In one of Sophie Calle’s first artistic experiments, she invited twenty-seven friends, acquaintances, and strangers to sleep in her bed. She photographed them awake and asleep, secretly recording any private conversation once the door closed. She served each a meal and, if they agreed, subjected them to a questionnaire that probed their personal predilections, habits, and dreams. The following text is Calle’s narrative report of her fourth guest’s stay, and is the second in a series of four excerpts from the project to be published this week on the Daily. You can read the first installment here.
She’s my mother. I call her on the phone at 10:30 A.M. She agrees to replace Maggie X., who was supposed to arrive at ten but didn’t show up. She will sleep on Monday, April 2, from 12 P.M. to 5 P.M.
She arrives at noon. The bedroom is empty. She gets in the bed immediately. She’s naked. She doesn’t change the sheets, but she does remove the duvet cover as well as the bolster. She asks for a whiskey. She says, “If I had run a brothel, I would know interesting people—Arabs with oil wells.”
I propose that she answer a few questions.
What is her name? What is her age?
“My age? Let me think … Rachel Sindler, not quite forty-five years old.” She adds, “Make sure to write down the names and their spelling. As for their age, I know people who lie about it. Do you ask for ID?”
Can she give a brief description of her past?
“A spotless past, all honor, bravery, marriages, children, amusement, vacation, anxieties, reading, music, walks, beach, sand. That’s it.”
Is sleeping a waste of time or a source of pleasure for her?
“Sleep—pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.”
Does she consider herself a professional sleeper?
“More like a temp. I’m not a professional. I don’t sleep as much as I’d like.”
Does she follow a ritual before going to sleep?
“For a long time I wore a sleep mask. But it’s beginning to annoy me. I don’t wear it anymore. And I read the newspaper. It depends whether I go to sleep sober or inebriated. When I’m drunk, I crash. Sober, I read Le Monde. Before the end of Le Monde, it’s over, it’s done, I’m already asleep.”
Does the door need to be open or closed?
“I thought for a very long time that the door had to be closed, but now I’ve realized that it can be open.”
How would she describe her sleep?
“Light.”
Does she ever pee the bed?
“No, never. No, I have no memory of that.”
Does she have a difficult time waking up?
“Annoying, but not difficult.”
Does my presence, or being photographed, risk disturbing her sleep?
“Hard to say. No one has ever photographed me while I sleep.”
Does she ever disguise herself for sleep?
“No.”
Does she often sleep somewhere other than her own bed?
“Very rarely now.”
Is she disgusted by sleeping in sheets that have already been used?
“A little bit.”
Does she like to sleep alone?
“Yes.”
Does she have any contagious diseases?
“Uh? No … apart from syphilis, no.”
Does she bathe often?
“Ah, every day.”
Is she averse to certain smells?
“Sweat. Shit. Vomit.”
Does she masturbate? If so, at night or in the morning?
“Not right when I wake up, anyway. At night before going to sleep, but rarely.”
Does she have a fond memory of a particular night?
“No. There have been plenty of amazing nights, but one night specifically? Let’s say that the nights when I slept ten consecutive hours were fantastic.”
Does she remember her dreams?
“I never remember my dreams. Except, recently, a rather odd dream. I was on the pope’s balcony, St. Peter’s Basilica, and all the lovers I’ve had in my life were gathered on the square. And that caused a stir because best friends recognized each other. Strangers, men from completely different social backgrounds—they were all surprised to find themselves there together. They hadn’t suspected a thing. I’d been pretty sneaky. They were waiting for me to appear. I came out on the balcony and said, ‘I didn’t realize there were so many of you!’ And everyone applauded and whooped. Voilà.”
Can she tell me about a nightmare?
“I don’t know if it’s a nightmare. Falling from a cliff into the sea and descending to the bottom. I felt myself literally glide. Down to the bottom, bottom, bottom of the sea. Very anxiety-inducing and, at the same time, pretty incredible.”
What are her motives for agreeing to come sleep?
“Well, I don’t live far and I don’t have much going on.”
Has she ever participated in an experiment of this kind?
“No.”
Is she aware that this is a job?
“No.”
Does she have the impression that this is an artistic act?
“No.”
Does she imagine the person who will replace her?
“Yes, I imagine him as handsome, manly, with an enormous cock.”
How does she envisage their meeting?
“He opens the door. He sees me. He falls in love at first sight. He’s blown away.”
What reasons does she think I have for organizing this?
“Nutcase. A project that seems a priori a bit gratuitous, but which may lead to something else.”
Did she want to refuse?
“A bit.”
So why did she accept?
“I don’t live far and I don’t have much going on.”
What nice thing can I do for her?
“Buy me a pretty dress.”
I inform her that the questionnaire is over. She adds, “What did the others say?” I don’t answer.
She goes to sleep at 12:45 P.M. I photograph her regularly. She changes position often. At four thirty, I wake her up with a glass of champagne.
At five, the doorbell rings. It’s Gérard Maillet, who has arrived on time. We head to the bedroom immediately. We enter. Rachel Sindler is reading the newspaper. I tell her, “Your replacement is here.”
She gives him a very big smile.
Rachel: Hello, how are you?
Gérard: Good.
R: Ready for bed?
G: Yes, I’m ready.
R: Well, I’ll pack my bags then!
G: No need to rush.
R: Okay, I’ll get dressed. Give me two minutes. I hope you like Guerlain Shalimar.
We leave the bedroom. Rachel Sindler joins us almost immediately. They shake hands. I walk her to the door while he gets himself settled. She is clearly enchanted by her replacement: “So this is what we have to do to meet people …”
From The Sleepers, to be published Siglio Press in December. Translated from the French by Emma Ramadan.
Sophie Calle is an artist, writer, photographer, filmmaker, and performer whose work often makes use of Oulipian constraints. A retrospective of her work, Overshare, is currently on view at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
Emma Ramadan is an educator and literary translator from French. She was awarded the PEN Translation Prize for Abdellah Taïa’s A Country for Dying, and has also received the Albertine Prize, two NEA Fellowships, and a Fulbright. Her other translations include Anne Garréta’s Sphinx, Barbara Molinard’s Panics, and Marguerite Duras’s Me & Other Writing.
