Sophie Calle

Sophie Calle. The Address Book, 1983. 

Hardcover Reprint of Newspaper Series.

 

Sophie Calle. The Hotel, Room 29, 1981. Gelatin 

Silver Print and Text on Paper, 84.25 x 55.9 in.

The text reads:

Saturday February 28, 1981. 10:15a.m.

I go into room 29. The twin beds have been slept in. On the table, some leftovers in a plate, two glasses, a bottle of water, some Diana cigarette butts in the ashtray. It seems to me at first that the room has been emptied. Then I notice a pair of tennis shoes sticking out from under the wardrobe and a white cap with a Sergio label hanging on the coat rack. In the bathroom, two toothbrushes: a new one, red, still in its package, the other one yellow, in a blue plastic case, an Italian toothpaste, a big white sponge. Nothing else. I open the wardrobe. Inside I find a large closed suitcase, a handbag, a small suitcase, a plastic bag containing two pairs of slippers (size 36 and 41), two yellow sweaters and, lying on the suitcase, a small hardcover notebook with the inscription: “Ricoro de matrimonio” (Wedding souvenir). I leaf through it, very moved: C.S. born in Pisa in 1958 and F.C. born in Pisa in 1957 were married on February 26, 1981 at eleven o’clock in Cascionolla. My first couple on a honeymoon. In the handbag I find some cigarettes and a white handkerchief, in the small suitcase some toilet articles. And in the bigger suitcase, a large white towel, a white sheet, a pair of white panties, a white embroidered slip, a pair of black socks. I clean the room, make the bed. Lifting the sheets, I find their two pajamas, a white one with small red and blue flowers, the other in blue flannelette, and a long black hair.

Sunday March 1, 9:30 a.m. They have gone. I clean up the room.

 

Sophie Calle. The Hotel, Room 30, 1981. Gelatin 

Silver Print and Text on Paper, 84.25 x 55.9 in.

The text reads:

Wednesday March 4, 1981. 11:20a.m.
I go into room 30. Only one bed has been slept in, the one on the right. There is a small bag on the luggage stand. A beautifully ironed silk nightgown lies on the chair that has been pulled up near the bed: it clearly has never been worn. Everything else is still in the traveling bag. All I see there is men’s clothing: grey trousers, a grey striped shirt, a pair of socks, a toilet kit (razor, shaving cream, comb, aftershave lotion), a dog-eared photograph of a group of young people surrounding an older woman, a passport in the name of M.L., male sex, Italian nationality, born in 1946 in Rome, his place of residence, five foot seven, blue eyes. The bathroom is empty, so is the closet, but in the drawer of the night table I find: a box of Panter cigars, a fountain pen, airmail stationary, a leather box with the initials M.L. On a piece of paper is the address of a Mr. and Mrs. B. in Florence, a wallet with five identical photographs of a blond woman and a wedding photograph showing the man in the passport in a tuxedo and the blond woman in a wedding gown. There is also an old bill from the Hotel C., dated March 4,1979, in the name of Mr. and Mrs. L for the same room, number 30. Exactly two years ago, M.L. spent the night in the Hotel C. with his wife. He has come back alone. With the embroidered nightgown in his suitcase. His reservation was for last night only. He is leaving today. I’ll do the room later.

 

Sophie Calle. The Hotel, Room 44, 1981. Gelatin 

Silver Print and Text on Paper, 84.25 x 55.9 in.

The text reads:

Tuesday February 17, 1981. 10:00a.m.

I go into room 44. Just one unmade bed, on the left. On the luggage stand is a nylon traveling bag, locked with a padlock. In the bathroom, cosmetics, a bottle of J’ai une eau de toilette, black stockings, a pair of white panties which are drying. I think of the man who stayed in this room yesterday with the same sense of privacy, he who slept in the right-hand bed. Fleeting images of a missed encounter.

Wednesday 18. 10:20a.m.

She wears green pajamas; They’ve been left on the pillow. On the table, some Kleenex and a book: Terapia 80. She’s taken a bath. The room is still just as clean, empty: I spray myself with perfume, put on some of her make-up, clean the room, and leave.

Thursday 19. 1:00p.m.

The “Do not disturb” sign is still hanging from the door handle when I leave work.

Friday 20, Saturday 21, Sunday 22, Monday 23.

The same situation: impossible to go in.

Tuesday 24. 11:00a.m.

This time the two beds are unmade. On the left-hand pillow, the green pajamas. The person on the right sleeps without a pillow; in its place there is a mauve nightshirt with pink flowers, carefully folded. The mirror between the two sconces on the wall which faces the bed has been taken down. I find it in the wardrobe and put it back in its place. On the floor is a vase with flowers. The room has come to life. On the bedside table to the left, a stethoscope, a sphygmomanometer. On the right, a rosary and a bottle of mineral water. The bathroom is packed: curlers, bath cap, sanitary towels, creams, lotions…perfume, Jolie Madame by Balmain. In the wardrobe I find an electric blanket, dresses – almost all of them evening dresses, some clothes in imitation-leopardskin, a bright red nylon wig, a Venetian mask…

Wednesday 25. 11:15a.m.

The wilted roses are in the wastebasket and the mirror is still hanging on the wall. The night clothes are in their respective places: the green pajamas on the left, the mauve nightshirt on the right. Today, I dig around. In one suitcase I find English crackers, bandages, syringes. In the other, more crackers. And in a black handbag, a diary with only two addresses in Rome in the address section, under R and S, and for February 20, the words: “Amaretti, spogne” (cookies, sponge cake).

Thursday 26 and Friday 27:

“Do not disturb.”

Saturday 28. 11:30a.m.

I am short on time. I make the bed. Apparently nothing in the room has changed.

Sunday March 1. Noon.

Noon. They have left. The only traces of their stay: Nescafe and crackers in the wastebasket. There is the smell of smoke. The future occupants’ baggage has already been brought into the room.

Sophie Calle. The Hotel, Room 47, 1981. Gelatin 

Silver Print and Text on Paper, 84.25 x 55.9 in.

The text reads:

Sunday February 22, 1981. 10:00a.m.

I go into 47. All the beds are unmade: the double bed, the single bed, and the small fold-up bed. The first thing I notice are four pairs of slippers: two pairs for adults, two for children. There is French toast on the table, a balloon hanging from a handle on the chest of drawers. On the right-hand bedside table: a book on legal and fiscal research companies and some Marlboros in the drawer. On the left-hand one: a guide to French hotels and, in the drawer, some Tampax. At night, he wears light cotton green pajamas, and she, a blue flannelette nightie. There’s a suitcase on the floor. Inside it I find several plastic bags filled with medications and a book, Venise et ses tresors d’art. On the luggage stand, a second suitcase. It is full. I don’t go through it, I just look. I am already bored. In the wardrobe: two pairs of trousers, a mauve sweater, a mauve shirt, three pairs of Eminence briefs, red, black and pale blue. Only the bright-colored slippers cheer up the room. At the foot of the night table, a leather briefcase containing two Swiss passports (they are a married couple living in Geneva; I just note that she is of medium height with dark eyes and brown hair and he of medium height with blue eyes and brown hair), a sheet of paper with a few typed lines: “Amazing Venice. You dream of it all those years and then one day, you’re off to the City of Doges which you think you already know after all you’ve read and seen and heard. The most striking thing is probably the silence. No sound of cars, motorbikes or anything else. You can hear people talking in the street. There’s no dashing around. In fact, that is impossible here: no one can run through these narrow, winding streets, constantly cut off by stairways and bridges. In this city, you either walk or do nothing. It is therefore wise to bring comfortable shoes and a Confotil spray…” Further down, these handwritten words: “Glassware: not bad. Cemetery: fantastic. Gondola ride: worth it.”

Monday 23. 9:45a.m.

The bathroom is messier than yesterday. They took a bath. The towels are piled up in the bidet. The cigarette pack is unopened. The book on Venice, taken out of the suitcase, is now set on the bedside table. Next to it, I find four postcards written in French: views of the city. The first is addressed to Mr. and Mrs. D. in Geneva: “Greetings and warm regards. See you soon. The S. family.” The second to the G. Family in Barcelona: “Everything is very beautiful here. We send you warm regards. See you soon. The S. Family.” The third to the C. Family in Barcelona: “Dear all, Venice is very beautiful. Every corner is a little work of art. Tomorrow, God willing, we go to see the surrounding islands. Hugs. The S. Family.” Lastly, the fourth one, addressed to the Bs. in Geneva: “Everything is beautiful here but it would be even more so if we were enjoying it together as a family. See you soon. The S. Family.” In the wastebasket I find a postcard torn into eight pieces. It is of the same scene as the one addressed to the Bs. and is addressed to these same. Only the text is different. One could read: “Everything is beautiful here but it would be even more so if we were enjoying it with you. See you soon. The S. family.”

Tuesday 24. 10:30a.m.

They are going to leave. The suitcases are packed. They are set in front of the door. They leave behind the balloon, which is hanging limp, and stale biscuits.