Willy Ronis: A Photographic Journey — Exhibition Notes

On August 24, 2019, I happened to be passing the University of Hong Kong when I saw that an exhibition of Willy Ronis’s work was being held at the University Museum and Art Gallery.

I happened to own a small book of Ronis’s photographs titled That Day. Each photograph is accompanied by a short essay recounting the story behind it, and every essay begins with the words “That day.” I found the idea rather intriguing, and it was what made me decide to see the exhibition.

Willy Ronis (1910–2009) was a major figure in twentieth-century French photography. From the 1930s to the 2000s, he spent eight decades roaming the interlacing streets of Paris and the rest of France, capturing its people through his lens. He delighted in chance encounters and devoted himself to photographing “fragments of everyday life”: his family and closest friends, as well as the strangers he came across while wandering through Belleville.

Family and Private Life

Willy Ronis was a photographer of “fragments of everyday life,” and his work was closely entwined with his personal experience. In 1948, he left Paris for Gordes in the Vaucluse, where he bought a house. His wife, Marie-Anne, his son Vincent, and the friends he regarded as sincere, forthright, and lovable became his principal subjects. A simple game, a bath, or an afternoon nap could inspire him; such everyday moments would go on to become classic images.

Early Life

Although Willy Ronis had hoped to become a violinist, his father’s serious illness led him to begin working at the family photography studio on Boulevard Richard-Lenoir.

Ronis’s father died in June 1936. Burdened by mounting debts, Ronis was forced to give up the studio. Encouraged by his friends Robert Capa and David Seymour, he became a professional photojournalist and an impassioned witness to France’s Popular Front. Closely associated with the French Communist Party, he published his photographs in Regards and L’Humanité, including images of the mass demonstration on July 14, 1936, and the 1938 strike by workers at the Citroën factory in Javel.

Whether photographing the Mars Group in 1934 or a pair of lovers leaning against a bicycle, Ronis conveyed the hopes of a generation whose ideals would be shattered by the outbreak of the Second World War in 1939. In 1941, anti-Jewish legislation forced him to leave Paris for southern France.

The Little Parisian, 1952
“That day, to make The Little Parisian—a photograph repeatedly reproduced by the press and eventually regarded as my ‘self-portrait’—I departed slightly from my usual approach. By that I mean that I made a small adjustment to the scene. I was illustrating a feature called Paris Revisited, about a Parisian returning home after fifteen years and happily discovering that he could still recognize all the city’s familiar symbols.
“The Parisian baguette was, of course, indispensable among those symbols, so I had to photograph it in a distinctive way and against a particular setting. A picture of an ordinary bakery would have been pointless. It was noon, and I was lingering near a bakery close to my home. Among the people in line, I immediately noticed this little boy, whose grandmother was queuing as well. He was utterly charming, with a hint of mischief about him. I approached his grandmother and asked, ‘Excuse me, madam. When your grandson comes out with the bread, may I photograph him? I would like to catch him running with the loaf tucked under his arm.’ ‘Of course. Why not, if you would like to?’”
“I took up position a short distance away and waited patiently. When he came running out with the bread, he moved with both energy and ease. I had him run several metres three times before I captured the best frame. The photograph later became enormously successful. It appeared on posters and postcards and even found its way into cafés and bakeries abroad, in New York and other European capitals.
“I did encounter the boy again, thanks to his mother-in-law. One morning she telephoned me: ‘Monsieur Ronis, you know, I first saw this photograph many years ago, and naturally my son-in-law knows about it too. But I am calling today because I have just discovered it on the cover of one of your new books.’ Thanks to her, I remembered that the street was Rue Péclet. I later returned to the old bakery to see whether I could still find the same doorway and recover my memories of that day. The shop had never been repainted and still retained its original fittings. I even found proof that I had the right place: in the full photograph, near the bottom of the wall, there is a vent resembling a small metal box. It remains in exactly the same spot. After all these years, it has never moved.
“The little boy, however, was never seen there again.”

Photojournalism

After the Liberation, Willy Ronis picked up his camera again and resumed his career as a photojournalist. France became his principal field of expression as he undertook assignments for publications including Regards, Life, and Point de Vue. Even while he was supposed to be concentrating on the work commissioned from him, Ronis would “steal a moment” to photograph three women praying in a church at Spézet or three hooded children on the Route de Maroilles.

France

From the 1950s to the 1990s, France remained Ronis’s favorite terrain. An assignment, a newspaper story, or a few days’ holiday could all provide the perfect setting: a winemaker seated at his table, perhaps, or two children diving from a freighter moored in the port of La Ciotat. Always alert and expectant, Ronis traveled along the banks of the Marne, through Turin, and across southern France, recording both life’s hardships and its “happy encounters” with the same visual sensitivity.

Place Vendôme, 1947
“That day, I was about to take the Métro home from Tuileries. It was nearly noon, and I was in Place Vendôme. For no particular reason, I suddenly looked down and noticed a puddle. Bending closer, I discovered another world within it: the Vendôme Column was perfectly reflected in the water. Naturally, I wanted to photograph this miraculous reflection at once. Just then, a woman stepped over the puddle. Damn—I was not ready and missed my chance. How I wished I could have captured everything: the puddle, the reflection, and the woman’s legs! But when I looked up, I saw that quite a few women were crossing the puddle, all walking in the same direction. The shopkeepers in Place Vendôme must have let their apprentices out for lunch. Perhaps the young women were meeting at a restaurant on Rue Saint-Honoré to relax for a while. I checked my watch. It was exactly noon, so I felt certain I was right.
“I began to wait patiently. Three women in succession followed the same path and stepped across the puddle. I took three photographs. They did not notice me because my lens appeared to be aimed only at the water. Like an obsessive or a madman, I demanded perfection. At least I achieved the effect I wanted. This is the loveliest of the three photographs. Its beauty is slightly strange, even erotic, with the lovely apparition of the high heels and the peculiar atmosphere of that day. If I remember correctly, it never stopped raining.

“Paris was already bustling then, but there were still few cars. During the Occupation, every automobile had been requisitioned; the only vehicles one saw were small military trucks or cars reserved for special purposes. It made grand Paris feel rather like a country town…”

Jules and Jim, 1947
“That day, I think it was a Sunday—or perhaps a Saturday; this time I cannot quite remember. What I do remember is returning for another walk along the Marne. Ever since the Liberation, I had often heard about this popular destination. At weekends, people came from far and wide to gather in little riverside cafés, eat mussels and chips, picnic outdoors, and even dance a few numbers at places such as Chez Gégène or Max’s Cabin. Around 1947 there were many such establishments. It was in these cafés that I began a series of photographs on the subject and grew fond of the sense of freedom and the long-lost pleasure in living that I found there. The atmosphere was simple, genuine, and entirely unforced. I returned often. It was probably a Sunday. The weather was unpromising, and I remember worrying that I might have made the trip for nothing.
“I wandered about listlessly, expecting to find nothing worth photographing. Then I suddenly saw these three young people—two boys and a girl—lying on a footbridge between two small islands at Champigny. The girl bent down gently and kissed one of the boys. I found the scene exquisitely beautiful and took the photograph. It was as lovely as a fairy tale or a novel. The young people seemed to inhabit an enchanted world. They did not need to do anything; simply being there together, surrounded by lush greenery, created perfect harmony. The photograph was later reproduced frequently in magazines. To me, it became a poster for François Truffaut’s Jules and Jim, released several years afterward—a film about the tangled destinies of a girl and two boys. Jeanne Moreau brought nobility and elegance to the heroine, and the feelings among the three characters were equally rich and subtle. Rezvani’s song still circles through my mind: ‘She wore rings on every finger, bracelets around her wrists…’ Perhaps, in taking this photograph, I had unwittingly prepared the way for a film that did not yet exist. Such things happen.”

Paris

Willy Ronis was born in Paris, and the French capital remained his favorite place to photograph. He often roamed the city, capturing picturesque scenes: people hurrying past, lovers locked in an embrace on a bench, and young people enjoying themselves at an outdoor fairground. He was especially drawn to the atmosphere after dark, photographing dancers in the cellar clubs of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. His commissioned work also took him to the slums of Aubervilliers and the barges on the Seine, where he experienced their austere tranquility firsthand.

Romani Women in Montreuil, 1945
“That day, in a Romani settlement at Montreuil, I happened upon a group of young women dressing and doing their hair. These Romani families had long been settled on the city’s outskirts. One young woman was arranging her hair while another held up a mirror for her. Their graceful figures captivated me at once, and I went on to produce an extensive photo essay about the Romani community of Montreuil. They earned their living as tinsmiths, working for hospitals and community organizations. The time I spent with them meant a great deal to me. Most of these young people were in their early twenties. The soft light gives the image a gentle sense of ease.

“To be honest, my life in photography has always been filled with chance—with beautiful moments I have struggled to preserve. A picture is worth a thousand words, and these moments express my ideas and carry my emotions far better than anything I could clumsily say. My photographs are my self-portraits. Each one seems to recount some past event through an outwardly ordinary scene. My life has been shadowed by disappointment, but it has also been filled with the sunlight of joy. I merely wanted to preserve those joyful moments and bring a patch of brightness to other people’s gray skies.

“When fate quietly opens its arms to you, you should be grateful. When you feel deeply that fortune is smiling on you, you should give thanks. This is what I mean by a ‘happy accident.’ These may be tiny, seemingly insignificant things, but they arrive neither a moment too soon nor a moment too late. You must always be ready.”

Paris: Belleville–Ménilmontant

Photographer and illustrator Willy Ronis joined other members of the Group of Fifteen, including Robert Doisneau and René-Jacques, in publishing photographs of Paris. His first solo photobook, Belleville–Ménilmontant, focused on a Parisian neighborhood that had rarely appeared before the camera. Published by Arthaud in 1954, it featured a preface by Pierre Mac Orlan. Ronis recalled that he and Mac Orlan “set out together to absorb the atmosphere of these lively places.” The book was a great success. Ronis subsequently revised, expanded, and reorganized it four times, while the neighborhood remained a source of inspiration throughout his career.

Réunion Island, 1990
“That day, I had been invited to take part in an exhibition, and I also wanted to use the opportunity to prepare a feature for the following year. A journalist was accompanying me, and we had already driven around the island several times. We reached Saint-Pierre, a small coastal town. On our way back to Saint-Paul, we passed this stream, perhaps a tributary of some tropical river, and I unexpectedly caught sight of this scene. ‘Stop the car! Just for a moment!’ The journalist was naturally puzzled, but he looked for somewhere to pull over. I remember clearly that there was a bend just ahead, and he stopped there. I got out, spent perhaps a minute or a minute and a half, and took two photographs. The girl was flicking her skirt through the air to make it dry faster. How delightful! She laughed and seemed very happy. There was an unspoken understanding between us. Look—beside her is a man, though I captured only one of his hands and one foot. Perhaps they were together, or perhaps he was merely passing by; I do not know. I particularly like the edges of this photograph. The frame is often crucial: it allows the whole image to breathe and come alive. I have always held to one principle—my photographs must be composed with the precision of a small genre painting. Yes, I believe I have remained faithful to it.”

Around the World

Ronis began traveling abroad in the 1930s, broadening the scope of his photographic career. In 1954, he accompanied his wife, Marie-Anne, to the Netherlands on a journey exploring the painters of northern Europe. In 1960, the photographer John Heartfield invited him to East Berlin, and in 1981 he traveled to New York for the opening of an exhibition. For this inquisitive, multilingual photographer, such journeys offered ideal opportunities to work free from the constraints of commissions. In the Netherlands in 1954, he marveled at the traditional dress worn by the women and children of Volendam and Spakenburg. Three decades later, the vitality of New York drew him to that city.

The Old Market in Thessaloniki, 1992
“That day in Thessaloniki, I wanted to visit a market. I have always been curious and never tire of exploring unfamiliar markets wherever I travel. The local French Institute had proposed an exhibition of my work, and the woman who directed the cultural center suggested that I visit the city’s old market. I immediately took to the atmosphere of its little shops and tavernas. This was the covered market, with stalls serving nothing but Middle Eastern mezze and anise-flavored spirits. At the other end lay the open-air market, overflowing with fruit, vegetables, fish, meat, flowers, and spices. It was called Modiano Market, after a very old Jewish family from Salonica—the city’s original name.
“Glancing up, I noticed a sign: Chez Pettos. Well, why not give it a try? The moment I entered, the cheerful atmosphere made me eager to sit down and eat. Why not have lunch here? I thought. I checked the time, chose a table in the corner, and telephoned the director of the cultural center, asking her to join me. ‘Come quickly! The atmosphere here is wonderful!’ I told her it was the third little place after entering the market. I sounded as though I had discovered a new continent, and she found this very amusing.

“While I was still speaking to her, two musicians burst into the room, plunged into the crowd, and began playing their spirited tunes. I immediately picked up my camera, climbed onto my table, and pressed the shutter. Before long, the young people were singing and dancing among the tables and chairs. I can still remember the melody. It was a moment of perfect happiness.”

Nudes

In Paris, Rome, Djerba, and Gordes, Ronis photographed young women he happened to meet as well as professional models in the nude. For many years, these photographs remained little known and were almost never exhibited, with the exception of Provençal Nude. Ronis usually placed his female nudes in intimate settings and concealed their faces, bringing the contours of their bodies into perfect relief. It was not until 2008, when he was ninety-eight, that these works became the subject of a photobook.

After seeing Ronis’s exhibition, I could not help admiring the master’s abiding concern for and pursuit of a good life, or the delicacy with which he expressed it.

In our own photography, we often chase grand scenes and aspire to produce spectacular images. Yet Ronis shows us that photographing the people and events close at hand—and doing it well—is already an achievement of the highest order.

Beauty is in the everyday. Beauty is never far away…

Willy Ronis: A Photographic Journey — Exhibition Notes

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