On November 29th,
1989, Philippe Billé wrote me a note (folded
into nine rectangles) about my Subtle Journal
of Raw Coinage (SJRC) and included a couple
of small simple collages, including one of a songbird
with the head of a fish. And this is how I came
to know Philippe, a man with a ravenous appetite
for information, an interest in perfect documentation,
and a broad interest in the world.
From
the beginning, I could tell that Philippe and
I had much in common. We were both collectors
interested in completing any series of acquisitions.
As I sent him my SJRCs (each issue of which included
undefined invented words, he sent me copies of
his Lettre documentaire (LD), which he
filled with all manner of different interesting
information. We cajoled each other for a copy
of the first issue of our respective series, because
we both wanted complete sets of each other’s
work and of each other. We were both family men,
who wrote about our children. We both had a keen
interest in language as a general concept, languages
and their variety, and literature in any language.
We both loved each other’s native tongues.
And, by 1992, when Philippe began library school,
we both shared that experience as well.
Looking
through my collection of our correspondence, I
am surprised that it is only a couple of centimeters
thick. For four years, we were fairly steady correspondents
(with occasional lapses caused by excess work),
and we enjoyed each other’s company. Philippe
was certainly my best friend in Europe, and an
almost-constant companion through the mail. Most
of all, he was a great friend: generous, helpful,
and kind. I learned much from him, especially
in his frequent issues of LD.
Lettre
documentaire was Philippe’s outlet
for his imagination. He used this simple zine
to freeze in time whatever was of interest to
him at a particular moment. The earliest issues
(beginning in late 1989) often made reference
to the Art Strike 1990-1993, but soon LD transformed
itself into a showcase for all kinds of art and
activities, particularly literary. Philippe filled
the pages of LD with an olla-podrida of scraps
of information. Sometimes, I saw LD as little
more than the mind of Philippe laid open for all
of us to admire. His interests were broad, eclectic,
and always entertaining. He had a particular interest
in documenting the work of others (even my work),
and some of his issues included particular responses
to simple questions of his. My favorite was the
sequence of issues in the second series of LD
that included lists of people’s ten “favorite”
books. There was huge variation in people’s
lists, but Joyces’ Ulysses showed
up on many people’s lists (though not on
mine—I included Finnegans Wake instead).
One
of the most valuable services Philippe provided
within the pages of LD were his translations of
the works of underground writers. He seemed to
love the challenge of translating almost untranslatable
works of literature. He might be unique in having
translated the humorous underground writing of
“Blaster” Al Ackerman’s into
French. I would have considered this feat of translation
Philippe’s most difficult if he hadn’t
also have translated—successfully!—John
M. Bennett’s poetry into French. At the
time, Bennett wrote a hard-edge, incantatory prose
that was decidedly American and exquisitely avant-garde
in its flavor. I could not have believed such
a translation possible until I read Philippe’s
translations. Once I read them, I sent him my
congratulations for a job well done. Philippe
also did me the honor of translating my favorite
of my own micro-essays into French. While working
on the translation of “Endwords,”
(an afterword I wrote to a small sequence of visual
poems, and a personal essay on my life-long interest
in the visual representation of language), I discovered
what a careful translator he was. He wrote me
with a number of questions, as he tried to clarify
exactly what I was saying in my sometimes overwrought
English. In this end, this translation became
an issue of LD and later appear in a French anthology
of North American visual poetry. Without Philippe,
no-one would have been interested enough in those
words to translate them into French. Philippe
also released an issue of LD that included translations
from my former column on praecisio (a figure of
speech in which someone makes a point by saying
nothing at all).
By
the time Philippe had introduced himself to me,
he had decided to take part in the Art Strike
1990-1993, but he also published and distributed
LD throughout this strike. He might not have seen
his work in LD as art—after all, he was
merely documenting the world through that publication.
But I always considered his Lettre documentaire
to be art. He created in LD a unique anthology
of thoughts, a certain spare visual style, and
a clear expression of his interests in the world.
LD was a particular kind of art that I have come
to call information art, an art that focused on
the information within it, rather than on the
visual or aural representation of it. In some
ways, I see information art as the purest of arts,
since the ultimate content of any art is information,
pieces of the world presented for our enjoyment
and interpretation.
What
Philippe has done for me is incalculable, and
this support from him appeared immediately in
our relationship. LD 13 was a reprinting the content
of the first thirty-two issues of SJRC, and that
issue immediately enhanced the exposure of that
small project of mine to an even greater public.
Philippe also worked hard to understand the deep
puns I used in English and the strange (and unidiomatic)
ways I would occasionally stretch the French language.
Philippe and I usually corresponded in English,
but he was the only one of my correspondents with
whom I could write macaronic paragraphs like this
one:
Est-ce
que vous voudrez me comprendre si yo escribo
en more than una lengua at once? J’aime
beaucoup les mots del mundo, y je like writing
in fier linguas or cinco. Um lingua e due languages
are three langues, a tongue for hommekind. Lire
sont lire en Italia; lire est lire in Frankreich.
Philippe
knew English quite well, studied Spanish in college,
and finished everything but his dissertation for
his doctorate in Portuguese (leading him to tell
me that he had “stayed half a doctor, just
a doc”). I was an American who learned French
while living in Morocco, practiced my Spanish
while living in Bolivia, and learned Portuguese
as a boy in Oporto, Portugal, so Philippe and
I were tied together by the languages that had
created us. I have to say, though, that Philippe’s
grasp of foreign languages was greater than my
own. He was a true polyglot, and it was his understanding
of various languages that made him the stitch
that held two sides of the Atlantic together.
He translated works from English, Spanish, and
Portuguese, from both sides of the Atlantic, and
many of these translations made it into the incomparable
little pages of LD. One of Philippe’s greatest
feats of translation was the smallest: he translated
my clumsy word pwoermd (the words poem
and word imbricated together to form the word
for a poem that is only one word in length) into
the elegant, and slightly archaic, poëmot.
Lettre
documentaire began as an A4 sheet of paper
folded into four pages, but on my son’s
third birthday in 1992, Philippe began his second
series of LD. He changed the format to a single-sided
A4 sheet (folded only to fit in an envelope).
Originally numbered with Roman numerals to distinguish
this series from the first, the second series
reverted to Arabic numerals with its 100th issue
(for, I assume, simplicity’s sake). Both
series exhibited Philippe’s interest in
documentation, his archivist’s eye for the
importance of dates, and his librarian’s
eye for the perfection of cataloging data. These
pieces of paper are beautiful documentation of
the world around (and within) Philippe, and I’ve
spent hours of my life reading through these wonderfully
idiosyncratic issues.
For
personal reasons, my favorite issue of LD is issue
XX from the new series. Published on December
31, 1992, and entitled “Verbier,”
this issue was a joint publication with my press
(dbqp), so it also carried the title The Subtle
Journal of Raw Coinage # 64. This issue included
366 undefined néomots by Philippe.
Originally, the issue included 365 neologisms
of his (one for each day of the new year), but
I suggested that he add poëmot to
the issue, so that he would have one word for
each day of the leap year that 1992 was. I typeset
the publication so that it fit on both an A4 sheet
and a cisatlantic sheet of letter-sized paper.
This issue joined Philippe and me together in
our joint interest in words, neologisms, language,
and micropublishing, and it is the one spot in
our careers where LD and SJRC are one. (This issue
of LD/SJRC included Philippe’s neologisms,
presqu and aujourd’hier, which I have joined
together into the title of this tribute to this
man of more than letters, this man of words.)
I
lost contact with Philippe sometime in 1994. In
October of 1993, my wife Nancy and I had purchased
a house and I began a new job that kept me on
the road for much of my time, and I found it impossible
to keep up my correspondence. My life was too
busy for art, and I let my correspondence with
even my dearest friends lag. I now wonder how
old Philippe’s son Samuel is now. Maybe
twenty. I wonder if I should contact him again
so we can finish the translation of my poems in
Paralipomena. I wrote the original English,
my brother translated the text into Portuguese,
I translated most of the Portuguese into Spanish,
and I had planned to have Philippe translate the
Spanish into French. Until I have the French,
I cannot finish the book, which has been sitting
unfinished for over a decade. But all of this
is my fault for being a poor correspondent, the
weak link in the chain of our friendship. Near
the end of our correspondence, after I had taken
too long to respond, Philippe sent me a note asking,
simply, “Still Alive?” Yes, but
no, would have been the right answer.
I
have lost contact with a great man and a great
mind, so I’ll need to rectify that. I do,
however, read (without telling him) his weblog,
Journal documentaire, but the last issue
of Lettre documentaire I own is number
158 (second series) from November 1995. And I
mailed my last letter to Philippe in June 1994,
so I’m sure I owe him a letter.
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April 2006 |