentation chez Happé par Sempé me rappelle de Dora de Patrick Modiano. Dans ce travail documentaire brillante il s’agit d’une jeune fille juive parisienne qui est morte dans l’Holocauste, et Modiano nous conduit dans une quête pour découvrir et imaginer cette fille. Il entre dans l’expérience de la recherche de la même façon que fait Carlier. Les deux livres, Happé et Dora, sont des sortes hybrides d’écriture : un conte d’une personne réelle qui est participative et qui implique une imagination active de la part de l’auteur. Les deux livres sont écrits avec une prose qui est élégant, libre, et mélodieuse. Prose si belle, évocatrice, et précise que l’on peut imaginer les dessins quand nous lisons le livre et ensuite s’aventurer dans le monde, même si nous n’avons pas les photos en face de nous.

Book review (English version) of L’eau de rose by Christophe Carlier

Review of Happé par Sempé by Christophe Carlier