THE MIND-BLOWING STORY OF THE
SHEPARD
(And why you'll be licking your lips)
When I was young, my parents had dumped me at a childminder's in the back of beyond in Val-de-Marne, where I languished like a pool of stagnant water. It was in this atmosphere, somewhere between suffocating gloom and roughcast walls that made you want to scrape every inch of skin off your body, that I found ways to escape. At lunchtime, I'd go back to her place for lunch. Usually game meat.
A COWBOY NAMED SHEPARD
Halfway along my route, there was a stretch of wall that was always plastered with film posters. B-movies starring David Carradine or cheap knock-offs of Conan the Barbarian.
It was amid this chaotic jumble of images that the name Sam Shepard first caught my eye. He was starring in a film he'd written himself, whose alliterative title immediately grabbed my attention: Fool for Love.
An Altman film. Not Altman at his finest. Somewhere between his creative peak and his triumphant comeback with The Player. But still, an Altman!
Sam Shepard. A name that's almost alliterative in itself.
By 1985, he already had quite a career behind him, including a role in The Right Stuff, the greatest film ever made about the conquest of space. And Days of Heaven, Terrence Malick's finest film. Yes, that's how I am. I have strong opinions and don't waste time sitting on the fence.
And before all that, he'd lived another life on the Broadway stage, where he'd collected prestigious awards at a remarkably young age.
« The person I'd admired since I was 10 was in Paris. »
I rediscovered him when a friend suggested we go and see Paris, Texas at Le Arlequin cinema during a Wim Wenders retrospective. I was twenty.
We were practically alone in the cinema, so we took the opportunity to smoke a few cigarettes, utterly mesmerised by the film's stark, visually stunning beauty. When the lights came back on, after the final twang of Ry Cooder's guitar, the person sitting in the front row stood up and walked towards us.
And that's when I was overcome by an extraordinary wave of vertigo, as though my eyes were experiencing a dolly zoom straight out of Vertigo or Jaws. Because standing right in front of me was the actor from the film.
The man I'd admired since I was ten was in Paris and had taken the opportunity to watch his friend's film, in which he'd shone so brilliantly. Almost as brightly as my eyes did at the sight of his tall, lanky frame.
He invited us for a beer at the café just across the street. One beer turned into twelve.
He lit up our souls with stories of Broadway and Hollywood, and his burning desire to take on the scorched-earth approach of the industry's writers.
He was passionate, uncompromising in his convictions. He wanted to bring the system crashing down, trample it underfoot and build an entirely new one in its place.
« Even back then, I had no dreams of Hollywood or skateboarding down Sunset Boulevard, »
He was old enough to be my father, or even my great-uncle. But he was fascinating, and incredibly handsome.
And when my friend headed home and he suggested we go and empty the minibar in his shabby hotel near Odéon, I didn't have to think twice.
Naturally, after the first miniature bottle, we were already under the sheets.
Who cared if he thought I was easy? I simply saw myself as uncomplicated. Always ready to seize happiness wherever I could find it, sometimes between a man's legs. He started promising me roles in his upcoming films. I knew perfectly well it was just a drunken ploy, but I found it hilarious watching him put on such an elaborate performance for the sole purpose of getting me back into his bed.
Even back then, I wasn’t dreaming of Hollywood or skateboarding down Sunset Boulevard, but rather of thinking about the future of footwear, of never becoming the shoe’s weak point, in fact, quite the opposite. We spent four more days like that, glued to each other. Making each other empty promises. And that was fine; it was part of the romantic game. It did our bodies and our cells good, giving them height and lightness.
I accompanied him to the airport by bus. He found it hilarious to travel with the hoi polloi, and I enjoyed putting him in his place for the length of a Roissybus ride. We never crossed paths again, and I was very sad to hear of his passing. So when this superb model came to mind, it seemed entirely fitting to name it Shepard, in memory of this exceptional human being.
