Tag: Olivier Mathieu

Une dernière leçon de mon école
(ma vie en blond et châtain)

The new book of Olivier Mathieu “One last lesson of my school” with the cover illustration created by Max Stolzenberg has just arrived at our atelier.

The 38 pages of the book are about Venice, Florence, love and death, childhood memories, literature, philosophy, poetry, Roland Jaccard – and, of course, David Hamilton.

We have 20 copies out of 300 which are personally numbered and autographed by Olivier Mathieu and Max Stolzenberg
These 20 copies will be sold out in no time and there will be no second edition.

If you are interested in getting hold of one of these very rare examples with both signatures we ask you to get into contact with Bilitis.
The price for the book is 30 Euros. You can also visit our shop and buy the book online.

This little book sure is a must have collectors item for everyone who loves the times when live was sweet and less restricted than it is today.
We also chose a high quality binding and paper for this novel.

The following excerpt from the book will give you an impression of the beautifully elegant writing style of Olivier Mathieu.
The text is entirely written in French but for those of you who don’t speak the language we have added an English translation of the excerpt.

We are very sure that you will be pleased with this first ever artistic collaboration of Olivier Mathieu and Max Stolzenberg.

V

Ah! La première bouffée matinale d’air frais, au début du printemps,
dans une ville aimée! Pourtant le jeune homme que j’étais,
sautant sur le quai de Santa Lucia, n’était déjà plus celui qui était
monté dans un train, la veille, à Paris. Chaque syllabe que l’on a
prononcée, chaque caresse que l’on a esquissée, chaque voyage
que l’on a accompli ont été commencés lors d’un instant qui a
immédiatement été englouti par le passé. Ils ont été achevés à
un moment qui, tout pareillement, a basculé dans l’autrefois. Le
présent n’existe pas. Ou alors, seul le présent existe. Marly-le-Roi,
Berre-des-Alpes, Arromanches, Venise, Florence, les lieux qui ont
compté pour moi, n’ont guère pu s’incarner que dans mon désir
d’eux. Ils ne pourront plus exister que dans la nostalgie qu’ils
m’inspirent.
Il n’y a presque jamais eu d’éternité suspendue, entre le
passé disparu sans retour et l’inaccessible avenir. Pourtant, chaque
mercredi du mois de mars 1978, avant les boums de la MJC des
Grandes Terres, je faisais tourner sur mon électrophone Thorens
d’anciens 33 tours. Je suis peut-être encore là-bas, dans ma chambre
du 7 square des Aubades, épiant à travers les fentes de mes
volets l’arrivée de Véronique et Corinne.
Ah! Qui nous rendra les longs regards et les sourires timides
d’une écolière de quatorze ans à la voix fluette sous le ciel des
banlieues parigotes, mâchonnant peut-être sans malice un crayon,
bâclant ses devoirs à la table d’un café, cachée derrière la cascade
de ses cheveux qui se répandent sur son cahier? “Qu’est-ce que
tu étudies?” lui demandais-je. Elle levait vers moi ses grands yeux
brillants et purs et répondait: “Les sentiments”. Printemps de david-
hamiltonienne lumière…
J’écris pour moi seul; le souvenir que j’ai de la luminosité de
ce mois de mars marlychois, de l’odeur des pelouses gonflées par
la pluie, de mes états d’âme, voilà quelque chose de beaucoup
plus important, à mes yeux, que les ignominies qui ont passionné
les masses du vingtième siècle.

V

Ah! The first morning breath of fresh air in early spring,
in a beloved city! Yet as a young man as I was,
jumping on the Santa Lucia dock, was no longer the one who was
on a train the day before in Paris. Every syllable we have
pronounced, every caress we’ve sketched, every journey
that we have accomplished were started in a moment that has
immediately swallowed up in the past. They were completed in
a moment that, likewise, has shifted to the past. The
present does not exist. Or else, only the present exists. Marly the King,
Berre-des-Alpes, Arromanches, Venice, Florence, the places that have
counted for me, could only be incarnated in my desire
of them. They can only exist in the nostalgia they feel
inspire me.
There has almost never been a suspended eternity between the
past disappeared without return and the inaccessible future. However, each
Wednesday in March 1978, before the MJC booms of the
Grandes Terres, I used to play on my Thorens record player
old LPs. Maybe I’m still there, in my room.
of 7 square des Aubades, spying through the slots of my
the arrival of Véronique and Corinne.
Ah! Who will give us long glances and shy smiles
of a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl with a fluffy voice under the sky of
parigote suburbs, perhaps chewing a pencil without malice,
doing her homework at a coffee table, hiding behind the waterfall.
of her hair spilling out on her notebook? “What is it that
Are you studying?” I asked him. She looked up at me with her big eyes
brilliant and pure and replied: “Feelings”. Spring of david-
hamiltonian light….
I write for myself alone; the memory I have of the luminosity of
this March in Marlysh, the smell of the lawns swollen by
the rain, my moods, that’s something a lot
more important, in my opinion, than the ignominies that have fascinated
the masses of the twentieth century.