Robert Doisneau
Je ne regrette rien

ROBERT DOISNEAU was born in 1912 in the Paris suburb of Gentilly. In 1926, encouraged by his parents, he went to the Ecole Estienne where he studied engraving, receiving his diploma in 1929. From the age of fourteen, however, he had been interested in photography. He did some advertising photography on leaving the engraving school and, in 1931, went to work for the sculptor André Vigneau as a photographer. He mastered the techniques of the medium during this period, taking both architectural and fashion pictures. At weekends he would take to the streets of Paris with an old, wooden 10 x 8 camera and tripod, capturing the magical moments of sweet humour for which he has become famous. In 1932 his first story, ‘The Flea Market’, was sold to Excelsior magazine.

From 1934 to 1939 he worked at the Renault car company, at Billancourt on the outskirts of Paris, as an industrial photographer - a job he did not enjoy. In the evenings, he would work in his laboratory perfecting a colour printing process he had invented. Luckily, he was fired by Renault for being consistently late. In 1939 he met Charles Rado, founder of Agence Rapho, which represented Brassai among others. It was the start of a lifelong relationship with this agency.

At the outbreak of war Doisneau joined the infantry, but illness led to his return to Paris where he spent the war years. His engraving skills were used to forge documents for the French Resistance. He continued to take reportage pictures, illustrated a book on French science and made postcards for the Army Museum. In 1945, he briefly joined the Alliance Photo press agency, but in the following year he rejoined Rado at the Agence Rapho. In 1949 and 1951 he worked for Vogue magazine (for financial reasons) taking fashion photographs. After that he contributed regularly to a variety of magazines, especially Life and Picture Post. In 1947 he was awarded the Prix Kodak and in 1956 the Prix Niépce. In 1973, Robert collaborated with François Porcile’s short film, Le Paris de Robert Doisneau. His one-man exhibitions included shows at the Museum of Modern Art, Chicago, in 1960; the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris, in 1968; at the George Eastman House, Rochester, New York, in 1972; the Witkin Gallery, New York in 1978; and the Musée d’Art Moderne, Paris, in 1979. Robert Doisneau’s last major exhibition in the UK was at the Museum of Modern Art in Oxford, 1992; which he attended shortly before his death in 1994. This retrospective placed his work conclusively in the annals of art history as: ‘a master of narrative and street photography… on the same level as Willy Ronis, Henri Cartier-Bresson and Boubat’ to quote dealer Michael Hoppen.




Studio of Robert Doisneau,
Paris 1983

When did your interest in photography begin?
When I was about fourteen. I had always looked at the people around me with a critical eye and wanted to capture them. At first I started to draw them, but the moment was soon gone and I had to draw from memory. So my thoughts started to turn to photography. Actually I was too shy to confront people face to face so I intended to use photography to record the environment rather than people. I started off in an engraving school. I never wanted to be an engraver, but my parents chose it for me as a profession, thinking that it would be a good, steady job. In those days photographers were rather looked down on. My family thought it would be a terrible profession to be in, always hanging around on street corners with layabouts! My aunt, whom the family considered to be rather posh, would introduce me as an engraver, never a photographer, long after I had given up engraving.

In 1934 I got a job as an industrial photographer with the Renault car company. I worked there for five years although I never really liked the job. I had to take pictures of all the machinery - lathes and milling machines. The only way I could do it was with a 24 x 18 camera and the equipment used to weigh about 20kg. I used to dream a lot of my time away, hoping that someone would come up to me and say, ‘Robert, there’s a man in the other room waiting for you’. And when I saw this man he’d say, ‘Doisneau, I’ve heard all about your colour prints. They’re supposed to be magnificent. I have my car outside. Come with me. I must see them immediately’. You see, I’d been experimenting with colour printing. It was my escape from factory life. I’d perfected a printing process which I’d work away at every night in my kitchen.

'I think I ‘see’ more than other people. When I feel that, it’s a comfort - but the feeling only comes from time to time'

Can you talk about that process?
I don’t see why not. I can’t imagine that Kodak will steal my secret formula now! I’d make a tri-colour separation of a subject and with the negative that I made I would isolate three gelatins previously tinted with primary colours and filled with bi-chromate. Then I’d peel off the gelatins in a warm mix of disinfectant and wood shavings before transferring them on to celluloid polished with paraffin and beeswax. I would then transfer the three pictures on to my final background and place them, very carefully, in order - yellow, red and then blue - making sure that they were perfectly lined up. The result gave a rather naïve version of how I imagine people with bad eyesight see the world!

Well, I thought my discovery would change everything - or at least it might secure my release from industrial photography. But life isn’t like that. Shattering innovations that change the course of one’s history don’t often happen. What changed me was a man from the manager’s office. He sacked me for being late! I was really excited to be back on the streets. So during the Second World War I became a photojournalist, taking photographs of people in the streets and bars of Paris.

What about artists? Were painters an influence?
Yes, bad painters! Not Picasso, not modern artists. I was very influenced by a painting of Lady Godiva - well, perhaps more by the subject matter than the actual painting! I remember the light was very theatrical and I liked that a lot then.

What made you take up photography rather than painting?
Well, when at last I rid myself of the etching studio I thought, ‘Now I’ll do exactly what artists have been doing for years’. You see, they’ve always been obsessed with ideas of accuracy. I thought that if I was going to imitate, then I might as well do it more accurately than any painter could - so I turned to the camera. I captured images as conscientiously as I could and that’s what I still do. Sometimes I think I ‘see’ more than other people. When I feel that, it’s a comfort - but the feeling only comes from time to time.

When did you lose your famous predisposition to shyness?
When I found I could hide behind my Rolleiflex. It was even better with the plate camera because I could put this black curtain over my head and I didn’t have to look at people directly. I use both a Nikon and a Pentax now, but I think they’re very aggressive cameras. With the Rolleiflex you seem to salute people. I’d use it all the time even today, but you only have one lens. In fact the Nikon 35mm has been a blessing to reportage photographers. When I first started to take photos, I’d put this great wooden 10 x 8 camera down on the pavement, screw it into the tripod, pull the black cloth over my head and feel totally secure in the knowledge that no one could see me. Of course it did not make me invisible - I just felt inconspicuous. One day, when I’d finished focusing, I came up for a breath of fresh air and there were all these characters standing around and staring at me. Not a good feeling for a shy man. One of them called me a fool. It was not a very good start to photography. Anyway despite that my determination was rock-hard - like cement - and most Sundays I could be found at the flea market in Paris beneath my black cloth. The results, I’m glad to say, were published by Excelsior magazine.

I’m very friendly with people. I like them very much'

As a shy man do you worry about the privacy of your subjects? Do you ask their permission before you photograph them?
No, but afterwards I write to them. I have long exchanges of letters. Last Sunday for instance I wrote fourteen such letters. After I’ve taken the photograph, I ask them for their address and we talk. I’m very friendly with people. I like them very much.

Have you done much commercial work?
Yes, I’ve done many things for advertising. I don’t like to, because it restricts my freedom. What I like is to roam around Paris all day long, to be free to walk. That’s the most important thing for me.

Do you shoot much film?
It’s very irregular. In the last four months I’ve shot twenty rolls of film - that’s all. I work a lot in my lab, printing. I love to print, but then I don’t have time to shoot.

Can we talk in detail about some of your most celebrated photographs? Let’s start with this one of the man in a bowler hat (Coco, Paris, 1952)
This picture is called Coco. I shot it in a bistro in La Belle Etoile in 1952. I used to go there almost every night, so that the people would get to know me. They were real down-and-outs. This man had been a soldier in the Foreign Legion. He would usually have a stuffed parrot with him whose name was Coco, so everybody called this man after his parrot. Coco used to think he was still a soldier and he’d play the drum on the table, just like a soldier. I shot that particular picture on a Rolleiflex. It was a strange world in that café, but a friend of mine knew it well, so it was not dangerous for me to go there.

And what about the muscle-man smoking, was he one of them? (Pinups, Paris, 1952)
The man lying on the bed was a docker, but in the evenings he’d work in the streets and in cabaret making a little money by sticking pins in his arms. He was ‘The Insensible Man’. I met him in a café. I had not known him for long - only four or five days - and he invited me back to his room because he thought I might be interested in the drawings on his wall that he thought were photographs. As soon as I saw them they reminded me of long-distance lorry drivers’ pin-ups, so I asked him to lie on the bed and I took this photograph. He became very possessive about me and when he introduced me to his friends he’d say, ‘This is Robert, my personal photographer’. Alas, I lost touch with him. This picture is the parody of the masculine man.

There is one is called Respectful Homage. There was a theatre in Montmartre, the Concert Maillol, and I would go to the matinée performances. The same people would sit in the first five rows day after day. Each day one chosen client would be invited to sit backstage and watch the show from the wings (Respectful Homage, Paris, 1952.)

This picture of Picasso was a pleasure to take. When I arrived at Villauris, Picasso was having lunch with his wife and we talked, but we didn’t shoot any pictures. I came back the next day having realised by then that Picasso had a great sense of the ridiculous. I went to a baker I knew, who made the bread rolls that are on the table. The baker used to call them Picasso’s hands. When people pointed out that they had only four fingers he’d say, ‘Of course, that’s why they’re called Picasso’s hands.’ So I bought the rolls and put them in front of Picasso and took the photograph. You know he loved to make jokes - we spent two days joking all the time. Picasso was the best model I ever had. Everyone coming close to him received some gold dust (Picasso and the Loaves, Villauris, 1952)

And Brothers? Was that difficult to shoot?
This is an old picture that I shot around 1932, when I first started to do reportage. I mainly photographed children because I felt very shy with adults. Children, on the other hand, thought it was fun to have their pictures taken. I waited for a few hours to get this picture. The two boys in the foreground, walking on their hands, were further up the road at first but I felt sure that they wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to show off in front of the other two boys. Sure enough they did just that. Actually it was rather easy to get this picture. All I needed was patience. (Brothers, Paris, c.1932.)

This picture - known as Sidelong Glance - is one of your best-known photographs. How did you set this up? (Regard Oblique, Paris, 1948)
In order to take this picture of the couple looking through the window, I hid the Rolleiflex in an old chair. It was very carefully concealed. I just waited for people to come by and photographed their reactions. At the time, that painting [of the nude] was considered to be in very bad taste - very crude. I shot the sequence of pictures for Life magazine at the Romi art gallery.


Robert Doisneau died on April 1, 1994, almost ten years after this conversation at his Paris atelier. Celebrated in France, it is rewarding and right that his fame has spread across the world, driven forward by the warm, humane qualities captured in his art that breached cultural and national boundaries to resonate with ordinary people everywhere. He would, in his modest way, have been pleased to see that Le baiser de l'hôtel de ville (Kiss by the Hotel de Ville) - perhaps his most famous image - sold for a record 155,000 euros at an auction in April 2005. The picture, of a couple kissing in a busy Paris street, was consigned by Françoise Bornet, the woman in the photograph. Bornet and her then boyfriend, Jacques Carteaud, had posed for the seemingly spontaneous snap in 1950. The amount of money would not have interested Doisneau - more the fact that Bornet had kept her photograph safe for more than 50 years and that its sale might be of some support in her old age. That’s the sort of man Robert Doisneau was…


PHOTOICON Magazine is grateful for the generous assistance of Annette Doisneau and Francine Deroudille (nee Doisneau) without whom this feature would not have been possible.