My Meeting with Henri

It was some years ago, back in the 80s, when I took my girls and one of their friends to explore France for two weeks. I figured they would learn far more there than they would in school.

We started in Paris, based in a little hotel I found on Ile de la Cité, right near Notre Dame with all its splendid gargoyles that fascinated the girls. We walked, and we walked, and we walked some more. There were so many places I wanted to show them — the Louvre, la Place de la Concorde, l’Arc de Triomphe, la Tour Eiffel, Sacré Coeur — before we headed south to Provence and Corsica.

There was also la Rive Gauche where we saw the sidewalk artists, book bins, and cages of birds, rabbits, and other animals. We sat in sidewalk cafés, watching the street scenes and sipping cups of chocolat, or in my case, wine, basking in the sun.

We did some shopping and all bought maillots, perfect, as it was just too early to find bathing suits in the stores at home. There were wonderful little presents discovered in bargain bins for family and friends back home.

It was April, and on cue, it rained the second day of our visit. That didn’t stop me from photographing. Late afternoon saw us on Pont au Double. The kids were admiring the river view while I studied what I wanted to photograph, camera poised in my hand as I protected it as much as I could in the inclement weather.

“Madame,” I heard a voice say in French, “Your lens cap is still on.”

Also in French, I replied, “Yes, thank you, I know. I am a professional photographer. With the rain, I want to protect my lens until the last minute.”

“Ah, Madame, very good. Let me help you,” said he as he helped shade my lens as I photographed.

“Merci, monsieur, vouz êtes si gentil,” I thanked him for his kindness.

“Venez, venez,” he said, beckoning, “Vite, vite!”

My girls looked at me and thought I had lost my senses. Here we were, following a strange man in a trench coat and beret to who knows where. I told them that there were more of us than him, and that my gut instinct said this was going to be just fine.

The girls understood some French, so they were able to follow smatterings of the conversation between the two adults. We talked about photography and art and music. We chatted about our two countries’ similar histories and revolutions. He wondered where I had mastered my French (family history of being bilingual). I asked how long he had been photographing (all his life). I told him I got my first camera at age eight. I told about my grandmother who had studied piano under the famous Madame Nadia Boulanger while living in Paris with my father. I had been to Paris before, but not since I was a teenager. He shared his love of the city and acted as our tour guide as we passed this or that building.

“There is a special place you must see, but we must hurry, as they close soon,” he said.

We ended up at La Samaritaine, one of the oldest department stores in Paris.

We took the elevator about half way up and stood by the railing around the atrium.

“This is beautiful,” I remarked, “It could have been designed by Eiffel.”

“How did you know?”

“I didn’t, but it looks like something he might have designed. The railings have the same lacy quality as la Tour.”

“You are right,” our host said, “Now come quickly before they close the rest.

I have not been able to confirm any link between la Samaritaine and Eiffel, so perhaps our host was mistaken. Certainly, the architects could have taken their inspiration from Eiffel’s work.

We found ourselves on the roof of the building, the roof terrace. It was circular, rimmed with a parapet set at an angle, and decorated with a beautiful, 360-degree panorama of the city. You could look at a landmark, then straight down to the panorama with that same building and an ID.

“Look down there,” he showed the girls Notre Dame where we had been less than a half hour before. “Now look, see the picture of that same building here.”

He took out his Leica and photographed while I did the same until the rooftop was due to close. We retraced our steps back down to the ground floor, through the city streets, back over the bridge to where we had met.

“Where are you going to eat?” he asked.

“I don’t know, as we only arrived yesterday. With the girls, I hope to find some place not too expensive.”

“Ah, I know just the place. It is owned by a lovely Italian couple, but you’ll have to bring your own wine,” as we stopped at a little shop where I picked up a nice bottle of table wine.

He introduced us to the owners who took us under their wings.

“Won’t you join us?” I asked, “We’d love to treat you to dinner.”

“I would love to, but I have another engagement. Now, you’ll be alright?” he asked.

We all thanked him profusely for his kindness and for treating us to such a lovely end to the day.

Off he went, and we enjoyed a lovely and inexpensive dinner accompanied by the wine he had recommended.

I never got his name, and it wasn’t until quite recently when I saw a photograph of him that I realized who had been our host. None other than Henri Cartier-Bresson. I had long admired his work, and knew it well back then, but there are few photographs of him. He didn’t like being on the receiving end of the lens, preferring instead to work as incognito as possible.

The trench coat, the beret, the Leica were all his trademarks, but I didn’t know that back then. It is a meeting I have never nor ever will forget. My meeting with Henri!