A region’s soul lies in the subtle harmony that binds its people. To reach it, one must look beyond the tightly woven threads of their relations, and unravel the tapestry of social origins and the migration of men, of chance events and the vagaries of history. Listening to people talk releases echoes, which in turn seem to summon up more distant echoes. And as the memories unfold, very occasionally, in a moment’s hesitation or a word, a gesture or a glance, with the magic of the scent of a flower or the song of a brook, the hidden meaning of life is revealed. Life’s secrets are written on the landscape, where men live out their lives, and when they speak of the places they venerate, they express, unconsciously, their common bond with the land that fostered them.
AnnecyJanuary 2000. Calm after the storm. Beside the lake, a sense of peace prevails. The water is glassy and almost still, tinged a violet-grey. A pale sun glimmers behind the thin film of cloud that cloaks the snowy mountains like watered silk. The light seems reluctant, forming a pearly opening above our heads; it’s like a magnificent show of coloured lights going on in another realm. I love these moments when the all the world seems poised in expectation, and deep down, beyond the dull uniformity of the landscape, you get a sense of things about to happen, and of a blazing life that takes its self-awareness from ourselves. I tell Roger how beautiful I think it is.
‘Nothing special,’ he says. ‘Those aren’t beautiful greys.’
I don’t answer, and he goes on. He tells me greys can be amazing, presenting an infinite play of subtle shades that seems to take you to the furthest depths of your thoughts in a way that’s almost spiritual. These moments of fleeting beauty are what he tries to capture in his photographs.
Roger Duteil is Lake Annecy’s photographer. For forty years, he has been in pursuit of absolute beauty. At the first scent of a good photo, he flies downstairs two at a time and rushes right out to Bout du Lac if he has to. Duteil has demonstrated in the street to defend his beloved banks from the threats of Parisian developers backed by certain councillors. There was once talk, for instance, of laying the foundations for 2,000 buildings on the Roc de Chère. The Haute Savoie is quick to react these days. With so many areas of outstanding natural beauty, the area is under constant pressure from dream-merchants – it’s a real racket. Roger’s sharp eyes flash behind his glasses as he looks back over his past as a photographer, recalling moments of intense feeling and disappointment, and all the inner experiences that have taught him humility and humour, but above all, humanity. With him, there’s no sensationalism and no drama, no aerial views, nor even shots from a boat; he uses no artificial processes and there’s most certainly never any photo-journalism. His aim is to recreate the privileged moment that any passer-by might have had:
‘I always take photos from the banks of the lake, same as anyone else.’
Except that Duteil waits for these moments to ‘capture the essence of things’.
‘For me, the best light is in autumn or winter. In summer, the sun’s rays are vertical and there’s no shadow. And the light’s too hard, it kills the colours. I stop taking photos for at least two months every year.’
When I ask him about the places he likes best, he tells me it’s not the place that counts, it’s the light and ‘the sun’s position in the sky’. Every spot has its own light.
‘In the morning, it’s the Petit Port, because it’s against the sun. There’s a wonderful range of lighting effects. And on the side of Annecy-le-Vieux, when the reeds are half-hidden in mist, you can see some amazing things – really beautiful. The end of the lake is another place that’s good in the morning, too, for about a quarter of an hour or maybe twenty minutes. In mid-winter, the sun comes across almost horizontal from Faverges. And you get some splendid views from Saint-Jorioz, too, especially on the Roc de Chère.’
While Roger talks, I watch the gold flecks of light glittering on the water. You could imagine it’s a road coming down from the wooded peaks above the town where the Visitation Basilica is silhouetted; maybe a procession came this way, scattering traces of sacred objects and rich, embroidered cloth on the sand, before vanishing into the dark folds of the lake.
[...]
It’s nearly four o’clock and it’s cold suddenly. The colours are fading on the Imperial Palace close by. I remember when I used to go and read in its gardens. That was some 20 years ago. The Palace had fallen into neglect, the lower floors were shut up; barbed wire kept you out. And yet, one could easily imagine blue-blooded couples climbing the great staircase and emerging under the warmth of the light thrown by the massive chandeliers. I could almost hear their conversations around the dome, in the twilight of the tall trees across from the lake. I’m sure it’s the Imperial Palace more than Rousseau and Senancour that nurtured my taste for Romanticism, that and the mountains.
Then the building burned down in a great fire to match the size of this huge pile. Rumour had it it was caused by squatters; and there was talk of insurance scams. But the Palace was finally bought back, regaining its former splendour though not its nobility, and that’s something I keep to myself, stored in my memory and the pages of my books, hidden away among the creepers that cling to the old-world charm of its worn stones and mingle with the essence of words.
We go back to the appartment, where great bay windows look out on to the lake encircled by mountains. On the left, you can see the Massif des Bornes, the highest of which is the Tournette; oppposite are the Bauges like waves laced with white foam and fixed by time.
I think of something Roger said:
‘Gently, things take shape, as thought they’re coming out of the mists’.
I think of all those people who are happy, not because of what they do, but because of what they are.
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