Making Waves: French Feminisms and their Legacies, 1975-2015 1789620422, 9781789620429

Table of contents :
Contents
List of illustrations
Acknowledgements
Glossary
Timeline
Introduction: Making Waves • Margaret Atack, Alison S. Fell, Diana Holmes, Imogen Long
Part 1. Then: Second Wave Feminism in France
1 Before Les Femmes s’entêtent: The ‘Bermuda Triangle’ of French Feminism? • Siân Reynolds
2 1975: The Year of Women • Diana Holmes and Imogen Long
3 From Muse to Insoumuse: Delphine Seyrig, Vidéaste • Grace An
Part 2. Then and Now: Feminism and Public Arenas
4 Work–Family Reconciliation Policy in France: Challenging or Reinforcing the Gender Division of Domestic and Care Work since the 1970s? • Jan Windebank
5 Feminist Publishing in France 1975–2000: A Quest for Legitimacy • Fanny Mazzone
6 Parole(s) de Femmes: From Le Torchon brûle to Les Nouvelles News • Maggie Allison
7 Utopian Gaiety: French Lesbian Activism and the Politics of Pleasure (1974–2016) • Tamara Chaplin
8 ‘La femme du soldat inconnu’: Feminism and French lieux de mémoire • Alison S. Fell
9 A Mediterranean Bazaar: The Bazar du Genre Exhibition at the Musée des Civilisations de l’Europe et de la Méditerranée (MuCEM) in Marseille, 2013 • Bronwyn Winter
Part 3. Now: Reappraisals and New Agendas
10 Time to Laugh or to Cry? ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ after 40 Years • Mairéad Hanrahan
11 ‘Les hommes et les femmes, c’est vraiment pas pareil’ (‘Men and women just aren’t the same’): Nancy Huston’s Passions d’Annie Leclerc • Diana Holmes
12 Across the Waves: Benoîte Groult, Catel Muller and bande dessinée • Imogen Long
13 Voix Blanche? Annie Ernaux, French Feminisms and the Challenge of Intersectionality • Lyn Thomas
14 Third Wave Collective Manifestos: What do Feminists Still Want? • Michèle A. Schaal
Conclusion • Margaret Atack, Alison S. Fell, Diana Holmes, Imogen Long
Bibliography
Notes on Contributors
Index

Citation preview

Making Waves French Feminisms and Their Legacies 1975–2015

Contemporary French and Francophone Cultures, 66

Contemporary French and Francophone Cultures Series Editor CHARLES FORSDICK University of Liverpool

Editorial Board

TOM CONLEY Harvard University

JACQUELINE DUTTON University of Melbourne

MIREILLE ROSELLO University of Amsterdam

LYNN A. HIGGINS Dartmouth College

DEREK SCHILLING Johns Hopkins University

This series aims to provide a forum for new research on modern and contemporary French and francophone cultures and writing. The books published in Contemporary French and Francophone Cultures reflect a wide variety of critical practices and theoretical approaches, in harmony with the intellectual, cultural and social developments which have taken place over the past few decades. All manifestations of contemporary French and francophone culture and expression are considered, including literature, cinema, popular culture, theory. The volumes in the series will participate in the wider debate on key aspects of contemporary culture.

Recent titles in the series: 52 Jennifer Solheim, The Performance of Listening in Postcolonial Francophone Culture

59 Ari J.  Blatt and Edward J. Welch, France in Flux: Space, Territory, and Contemporary Culture

53 Sarah Wood and Catriona MacLeod, Locating Guyane

60 Nicholas Harrison, Our Civilizing Mission: The Lessons of Colonial Education

54 Adrian May, From Bataille to Badiou: Lignes, the preservation of Radical French Thought, 1987–2017 55 Charlotte Hammond, Entangled Otherness: Cross-gender Fabrications in the Francophone Caribbean 56 Julia Waters, The Mauritian Novel: Fictions of Belonging 57 Diana Holmes, Middlebrow Matters: Women’s reading and the literary canon in France since the Belle Époque 58 John Patrick Walsh, Migration and Refuge: An Eco-Archive of Haitian Literature, 1982–2017

61 Joshua Armstrong, Maps and Territories: Global Positioning in the Contemporary French Novel 62 Thomas Baldwin, Roland Barthes: The Proust Variations 63 Lucas Hollister, Beyond Return: Genre and Cultural Politics in Contemporary French Fiction 64 Naïma Hachad, Revisionary Narratives: Moroccan Women’s Auto/Biographical and Testimonial Actst 65 Emma Wilson, The Reclining Nude: Agnès Varda, Catherine Breillat, and Nan Goldin

M A RG A R ET ATAC K , A L I SON S . F E L L , DI A NA HOL M E S A N D I MO G E N LONG

Making Waves French Feminisms and Their Legacies 1975–2015 Making Waves

LIV ER POOL U NIV ERSIT Y PR ESS

First published 2019 by Liverpool University Press 4 Cambridge Street Liverpool L69 7ZU Copyright © 2019 Liverpool University Press The right of Margaret Atack, Alison S. Fell, Diana Holmes and Imogen Long to be identified as the editors of this book has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication data A British Library CIP record is available ISBN 978-1-78962-042-9 cased eISBN 978-1-78962-455-7

Typeset by Carnegie Book Production, Lancaster

Contents Contents

List of illustrations

viii

Acknowledgements

ix

Glossary

x

Timeline

xv

Introduction: Making Waves Margaret Atack, Alison S. Fell, Diana Holmes, Imogen Long

1

Part 1. Then: Second Wave Feminism in France 1 Before Les Femmes s’entêtent: The ‘Bermuda Triangle’ of French Feminism? Siân Reynolds

19

2 1975: The Year of Women Diana Holmes and Imogen Long

33

3 From Muse to Insoumuse: Delphine Seyrig, Vidéaste Grace An

51

Part 2. Then and Now: Feminism and Public Arenas 4 Work–Family Reconciliation Policy in France: Challenging or Reinforcing the Gender Division of Domestic and Care Work since the 1970s? Jan Windebank

73

vi

Making Waves

5 Feminist Publishing in France 1975–2000: A Quest for Legitimacy Fanny Mazzone

85

6 Parole(s) de Femmes: From Le Torchon brûle to Les Nouvelles News 101 Maggie Allison 7 Utopian Gaiety: French Lesbian Activism and the Politics of Pleasure (1974–2016) Tamara Chaplin

115

8 ‘La femme du soldat inconnu’: Feminism and French lieux de mémoire 129 Alison S. Fell 9 A Mediterranean Bazaar: The Bazar du Genre Exhibition at the Musée des Civilisations de l’Europe et de la Méditerranée (MuCEM) in Marseille, 2013 Bronwyn Winter

141

Part 3. Now: Reappraisals and New Agendas 10 Time to Laugh or to Cry? ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ after 40 Years Mairéad Hanrahan

157

11 ‘Les hommes et les femmes, c’est vraiment pas pareil’ (‘Men and women just aren’t the same’): Nancy Huston’s Passions d’Annie Leclerc 171 Diana Holmes 12 Across the Waves: Benoîte Groult, Catel Muller and bande dessinée 183 Imogen Long 13 Voix Blanche? Annie Ernaux, French Feminisms and the Challenge of Intersectionality Lyn Thomas

201

14 Third Wave Collective Manifestos: What do Feminists Still Want? Michèle A. Schaal

215

Contents

vii

Conclusion 229 Margaret Atack, Alison S. Fell, Diana Holmes, Imogen Long Bibliography 235 Notes on Contributors

257

Index

261

Illustrations Illustrations

Chapter 3 1 Maso et Miso vont en bateau 52 2, 3, 4 S.C.U.M Manifesto 58 5 Apostrophes 59 6, 7, 8 Maso et Miso vont en bateau 61 9, 10, 11, 12 Maso et Miso vont en bateau, the credits 62 13, 14, 15 The closing credits 63 16, 17 Inês 68 All images courtesy of the Centre Audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir. Chapter 9 1 Pilar Albarracín, Sans titre (Torera), 2009. Photograph used for the poster of the Au Bazar du Genre exhibition, MuCEM 2013 (chromogenic proof laminated on Dibond, 200 × 125 cm) 153 Courtesy of the Galerie GP & N Vallois, Paris. Chapter 12 1 Catel. Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult (Paris: Grasset, 2013), 15 2 Catel, Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult, 104 3 Catel, Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult, 318 Images courtesy of Catel and Grasset.

185 196 199

Acknowledgements Acknowledgements

The editors wish to record their thanks to the School of Languages, Cultures and Societies at the University of Leeds for its support for the 2015 Women in French conference, and most particularly to Becky Wilding in the School Office, who worked brilliantly to develop the conference website as well as identifying the splendid poster image. At Liverpool University Press we are grateful to Chloe Johnson and to Anthony Cond for their patience and constructive help. Last but not least the contributors, who have remained unfailingly committed to this project throughout the lengthy editing process; it has been great to work with every one of you. In the two volumes taking forward the work of the 2015 Women in French UK conference (for details, see pp. 5–6) the research focus and composition of each has been decided collectively by the editors, who then shared the work of implementing it. Atack wrote the Introduction and Conclusion to the first volume, Fell wrote the Introduction and Holmes the Conclusion to this volume. Amendments and final versions were then collectively decided. MA, ASF, DH, IL

Glossary Glossary

AMR Alliance Marxiste Révolutionnaire Trotskyist political movement founded in 1969 and dissolved in 1974. Archives du féminisme Feminist archive established at the University of Angers by historian Christine Bard. AVFT Association contre les violences faites aux femmes au travail Organisation founded in 1985 to support women who experience sexual discrimination, harassment or sexual violence at work. AFJ Association des femmes journalistes Organisation founded in 1981 with the support of Yvette Roudy. Its aims were to defend and promote the place of women in the media and defend the professional interests of female journalists. It was dissolved in 2014. La Barbe Feminist activist organisation founded in 2008, whose campaigning particularly targets the exclusion or under-representation of women in public and private institutions. BMD Bibliothèque Marguerite Durand Library specialising in women’s history and literature, rue Tolbiac, Paris. Centre audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir Feminist audiovisual archives founded in 1982. Le Cercle Elisabeth Dimitriev 1970s feminist movement founded in 1971 by Parisian women associated with the AMR. Les Chiennes de garde Feminist organisation founded on the basis of a manifesto launched by historian Florence Montreynaud in 1999, with the aim of defending women against public criticism and abuse on the basis of their sex.

Glossary

xi

Choisir (La Cause des Femmes) Organisation founded in 1971 by Gisèle Halimi and Simone de Beauvoir that fought for the legalisation of abortion. Collectif 8 Mars pour tout.e.s Feminist organisation active between 2012 and 2016 that organised protests in Paris on International Women’s Day. CGT Confédération Général du Travail Large general trade union in France. In the 1970s it supported the ‘Union of the Left’ (the alliance between the PCF, PS and PRG (Parti Radical de Gauche, left-wing political grouping). CNFF Conseil National des Femmes Françaises Association founded in 1905 to campaign for women’s rights and for improvements to women’s lives. Affiliated to the International Council of Women (ICW). Edition des femmes Publishing house specialising in women’s writing and feminist literature, founded in 1972 by Psych et Po. Encore féministes! An international network made up of signatories to a 2007 manifesto giving 20 ‘good reasons to still be a feminist’ that was launched by historian Florence Montreynaud. EELV Europe Écologie les Verts French green/ecology party that replaced Les Verts in 2010. Femen Feminist activist grouping founded in Ukraine in 2008 and now based in Paris. Femen became well known internationally for organising topless protests against what it saw as patriarchal institutions. FMA Féminin, Masculin Avenir (renamed Féminisme, Marxisme, Action) 1970s left-wing feminist organisation founded in 1967 by Jacqueline Feldman, Betty Felenbok and Anne Zelensky. It held a large meeting in May 1968 in the Sorbonne attended by both men and women, and then became a woman-only organisation and changed its name in 1970. Les Féministes en mouvement Umbrella organisation founded in 2011 made up of 45 French feminist organisations. FLR Front des lesbiennes radicales 1980s radical lesbian feminist organisation.

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Georgette Sand French feminist collective founded in 2015 in response to the absence of women from French history books and syllabuses. Gouines Rouges 1970s French radical lesbian feminist group (founded in 1971). Les Insoumuses Feminist film collective founded in 1975 by Carole Roussopoulos, Delphine Seyrig, Iona Wieder and Nadja Ringart. Laboratoire d’Egalité Organisation created in 2010 with the aim of campaigning for more equitable division of civic, economic and familial responsibilities between men and women. LDF Ligue du Droit des femmes Founded in 1974 by Simone de Beauvoir to fight against violence perpetrated against women. In 1975 they set up a rape/sexual violence crisis centre, SOS Femmes-Alternative. LFDF Ligue Française des Droits des Femmes Women’s rights organisation active in France from 1882 until the Second World War; founded by Maria Deraismes. Mix-Cité Mixed movement founded in 1997 that campaigns for the equality of the sexes and sexualities. La Meute Feminist network founded in 2001 to campaign against sexist advertising and marketing. MDF Mouvement Démocratique Féminin 1960s and 1970s women’s political association grouping women from the non-communist left, led from 1962 by Marie-Thérèse Eyquem. MFPF Mouvement français pour le planning familial French family planning organisation, founded in 1960 to fight for legalised contraception and abortion. MLAC Mouvement pour la Liberté de l’Avortement et de la Contraception 1970s organisation that campaigned for the legalisation and free availability of abortion and contraception. Founded in April 1973 by radical members of MFPF. MLF Mouvement de Libération des Femmes Name given to the second-wave feminist movement in France that developed from 1967 onwards, and which was given impetus by both the events of May 1968 and the US women’s movement.

Glossary

xiii

Mouvement Jeunes Femmes Protestant feminist organisation founded in 1946. MRP Mouvement Républicain Populaire Christian democratic political party founded during the Fourth Republic. Disbanded in 1967. Ni Putes Ni Soumises French feminist movement founded in 2002 that campaigns against violence targeting women, including domestic violence and gang-rapes, as well as social pressures. The organisation was given added impetus in 2003 by a gang-rape and murder case in the Parisian banlieues, in response to which the organisation organised a series of marches across France. Osez le féminisme! Feminist organisation founded in 2009, initially in response to proposed reforms to the Bachelot reform that planned to cut family planning services. PCF Parti communiste français French Communist Party. PRG Parti Radical de Gauche Left-wing political grouping founded in 1972. Merged with the Parti Radical in 2017. PS Parti Socialiste French Socialist Party. Les Pénélopes Feminist press agency. Les Pétroleuses 1970s feminist organisation belonging to the ‘lutte des classes’ tendency, which produced a journal of the same name. Psychanalyse et Politique (often abbreviated to Psych et Po) A strand of French feminism associated with Antoinette Fouque and others that developed in the early 1970s and was influenced by psychoanalytic theory. In 1979, having registered an ‘Association MLF’, they controversially claimed the initials ‘MLF’ as a marque déposée (official and exclusive trademark). Questions féministes French feminist journal published from 1977 to 1980; debates around the question of heterosexuality led to its demise. A new (and ongoing) version of the journal, Nouvelles questions féministes, was launched in 1981. Les Sciences Potiches se Rebellent Feminist organisation founded at Sciences Po in 1995.

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Making Waves

Tendance Lutte des Classes Name given to left-wing French feminist organisations which were often associated with other left-wing political movements in the 1960s and 1970s. UDR Union des Démocrates pour la République Gaullist political party to which Giscard d’Estaing belonged. Dissolved in 1976. UFCS Union Féminine Civique et Sociale Catholic feminist organisation founded in 1925 by Andrée Butillard. Merged in 2008 with the organisation Familles Rurales. UFF Union des Femmes Françaises (renamed Femmes solidaires in 1998) Feminist organisation attached to the French communist party, formed in 1944 and initially made up of women active in the Resistance. UNAF Union Nationale des Associations Familiales Organisation founded in 1945 that aims to promote and defend the ‘interests of the French family’. UMP Union pour un Mouvement Populaire Centre right political party. Renamed Les Républicains (LR) in 2015. UNEF Union Nationale des Étudiants Français French national union of students. VIDÉA 1970s feminist film collective founded in 1974 by Anne-Marie Faure, Isabelle Fraisse, Syn Guerin and Catherine Lahourcade.

Timeline Timeline

Date 1944 (21 April)

Event Women obtained the right to vote and to stand for election. They exercised the right to vote in the legislative elections the following year, when 33 women were elected ‘députés’ (MPs) (out of a total of 586). 1967 Passing of the Loi Neuwirth, which legalised (19 December) contraception. May 1968 Volatile period of civil unrest in France, marked by student protests, mass strikes and the flourishing of new artistic and political groupings and social movements which challenged traditional social and sexual mores and cultures. 1970 (21 May) The first public women-only meeting on the Vincennes campus of the Sorbonne. 1970 (26 August) Attempt by a group of feminist activists to lay wreaths on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier at the Arc de Triomphe with the slogan ‘Il y a plus inconnu que le soldat inconnu. Sa femme’ (There is something more unknown than the unknown soldier: his wife) 1971 (5 April) ‘Manifeste des 343’ A manifesto of 343 women who admitted having undergone illegal abortions that appeared in the Le Nouvel Observateur. Dubbed ‘Manifeste des 343 salopes’ by Charlie Hebdo. The text of the manifesto was written by Simone de Beauvoir and included a number of well-known women as signatories.

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Making Waves

Date Event 1972 (November) Bobigny case. A legal case supported by the organisation Choisir in which Gisèle Halimi defended a 16-year-old who had had an illegal abortion with the complicity of her mother. Simone de Beauvoir was one of a number of public figures who gave evidence at her trial, and it is credited with helping to change public opinion. 1974 (April) Françoise Giroud received an invitation from Giscard d’Estaing to serve as Sécretaire d’état à la condition feminine (Secretary of State for women’s condition). 1974 (27 May) Valéry Giscard d’Estaing elected president. 1974 (28 May) Simone Veil appointed minister of health, a post she held for five years. 1975 Designated ‘International Women’s Year’ by the UN. In France, three ‘Women’s Days’ took place at the Palais des congrès, 1–3 March. 1975 (17 January) Passing of the Loi Veil, which legalised abortion. 1975 Publication of Les Femmes s’entêtent by Gallimard, after appearing first in Les Temps modernes in 1974. 1975 (10 March) 3,000 feminist protesters marched in Paris from the Bastille to the Place d’Italie. 1975 (2 June) Prostitutes occupied the Saint-Nizier church, Lyon, to protest against the tabling of a bill to recriminalise passive solicitation in the French penal code. 1975 (24 October) National strike of women in Iceland, which was influential on the international women’s movement. 1982 Founding of the Centre audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir. 1986 Yvette Roudy took office in the newly designated Ministère des droits de la femme under the Mitterrand administration. She had been a ministre délégué in 1981.

Timeline xvii

Date 1986 (29 December)

Event Paid parental leave benefit (the ‘Allocation Parentale d’ Education’) (APE) was introduced for the first time. Unpaid parental leave had existed in France since 1977 first for mothers and then from 1983 for parents of children under three. 1989 ‘Affaire du foulard’ (Islamic scarf controversy). On 18 September 1989 three schoolgirls were suspended for wearing headscarfs, which provoked a debate around the question of ‘laïcité’ (secularism) in French state schools. Lionel Jospin’s statement as minister for education, in December, was that it should be decided on a case by case basis. 1991 (15 May) Edith Cresson appointed first female prime minister. 2000 (6 June) ‘Loi parité’. Law aiming to increase and facilitate the access of women to public office by requiring political parties to present equal numbers of men and women in their lists of electoral candidates. 2002 (1 January) Under the impetus of a European directive, two weeks’ statutory paternity leave was introduced in France. 2004 (15 March) In 1994, the ‘François Bayrou’ memo had differentiated between ‘discreet’ and ‘ostentatious’ religious symbols (such as the hijab). The 2004 law under Jacques Chirac’s presidency forbade the wearing of ‘ostentatious’ religious symbols in public places, including schools and colleges. 2004 Founding of the Prix Artémisia, which awards a prize every year to a female-authored graphic novel/ cartoon. 2012 President François Hollande created a Ministère des Droits des Femmes (Ministry for the Rights of Women). 2015 (1 January) Parental leave benefit was renamed the ‘Prestation partagée d’éducation de l’enfant’ (PreParE) and introduced six months’ leave for one parent with a further six months’ paid leave for the other parent.

xviii Making Waves Date 2016 (summer)

Event Around 30 mayors of French coastal resorts ban the ‘burkini’ (Islamic bathing suits). The ban is overturned by the French courts. 2017 (21 January) Anti-Trump Women’s Marches took place in Paris, Marseille, Strasbourg, Bordeaux and Montpellier. 2017 (October) #MeToo and #BalanceTonPorc social media campaigns against sexual harassment and sexual violence against women. 2018 (January) 100 French women including Catherine Deneuve and Catherine Millet publish a ‘tribune’ in Le Monde criticising the #MeToo campaigns, which itself provokes further debate in the French media.

Introduction Making Waves Margaret Atack, Alison S. Fell, Diana Holmes, Imogen Long Introduction: Making Waves

In the late 1980s and 1990s it was commonplace to announce the death of feminism as a social movement. A 1989 special journal issue in France was entitled: ‘Le féminisme … ringard?’ (‘Is feminism … passé?)1 (BIEF, 1989). In the UK Vicki Coppock, Deena Haydon and Ingrid Richter argued in 1995 that: ‘Post-feminism happened without warning. It seemed to arrive from nowhere. One minute there were feminisms, identified by their diverse political standpoints, and their contrasting campaign strategies, the next … it was all over’ (Coppock et al., 1995, 3). Thirty years later such pronouncements seem premature. The past few years have seen a resurgence of feminist debate and protest that echoes that of earlier decades. It is a particularly apt moment, then, to examine past and current feminist activists who have been ‘making waves’ in French society. The waves metaphor remains, moreover, the dominant conceptual framework with which to talk about the development of feminist thought 1 Our translation policy in this volume has been to keep the original French, with accompanying English translation where necessary, when it was important to the nature of the argument being made, or when it was difficult to prevent a degree of translation loss because of the cultural or political specificity of the language. In other cases, French quotations have been translated into English by the authors or editors.

2

Making Waves

in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Neeru Tandon’s summary of the waves of international feminist movements echoes many similar overviews: Feminism, as a whole, came in three waves, each dealing with different aspects of the same issue; the first wave being the feminism movement in the nineteenth to early twentieth centuries, which dealt mainly with the Suffrage movement; the second wave (1960s–1980s) with the inequalities of laws, as well as unofficial inequalities. The third wave of feminism (1990s–current) arose from the perceived failures of the second wave. (Tandon, 2008, 1)

In the histories of feminism published in the last 30 years or so, ‘first wave’, ‘second wave’ and (with less consensus) ‘third wave’ are the principal terms used to describe discrete periods of the development of feminism in France as well as in the US and UK. Historian Christine Bard, for example, recently published two volumes focusing on nineteenthand twentieth-century French feminism entitled Les Féministes de la première vague (First wave feminists) (2016) and Les Féministes de la deuxième vague (Second wave feminists) (2012). Using the wave metaphor to trace the history of the women’s movement in this way can suggest that any developments or shifts occur only in dramatic and revolutionary upsurges of activism, sweeping away all that came before them. This sense of revolution, of starting afresh, was certainly present in 1970s French feminist writings and activism, which are the focus of this volume of essays. ‘Libération des femmes – année zéro’ (‘Women’s liberation – year zero’) ran the title of the women-only special issue of Partisans (1970); ‘Nous qui sommes sans passé, les femmes’ (‘We who have no past, women’) went the words of the MLF anthem, sung in chorus on marches. There was an exhilarating truth in the feeling of being utterly new, of overturning a whole culture in which male dominance was simply taken for granted and women suffered its stifling, often violent consequences. Yet historical events, of course, never materialise from nowhere and – as feminists soon recognised – the MLF was shaped and made possible by a plethora of preceding struggles, cultural and intellectual currents, political and economic circumstances. As Thierry Delessert points out in his review of Bard’s volume on first wave feminism, the ‘waves’ of feminism in France should not therefore be viewed as ‘phases that are resolutely at odds with each other’ (Delessert, 2017). Equally, ‘third wave’ feminist thought, writings and activism that have emerged in more recent decades often

Introduction: Making Waves

3

take up again themes, debates and positions raised during the first two waves – sometimes with a critical eye, pointing out contradictions and blind spots, and sometimes with the aim of paying homage to previous generations who have paved the way for the contemporary French women’s movement. Several scholars have recognised that the waves metaphor has its limitations as a vehicle for tracing and understanding the feminist movements of the past and present. Joan Wallach Scott argues against a teleological history of French feminism as a long march to progress or a simple divide between ‘equality’ and ‘difference’ feminism. For Scott, the more fundamental issue at stake in a consideration of post-1789 French feminism is the omnipresence of the notion of universalism, a foundation stone of Republicanism, which assumes a male subject (Scott, 1997). Claire Duchen’s 1994 pioneering history of second wave French feminism, which begins in the 1940s, and Sylvie Chaperon’s Les Années Beauvoir (2000) also suggest that a more nuanced understanding of the relationships between different generations of women and periods of activism is necessary to fully appreciate the development of the women’s movement in France. Other historians have debated the usefulness of the waves metaphor in relation to the history of US feminism in ways that are relevant to the French context. They argue, firstly, that dividing the history of the women’s movement into two or three waves ‘washes away’ other historical periods from the story. As Nancy Hewitt writes, ‘the decades excluded from the waves – before 1848 or from 1920 to 1960 – are assumed to be feminist-free zones’ (Hewitt, 2010, 2–4). On closer inspection, as several researchers have shown, feminism did not disappear during these decades, even if certain historical moments demanded strategies that were more mainstream and institutionalised, especially at times of conservatism and backlash. This was arguably the case in France, for example, in the wake of the First and Second World Wars. Secondly, historians have suggested that the waves metaphor over-insists on a vision of generations of feminists at odds with one another, especially in relation to second wave feminism. They argue that highlighting the 1960s–1970s as the moment of the ‘birth’ of modern feminism over-privileges a generation of young, largely white and educated women, which not only sidelines the roles of other activists (such as non-white and working-class feminists) but also leads to the stereotyping of these women’s mothers’ generation of the 1940s and 1950s as ‘docile and unhappy housewives blind to the truth their daughters would discover’ (Laughlin et al., 2010, 88).

4

Making Waves

Despite these hesitations, however, other feminist historians have suggested that a revised version of the waves metaphor remains a useful and powerful tool for feminist scholarship. Rather than presenting feminist activism of the past as an inert object to be studied, the idea of a wave foregrounds the idea of forward movement, while at the same time suggesting a continuing and active relationship between past, present and future. Thus, Leila J. Rupp and Verta Taylor suggest retaining it ‘as long as we understand that the lulls between the waves are still moving, that, from a transnational perspective, there may be choppy seas rather than even swells, and that waves do not rise and crash independently of each other’ (Rupp and Taylor, 2005, ix). Some scholars have looked to the science of ocean waves to find ways of adapting the metaphor in order to allow for this more nuanced picture of historical change: The homogenous, univocal wave does not exist in nature. Up close, the ocean is full of cross-currents and eddies. Up close, it is hard to separate one wave from another, to see where one begins and another ends. Waves overlap, their currents mostly submerged, one spilling into another. They are continuous and multiple. (Laughlin et al., 2010, 87)

This approach allows us to account for interconnections and crossfertilisations between the diverse currents and movements that have sprung up across the decades, as well as finding differences and discontinuities. In France, feminist writings and activism have varied in their approaches and conclusions not only across time but also within the same historical periods. While the waves metaphor tends to prioritise revolutionary ideas and a desire for radical change – which chimes particularly well with the diverse protest movements stimulated by May 1968 – it remains important to acknowledge that during the 1970s the groupings of activists that became known as the MLF were not the only ones who were campaigning for improved rights and roles for French women. There were different currents of feminism in the 1970s, as in any other decade: some more radical, others more modest or socially conservative in their aims (Long, 2013). Alongside the women who formed the core of the MLF were other women (and men) who were attempting to bring about change to women’s lives, and who were doing so from different perspectives and with different agendas. That said, although this book will contest the view that the second wave in France sprang from nowhere, and will foreground ‘cross currents and eddies’ in the story of feminist activism in France, it is the case that in the wake of May 1968 women began to meet, organise and demonstrate

Introduction: Making Waves

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in new ways in a radical bid to expose and challenge the male supremacy that governed all aspects of society and culture. The first secretary of state for ‘women’s condition’, Françoise Giroud, gave women’s issues a very public profile; a new feminist press, publishing houses and bookshops provided a public voice. The year 1975 saw the publication, coordinated and prefaced by Simone de Beauvoir, of the pioneering Les Femmes s’entêtent, an exhilarating text by anonymous voices that showcased a dazzling range of new perspectives and new kinds of writing. It was the year of a great outburst of feminist creativity, contestation and resistance, including films by Chantal Akerman and the feminist collective Les Insoumuses, texts that would become feminist classics, nationally and internationally, such as Marie Cardinal’s Les Mots pour le dire (The Words to Say It), Hélène Cixous and Catherine Clément’s La Jeune Née (The Newly Born Woman), Cixous’s ‘Le Rire de la méduse’ (‘The Laugh of the Medusa’) and Christine Delphy’s contrasting ‘Pour un féminisme matérialiste’ (‘For a materialist feminism’). In 2015 we organised the biennial conference of the feminist network Women in French UK, taking as our theme the occasion of the fortieth anniversary of 1975, a crucial year for feminism in France, in order to reassess some of these key developments and texts from the perspective of twenty-first-century agendas, social, political and cultural. The stimulus for the participants’ reflections was Les Femmes s’entêtent, which was not only a landmark collective text of 1970s French feminism but also a bestseller, having sold 30,000 copies (Kandel, 2008, 118). The 50 papers approached the conference from a range of disciplinary positions: history, cultural studies, literary studies, art and film history and feminist theory. Three central themes emerged: the struggle for women to control their bodies and freely express their sexuality and sexual desires; the demands by women to gain entry to public space and to create women-only spaces; and language, whether in relation to women’s access to journalism and publishing or to feminist writers’ experimentations with language to express both anger and creativity. Some speakers offered new interpretations of 1970s French feminisms; others considered the place of the 1970s within longer trajectories of the French women’s movement or examined the evolutions of key figures such as Hélène Cixous, Benoîte Groult and Delphine Seyrig; and others considered the impact of third wave feminist concerns, such as queer theory and intersectionality, on our understanding of the themes and questions raised in Les Femmes s’entêtent. This book contributes to current debates around the interconnections and interruptions between

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the different waves of French feminism, reconsidering 1970s second wave feminism through the lens of the past and the present, and vice versa. Some of the themes we touch on, such as intersectionality, open up wider avenues of debate, such as the validity of the terms ‘feminism’ or ‘women’s movement’ in relation to contemporary debates around queer and trans identities. However, intersectionality is approached in this volume more specifically in relation to the development of debates within French feminism in the last four decades. Equally, although we turn to the US, for example, as a comparative case study from time to time, as American feminist thought and activism remained an important touchstone for French feminists throughout the period, our objective was not to carry out a sustained transnational approach to the history of feminisms. Similarly, although race is a focus of some of the contributors’ analyses, as in Chapter 13, the majority of chapters focus on metropolitan French perspectives, reflecting the roots of the 1970s French women’s movement. This is the second volume to be published: the first, French Feminisms, 1975 and After (Atack et al., 2018) focuses on the pioneering nature of the imaginative writing – fictional, theatrical, generically hybrid – and its theoretical, political and cultural agendas that emerged from 1970s feminism, and explores its subsequent trajectory and legacies over the intervening four decades. The present volume addresses feminism as activism in the broad, polyvalent sense of the word, which characterised second wave feminism and continues to inspire current incarnations of the women’s movement. Feminism interweaves and renders inseparable the political, the cultural and the personal. In this book, then, we envisage the feminist movement in the conventional terms of political campaigning and the achievement (or not) of political and legal reforms that affect women’s lives (and those of men), but also as the appropriation of ‘masculine’ spaces, both material (reclaiming the street, setting up women’s refuges, cafes, libraries, bookshops, exhibitions and sites of national memory) and symbolic (the press, media, publishing, language itself). This volume deals with second wave feminism’s challenge to the law and social structures and to the cultural field, exploring the agendas and achievements of that period and how these have shaped and in turn been modified by more recent feminist thinking and priorities. To do so, it re-examines the feminism that preceded May 1968 and asks how the second wave’s various legacies have been pursued in French and Francophone writing, film and society, evaluating the strengths and limitations of these approaches as new questions and new conjunctures

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have come into play. How have theoretical and empirical developments in queer studies, transgender studies, postcolonial studies and postmodernist philosophies extended, inflected and challenged feminist work? ‘Protesting against sexism’, Beauvoir concluded her preface to Les Femmes s’entêtent, ‘will destroy some of the ties that bind us, and will open up new truths’ (Beauvoir, 1975, 13). Over 40 years on, what are these ‘new truths’? #MeToo/#BalanceTonPorc The re-evaluation of 1970s French feminism undertaken by the 14 chapters in this volume comes at a moment in which feminist issues have once again been the subject of intense public scrutiny and media debate in France and further afield. In the weeks following multiple allegations of sexual assault and harassment against the Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein in October 2017, there was an explosion of both compassion and anger as women around the world publicly recounted their experiences of sexual harassment and abuse, particularly on social media, where the hashtag #MeToo went viral. The campaign was taken up expressly by men and women in the US film industry, who openly demonstrated their support at awards ceremonies. In France, the hashtag #BalanceTonPorc (‘call out your pig’)2 was similarly coined to report sexual violence and sexual harassment, and was given further momentum on 29 October by several demonstrations that took place across France, including a protest of around 2,500 people in Paris. It has been suggested that the French campaign directly led to a significant increase in the reporting of sexual assault (there were over 30 per cent more reports in the final quarter of 2017) (Dupont, 2018). However, these social media campaigns faced a certain amount of criticism in both the US and France, with accusations of a witch hunt, a lack of due process to protect men who were being named online and an over-simplification of the complexities of desire and of sexual relationships between the sexes. This latter point was particularly emphasised in France, where the ensuing debate exposes in interesting ways some of the schisms and differences of opinion among women, 2 ‘Balancer’ was a controversial term because it suggests both ‘to chuck out’ and ‘to grass up’, or to denounce to the police, which some felt was tantamount to inciting a public witch-hunt.

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including women who declare themselves to be feminists. On 9 January 2018 100 French female writers, performers and academics, who included among their number high-profile celebrities such as actor Catherine Deneuve and Catherine Millet, author of the confessional and sexually explicit 2001 novel La Vie sexuelle de Catherine M. (The sexual life of Catherine M.), denounced the social media campaigns in a ‘tribune’ (‘open letter’ or ‘op ed’) published in Le Monde. Their attack centred on the notion of (Anglo-American) ‘puritanism’, rejecting what they claimed was a brand of man-hating feminism that turned women into victims rather than viewing them as individuals with sexual desires: It is typical of puritanism to borrow, in the name of the so-called general good, arguments about protecting and liberating women in order to fix women’s status as eternal victims, as poor defenceless things caught in the grip of evil phallocrats, as in the good old days of witchcraft. (Collectif de 100 femmes, 2018)

In turn, other French women denounced this stance, declared their support for the campaigns and attacked Catherine Deneuve in particular. Le Monde itself published a range of responses that offer a good overview of the debate. Many attacks on the 9 January ‘tribune’ came from women of a younger generation than Deneuve and Millet. The response published in Le Monde by French Canadian feminist author and broadcaster Léa Clermont-Dion, for example, argued that what she saw as the ‘misguided’ letter denouncing the #MeToo and #BalanceTonPorc campaigns as puritanical revealed the gaps between second wave and third wave feminists and trivialised sexual violence against women (Clermont-Dion, 2018). In Libération, the feminist action group ‘La Barbe’ offered a humorous and mocking riposte, aping eighteenth-century Enlightenment discourse in order to ridicule any objections to French women’s attempts to resist and change the prevailing culture: ‘Hunting women is an inalienable right of man. It is even the keystone of the noble patriarchal edifice, which positions each and every one of us in our proper place in the natural order, and which has, for centuries, allowed harmony between the sexes to reign’ (La Barbe, 2018). Clermont-Dion and La Barbe present the signatories of the Le Monde ‘tribune’ as being out of step with the current generation, as harking back to an anti-feminist past and as refusing to acknowledge the prevalence of sexual violence against women today. Anastasia Colosimo, a political commentator who teaches at Sciences Po in Paris, also viewed the debate as being one of generations at odds with each

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other. She claimed that the ‘tribune’ revealed the enduring influence in France of the 1960s generation, steeped in the free-wheeling ethos of the time: A key aspect of the struggle of the 1960s was the need to remove any guilt attached to feminine sexuality […] Women openly said they had the same craving for sex as men. […] They accept the need to fight rape and workplace harassment. But in their view activists who put such dangers at the heart of the modern feminist struggle promote a view of women as victims and helpless objects of male desire rather than free agents. (Astier, 2018)

The BBC article in which Colosimo was quoted thereby characterises this ‘pushback’ against the #MeToo campaign as particularly French, typical of a nation that continues to revere the thinkers, singers, writers and artists of the 1960s and 1970s and that rejects anything it sees as redolent of ‘Anglo-Saxon puritanism’. Yet this is to draw too simple a line between different generations of French men and women in their response to the Le Monde ‘tribune’. The identification of sexual violence and harassment as everyday strategies for keeping women ‘in their place’ formed a vital thread of 1970s feminism in terms of campaigning, writing and practical action (such as the setting up of the first rape crisis centres). Plenty of women of the same generation as the letter’s signatories also criticised their approach to the #MeToo/#BalanceTonPorc campaigns. Yvette Roudy, minister of women’s rights from 1981 to 1986, for example, argued in Le Monde that the ‘Collectif de 100 femmes’ were wrong because the campaigns were about power and the abuse of power, not about sex (Roudy, 2018). Michelle Perrot, while agreeing with the necessity to defend women’s sexual and cultural freedom of expression, wrote of her disappointment in the lack of solidarity expressed by the signatories (Perrot, 2018). Fellow feminist historian Michèle Riot-Sarcey was even more critical, arguing that the campaigns were an important further step in women’s liberation from being seen as passive (sexualised) objects to being accepted as thinking (desiring) subjects: To ignore to such an extent the meaning of emancipation in the name of the freedom to sexually harass and be harassed is to be blind to the real world. […] This verbal revolution, both individual and collective, and non-violent, reveals for the first time and on a massive scale what emancipation really means. The body […] is now claimed by those who not only raise their heads, say they exist, as thinking and acting subjects, but claim

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Making Waves that they will not tolerate in the name of culture or male nature, to be ogled, probed, abused, or harassed without their consent. (Riot-Sarcey, 2018)

Roudy, Perrot and Riot-Sarcey thus use similar arguments to ‘third wave’ feminists such as Clermont-Dion and ‘La Barbe’ to counter the stance of the signatories. Christine Bard, in her response, argues further that the 9 January letter is redolent of the kind of anti-feminist arguments that first wave feminists were denouncing during the nineteenth century: This letter is an expression of anti-feminism and counter-movement. It takes up the classic arguments, already present in the nineteenth century, of anti-feminist rhetoric: the accusation of censorship, the infringement of sexual freedom, the hatred of men and sexuality, the victimization of women, not to mention the accusations of totalitarianism. […] The signatories […] do not present themselves as anti-feminists. But whether they want it or not, they are part of this trend. (Bard, 2018)

What we can see in this debate, then, is not so much the pitching of the 68er generation against ‘millennials’, or of second wave feminists against third wave feminists, but the rehearsing of long-standing arguments about the legacies and repercussions of achieving some of the goals of the women’s movement, which have long included campaigns against sexual harassment and sexual violence, on social and sexual relationships. For some, the ‘calling out’ of inappropriate sexual advances risks returning to a puritanical, oppressive atmosphere in which neither men nor women experience freedom of expression. For others and – it should be said – for the majority of French feminists who wrote letters and articles in the French press in early 2018, the #MeToo and #BalanceTonPorc campaigns were a mass expression of a widely felt anger by women of a range of ages and backgrounds, supporting a zero-tolerance position on sexual harassment and sexual violence. Then and Now: Reappraising French 1970s Feminism The first section of this volume, ‘Then: Second Wave Feminism in France’, asks to what extent the 1970s can be understood as truly revolutionary. Siân Reynolds’s chapter focuses on ‘the so-called trough between the two waves of French feminism, lasting from the end of the Second World War to the events of May 1968’. Reynolds notes that not

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only did the philosophical ideas and intellectual debates that followed the end of the Second World War pave the way for the radical feminist activism of the 1970s, but equally that some of the issues at the heart of MLF discourse, such as women’s right to control their fertility, including the legalisation of contraception and abortion, had already been publicly debated during the 1950s and 1960s, with the latter being raised as an issue by François Mitterrand during the 1965 presidential election campaign. Reynolds also notes that the MLF itself was not a direct product of the 1968 protest movement, which was dominated by students and younger people, but was made up of a much wider range of ages than has sometimes been suggested. This nuancing of an understanding of the 1970s, which is often closely associated with the actions of young radical feminist activists, is confirmed by Diana Holmes and Imogen Long in their chapter focusing on the year 1975. By undertaking an in-depth study of what was declared by the United Nations to be ‘International Women’s Year’, Holmes and Long show that the radical and foundational acts of the MLF took place alongside more conservative, state-endorsed attempts to improve women’s lives, embodied in Françoise Giroud’s time as secretary of state for ‘women’s condition’ under President Giscard d’Estaing. Even if these two strands of feminism – which can be broadly labelled as state-endorsed/reformist and revolutionary/radical – shared some goals in terms of improvements to women’s health and wellbeing, legal and civil rights and working conditions, there was, however, a chasm between the kinds of argument they made and the methods they deployed in order to attempt to bring about change. Whereas the MLF favoured the playful and the satirical, exposing and challenging the norms and mores of their time, Giroud’s strategy tended to involve shoring up more traditional understandings of sexual difference, which the MLF viewed as ‘complicity in the patriarchal culture she claimed to oppose’. In the third chapter in this section Grace An traces the trajectory of Delphine Seyrig from avant-garde film star of the 1960s to ‘anti-star’ and member of feminist film collective Les Insoumuses, who made activist videos in the 1970s. An notes that humour and satire were important tools in the videos produced by Les Insoumuses, including Maso et Miso vont en bateau (1975), their remix of a 1975 episode of Apostrophes in which star television host Bernard Pivot interviewed Françoise Giroud. The satirical version by Les Insoumuses playfully mocked what is presented as Giroud’s smiling complicity with the sexist assertions of Pivot and his male guests. If the first two chapters of the book present

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1975 as a staging post in a broader continuum of the French women’s movement, then, An shows that the artistic modes of expression that emerged from the post-1968 political context could be both new and bitingly effective in challenging the status quo. The chapters in the next section of the book explore the diverse ways in which feminist activists have intervened in French public life. Jan Windebank’s chapter examines the development of debates in France that were prominent in the 1970s around the unpaid domestic and caring work that women carried out in the home. She considers how these second wave feminist ideas intersect with the French version of state familialism that sought to enable mothers to remain in the labour market, concluding that, although such policies have arguably helped women combine work and family life, they have done little to challenge men’s roles either in the family or in the workplace. Maggie Allison and Fanny Mazzone both consider the relationship of feminists to journalism and the publishing industry and key ways in which feminists have been able to disseminate their ideas and campaigns, and articulate challenges to gendered social norms through articles, cartoons and imaginative writing. Allison charts the evolution over the last 40 years of both feminist bookshops and social spaces and feminist journalism, from Le Torchon brûle (published from 1971 to 1973) to the current virtual ‘newspaper’ Les Nouvelles News. The story Allison tells is generally a positive one: despite the ongoing paucity of women in French political life, since the 1970s writing, publishing and book-selling have given many French feminist women routes to self-expression on a public stage. Fanny Mazzone uses Pierre Bourdieu’s theorisation of cultural fields to analyse the feminist publishing industry. She concludes that, for a time, shifts in the economics of publishing created a perfect platform for the incredible proliferation of feminist series in both mainstream and independent publishers. Mazzone charts the growth and diversification of feminist publishing in both sectors of the industry, assessing too the longer-term impact of feminism on the publishing field, both national and international. Tamara Chaplin’s chapter examines 1970s lesbian culture and reveals the importance of humour and satire amongst lesbian feminist activists, exploring in particular the use of literary and playfully comic utopic visions as a political strategy. She suggests that when humour and pleasure are absent, French lesbian attempts to resist misogyny, homophobia, and homonormativity, are not as robust. Finally, Alison Fell and Bronwyn Winter consider the ways in which

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the French women’s movement has been remembered, exhibited and memorialised. Fell’s chapter on the one hand examines the ways in which feminism has debated and shaped the inclusion and/or exclusion of women in French national monuments and other sites of memory and, on the other, attempts to construct alternative, feminist lieux de mémoire, considering in particular three examples inaugurated since the early days of the MLF: the recasting of the statue of nineteenthcentury feminist Maria Deraismes in 1983; the transferral of Marie Curie’s remains to the Pantheon in 1995; and the construction in Paris of the ‘Passerelle Simone de Beauvoir’, which opened in 2006. Winter’s chapter assesses the 2013 exhibition on gender entitled ‘Au Bazar du genre’ (At the gender bazaar) at the Musée des Civilisations de l’Europe et de la Méditerranée in Marseille, curated by ethnologist Denis Chevallier, with a preface by historian Michelle Perrot. Winter analyses the exhibition as an example of the institutionalisation and ‘mainstreaming’ of feminist memory, which robs it of its contestatory political edge. Both Fell and Winter explore the extent to which ‘official’ acts intended to remember and memorialise the French feminist movement dilute – or even counteract – the movement’s original goals. The third and final section of the book, ‘Now: Reappraisals and New Agendas’ reconsiders a number of ‘classic’ 1970s feminist literary, theoretical and political texts and films in the light of evolving contemporary feminist issues. Mairéad Hanrahan, Diana Holmes and Imogen Long take up three of the decade’s key figures – Hélène Cixous, Annie Leclerc and Benoîte Groult – and consider the way their works have been reflected upon and reassessed, and have influenced new feminist writings in recent years. Hanrahan examines one of the most anthologised essays of 1970s French feminism, Cixous’s ‘The Laugh of the Medusa’, and asks if it has stood the test of time. She analyses the extent to which the essay is rooted in the 1970s, or, as a creative text, exceeds the moment of its historic production, using as one of her reference points Cixous’s own reflections on it in her recent writing. Holmes reads Nancy Huston’s 2007 commemorative essay on Annie Leclerc as a persuasive articulation of their shared ‘difference’ feminism, both in terms of the book’s form – bivocal, emphasising the embodied nature of knowledge, humorous – and its themes. Here one controversial strand of 1970s feminism arches across the decades, still relevant, contentious and inspiring new forms of writing. Long puts the work of two women intellectuals from successive feminist waves in conversation by analysing Catel’s 2013 graphic novel

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Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult. Catel deploys the art form of bande dessinée as a means to recount the intergenerational friendship which developed between her and Groult, a redoubtable feminist figure from the second wave women’s movement. This chapter asks how and why bande dessinée, an appealing and accessible mode of feminist expression, has increasingly come to serve as a way to pass on powerful herstories across the waves. Lyn Thomas takes a writer whose publications span several decades, Annie Ernaux, and considers her work in the light of one of the key concerns of third wave feminism: intersectionality. She asks whether Ernaux ‘adopts the cloak of universal whiteness’ in her writing, echoing one of the most frequent criticisms of US and French second wave feminists (although, it should be said, Les Femmes s’entêtent does raise the question of race). Thomas shows that Ernaux’s writings, which move from present to past, and from an individual to a collective narrative voice, are characterised both by an ‘uneasy remembrance’ of France’s colonial past, particularly in relation to the Algerian war, and by an analysis of new expressions of Islamophobia and racism in contemporary France. Michèle A. Schaal’s final essay in the volume analyses one of the key tools used across the years by feminist activists to disseminate their demands: the manifesto. She analyses several third wave French feminist manifestos and considers them in relation to Les Femmes s’entêtent. One of the points made by contemporary French feminists is that, despite popular perceptions that the goals of second wave feminism have been reached, many of the debates and problems identified in the 1970s persist – something that has also been confirmed by the #MeToo campaigns. The group Osez le féminisme! for example, claim that: ‘just as in 1971, because we were born women, we remain assigned to our sex, kept in subaltern positions our entire lives. We sometimes have the odd feeling we have woken up with a hangover.’ What comes across in some of the third wave feminist writing is this sense of déjà vu, of their frustration with the never-ending circle of women making the same arguments and pointing to the same evidence for decades and yet attitudes remaining stubbornly entrenched. That said, some new battles are highlighted by third wave feminists, and some blind spots of second wave feminism are also at the heart of their texts. For example, they stress the importance of intersectionality in relation to feminist activism and use new theoretical tools, such as Butler’s theory of performativity and the insights of queer theory,

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in order to try to find solutions to some of the issues that they raise. Schaal’s chapter reveals the complex nature of the relationship between different strands and different generations of feminists: the third wave manifestoes do not reject their first and second wave foremothers, but neither do they evoke them in overly nostalgic or reverential tones. Rather, they point out shortcomings, changing socio-historical contexts and persistent problems already raised decades ago that continue to remain unaddressed. Fifty years on from the explosion of feminist protest and creativity in the mid-1970s, feminist activists are still ‘making waves’: if we look closely, however, we can see overlapping currents with earlier generations. In its interrogation of some of these overlaps and cross-currents, this volume contributes to the ongoing and productive dialogue between 1970s feminist writers and activists and those that have followed them.

part 1

Then: Second Wave Feminism in France

chapter one

Before Les Femmes s’entêtent The ‘Bermuda Triangle’ of French Feminism? Siân Reynolds Before

Surprising as it may seem today, Simone de Beauvoir’s presence alongside the feminist activists of the 1970s wasn’t something all women were ready to accept. Annie Tristan and Anne de Pisan describe in Histoires du MLF how, in the first general assemblies of the movement, some of those present refused the philosopher’s support and participation. Should we see this as a ‘refusal of inheritance’ in relation to her work, or as opposition to her as a person, with some women refusing to see her as a role-model? (Fortino, 1997, 230, n.24)

Do all daughters want to airbrush their mothers out of history or even reject them? Simone de Beauvoir herself, as the above quotation suggests, was seen by some in 1970 as part of a past age. (She was 62.) On the pattern of most revolutionary movements, whether in politics or arts, there is an element of rejecting the old. But revolutions, viewed historically, do not usually come out of a clear blue sky. The essays in this book were originally inspired by a particular event of 1975, the publication of Les Femmes s’entêtent, a collection of writings marked by the effervescence of the women’s movement of the early 1970s and intended to unsettle and disturb. In this chapter I aim to look at the relation between the ‘new’ of Les Femmes s’entêtent and the ‘old’ that came immediately before it: the so-called ‘trough’ between the two waves of French feminism, lasting from the end of the Second World War to the events of May 1968. It will draw on the patient historical work

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that has been done since the 1990s to re-evaluate the post-war precedents for ‘women’s liberation year zero’, while also considering the role of feminist intellectuals and their writings, including those of Beauvoir, and finally examining the notion of ‘the 1968 generation’ as it related to the women’s movement.1 * Unlike other ‘second wave’ feminist movements throughout the world, the French Mouvement de Libération des Femmes (MLF) has laid claim, rightly or wrongly, to a precise year of birth: 1970. The MLF’s first appearance in public is usually identified as the demonstration of 26 August 1970. In a near-deserted Paris a group of nine women laid a wreath on the tomb of the unknown soldier under the Arc de Triomphe, addressed to ‘one who was even more unknown – his wife’ (see Chapter 8). Astutely alerting the media, the handful of participants had invented a ‘historic event’. And they were not holding copies of Le Deuxième Sexe [hereafter The Second Sex]. 2 More generally, in memoirs and interviews over the years, both participants and outside observers have seen the MLF’s beginnings as related closely, if indirectly, to the events of May 1968. French second wave feminism saw itself as the start of something new, a radically different way of thinking, born of the cultural revolution and marking a break with the immediate past. The provocatively worded articles, witness statements and imaginative texts in Les Femmes s’entêtent were unlikely to have been published in France before 1968. In every sense, the ‘events’ had been an explosion of the mind, and MLF activists, many of them born during or after the war, saw themselves as having little in common with, for example, the existing women’s sections of political parties or the varied collection of surviving pre-war all-women associations, which 1 Sarah Fishman’s recent book (Fishman, 2017) was published after this chapter was written, but is a further indication of how historians are reconsidering the post-war period. 2 ‘Wave’ terminology, although often contested, as the introduction to this volume demonstrates, will be used here for convenience. The very name ‘Mouvement de libération des femmes’, although eventually accepted, was initially a label popularised by the media, on the model of Women’s Liberation in the US (and UK), and not universally liked by 1970s French feminists.

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seemed rather staid and conventional. 3 The title of a special number of Partisans published in 1970 was ‘Libération des femmes année zéro’ (‘Women’s liberation year zero’). Consequently it has been easy to think of the years leading up to 1968 as a time when – apparently – ‘nothing much happened’ in terms of women’s rights and consciousness. As Claire Duchen memorably put it, ‘the period between [getting] the vote in 1944 and the events of May ‘68 is often represented as a kind of Bermuda Triangle of feminism’ (Duchen, 1994, 169). The acquisition of the vote in 1944, the culmination of the ‘first wave’ of French feminism, although long overdue by international standards, appeared to have solved whatever problem there had been. When Beauvoir published The Second Sex in 1949, she had stated that ‘en gros nous avons gagné la partie’ (‘We have more or less won out’).4 What was there to campaign about, when the foreword to the 1946 French Constitution explicitly stated: ‘the law guarantees woman, in every domain, equal rights with man’? In the overall history of French feminism, the years between 1944 and 1968 looked like the ‘trough’ (le creux) between two important waves of activity.

Au creux de la vague? Post-war Women’s Movements and Progress Towards Reform In an article published in English in 2000, Sylvie Chaperon, who has herself pioneered the study in France of post-1944 women’s consciousness, acknowledged what was already a revisionist approach by a number of historians to the ‘nothing happened’ question. 5 Her argument, more fully developed in her book Les Années Beauvoir (2000b), was that more had been going on in those post-war years than met the eye, and that the new movement of the 1970s had elements of continuity with the old. Claire Duchen, in her extended survey Women’s Rights and Women’s 3 Simone de Beauvoir herself – writing much later – described the women’s associations of the time as ‘very well-behaved, wanting to get women into politics and government’ (Picq, 2008a, 158). 4 Beauvoir (1949/1976, I, 29). She later often criticised herself for this sentence. 5 Chaperon (2000a, 146) was referring in particular to Duchen, 1993, 1994, 1995; Guéraiche, 1992; Thébaud, 1995. Note, however, that even she uses the metaphor ‘au creux de la vague’ [‘the trough between two waves’] to refer to this period (2000b, xiii).

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Lives in France 1944–1968 (1994), had really laid the foundations for this reappraisal of French women’s consciousness and action via her careful analysis of the publications and archives of the women’s movements in existence from the 1940s through to the 1960s. Since 2000, a steady if rather disparate stream of publications – memoirs, surveys, analyses – has continued to nuance the history of the post-war years and of feminist thought. What kind of revisionism are we talking about? Research into feminism and women’s rights in France has had to take account of certain specificities linked to long-standing features of French politics and society that lasted well into the twentieth century (cf. Offen, 2004, 71–2). In the first place, France was a country which had spectacularly pioneered the rights of men, not only during the Revolution but in introducing universal male suffrage as early as 1848 and in consolidating a Republican philosophy which saw citizenship as a male prerogative. Secondly, the continued presence of the Catholic Church, long opposed to the secular Republic, meant that the clerical question was to a large extent seen as a gendered issue, another reason for prolonged opposition in some quarters (both on the right and the left) to the women’s vote. Thirdly, the survival into contemporary times of many provisions of the Napoleonic Code of 1804 meant that its articles depriving married women of many rights had a long life. France was therefore (unlike Britain, for example) a country where ‘rights’ were conspicuously central to state and social discourses, where revolt and revolution were part of history, but where most women (since, until recently, the great majority of French women were married) were long excluded from the same rights as men in their everyday lives and were to some extent seen as living in a parallel universe. As an early pamphlet of second wave feminism put it: ‘Women have been the foot soldiers of every revolution, but also the dupes, because they helped the revolutions of others’ (FMA pamphlet, quoted Chaperon, 1995, 69). Nevertheless, ‘first wave’ feminism in France, while not approaching the conspicuous campaigns of the British suffragette movement, had not been insignificant or invisible. The question of women’s suffrage, as Paul Smith points out (1996, 10), was rarely off the parliamentary agenda between the two World Wars; multiple women’s/feminist associations were formed, and such causes as the inter-war peace movement(s), the Popular Front and the Spanish Civil War mobilised many women. In 1938 an initial – if timid – reform of the Civil Code regarding the rights of married women passed into law after a long

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campaign. So the first 40 years of the century can be seen, in the light of research by Christine Bard and others, as a relatively militant time regarding women’s rights and political activity, although its visibility and reach are often u ­ nderestimated.6 The post-war years, by contrast, looked more quiescent. As is well known, the post-war period was characterised by a spectacular rise in the French birth rate during the ‘trente glorieuses’: 30 years of economic expansion and urbanisation accompanied by a stream of consumer goods. This was the age of ‘Moulinex and the baby-boom’ (Duchen, 1994, 1) or ‘fast cars and clean bodies’ (Ross, 1995). French society had apparently absorbed with surprisingly little fuss – given the long rear-guard action against it – the arrival of full political citizenship for women from 1944. But paradoxically, for a whole generation of women, these years were precisely those when they were most likely to be occupied with domestic tasks and young families (Dubesset, 2004, 271). Even those who had benefited from the greatly improved chances for girls’ education gave up careers, at least for a while. So what signs were there that something was stirring again over the ‘woman question’? Sylvie Chaperon, taking a chronological approach, has argued that the brief period in the war’s immediate aftermath, was particularly ‘rich in events, ideas and paradoxes’ (Chaperon, 2000a, 146). She identifies several strands of what might be termed feminist activity. First, the older, resuscitated suffrage organisations, such as the Ligue Française des Droits des Femmes (LFDF), the Conseil National des Femmes Françaises (CNFF) and the Union Féminine Civique et Sociale (UFCS), had an agenda: to make this ‘historic moment’ open the door to further reforms, especially in French family law. Secondly, there was a new, if dispersed, pool of women who had played active roles in the Resistance. Although never resulting in any single grouping, the Resistance generation were arguably to prove an effective ferment in society, often outside formal politics. Thirdly, closer to the political parties of the early years of the Fourth Republic, but diametrically opposed to one another in their views, were, on the one hand, the larger-scale Catholic women’s associations, close to the newly formed Christian Democrat party the MRP, and, on the other, the Communist 6 See, for example, Bard, 1995; Reynolds, 1997; and, for an up-to-date survey and upbeat account, despite the downbeat title (L’Espoir brisé [Shattered hopes], Jacquemond, 2016).

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Party’s Union des Femmes Françaises (UFF), both of which ‘experienced a remarkable [membership] boom at the Liberation’. Although both these latter groupings insisted on family values, initially opposing any calls for more liberal access to contraception, for instance, a new spirit appeared to be abroad.7 The euphoria and fragile unity of the Liberation did not last.8 The Cold War, starting in 1947, ran right through French society, splitting off a whole active sector – the Communist Party – from the rest. Many political energies were absorbed by the colonial wars – and protests against them. The later radical campaigns of the 1960s and 1970s had roots in the opposition to war in Indochina and Algeria (as they did elsewhere). And, like the many parties and movements in France, the various women’s groups became fragmented, isolated and at odds with each other, despite their initial wish to take advantage of the vote. The lack of an ‘obvious and unifying cause for them to fight led to a clear malaise’ (Duchen, 1994, 168). Chaperon saw the 1950s as a real dip in activity, preferring to stress in her survey the new mood of the 1960s. Claire Duchen (1994, 170) somewhat nuanced this view, on the grounds that a recognisable form of feminism could be identified, even in the 1950s, among certain groups and individuals who ‘put women at the centre of their analysis’ and who ‘challenged the view that being a wife, housewife, and mother was a woman’s destiny’. Like later historians, including Mathilde Dubesset, Duchen singled out two or three movements as particular trailblazers. Jeunes Femmes, a Protestant women’s association, was for the period very open-minded, shackled neither by Catholicism nor by Marxism, as some major formations were. It was not a large movement, but was active throughout the 1950s and had about 6,000 members by the 1960s. It operated on a small scale, reminiscent of later ‘consciousness-raising groups’, and was one of the few places where The Second Sex was seriously read and

7 For a discussion of the first-ever women elected to the French National Assembly in 1945, see Footitt, 1995. 8 Nevertheless, Jacquemond suggests that symbolically les femmes tondues (women accused of collaboration whose heads were shaved) ‘weighed more than the [six] medalled women in the Resistance’ (2016, 352). See also Claire Duchen’s chapter ‘Crime and Punishment in Liberated France: the case of les femmes tondues’, in Duchen and Bandauer Schöffmann, 2000, 233–50, for a discussion of the theories of transgression, social crisis and male powerlessness surrounding this event.

Before Les Femmes s’entêtent

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debated.9 Another association, the Mouvement Démocratique Féminin, (MDF), emerged in the early 1960s as a left-wing pressure group in which a number of prominent women were active, including Yvette Roudy (b. 1929), Marie-Thérese Eyquem (1913–78) and Colette Audry (1906–90). Much smaller, this Paris-based group, well-connected in Socialist Party circles, operated as a kind of think-tank. Thirdly, there was the movement for family planning, which had to operate carefully during the 1950s, presenting its campaign to reform the restrictive 1920 law as a women’s health issue. Its newsletter was originally called Maternité heureuse. Key figures included Marie-André Weill-Hallé (1905–94), Evelyne Sullerot (1924–2017) and Clara Malraux (1897–1982). During the 1960s, the organisation, now mixed, was able to take the title Mouvement Français pour le Planning Familial (MFPF). The cause of contraception was one of the two issues which did result in legal reform in the 1960s, following a long gestation – the other being reform of marriage law, in particular concerning women’s property. Their stories have been told many times, and details will not be repeated here.10 But the point is that these issues were raised and debated, even if the results were disappointing and meagre. In both cases there had been long and entrenched opposition from an overwhelmingly male legislature, especially the Senate. No fewer than 15 proposals for reforming the marriage law were advanced but did not reach full parliamentary discussion between 1945 and 1959 (Duchen, 1994, 176). And the law giving the wife control of her own assets, finally passed in 1965 after a long wrangle, still stated that the husband was ‘head of the family’. As for birth control, patient campaigning by the MFPF and parts of the medical profession, a shift in public opinion, the invention of the contraceptive pill and, finally, the fact that the issue was raised by socialist candidate François Mitterrand in the 1965 presidential election meant that the time was ripe for the Neuwirth law of December 1967. This fell far short of what campaigners wanted: contraceptives were available only on prescription, there was to be no advertising and no reimbursement by social security, and minors were restricted. Nevertheless, Duchen argued, both issues opened a chink in the patriarchal armour of French private and family law, preparing the ground for greater changes in the 9 On Jeunes Femmes, see Dubesset, 2004 and in particular for more details, 2002. 10 See, for example, Pavard, 2012b, and more generally the bibliography in Allwood and Wadia, 2000.

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1970s, 1980s and 1990s. Seen from this perspective, even the 1950s had not been a period of inactivity and quiescence. It is widely agreed, however, that the 1960s saw much more effervescence. After all, May 1968 did not come from nowhere either. The baby boom peaked in 1964; the Communist Party abandoned its objections to family planning; the Algerian War came to an end, Vatican II stimulated liberal Catholics. Perhaps most importantly, France’s population profile had been greatly rejuvenated, and it was not an island. Young people all over the Western world were aware of each other. The early stirrings of what was to become the women’s liberation movement in many countries, notably in Britain and the United States, had started. One of its most obvious features, given the sociological makeup of the MLF, was the appearance of books, in French and other languages, which approached the question of women and their rights from a critical stance. Intellectual Production in the 1960s: Philosophy, Sociology and the Shadow of Beauvoir Virginia Woolf, in A Room of One’s Own (1929), had remarked that she was astonished to find how many books about women had been published. Post-war France also saw an increasing number of publications about every aspect of women’s lives. The Second Sex was certainly the most famous, the most heavyweight and in many ways the most radical. Above all, considering that Beauvoir was writing it between 1947 and 1949, it pre-dated other writings. But it was not the only book, or necessarily the one that most influenced a younger generation. For women who were already adult when The Second Sex was published, it came as a revelation and a stimulus (even if they might argue with it, or find it rather heavy going). The scandal it caused is itself enough to give us pause in thinking that these years marked ‘the trough between two waves’. All over France and, once it was translated, in other countries, the book fluttered many dovecotes. But as the opening quotation suggests, this was not necessarily the case for some younger women. Catherine Rodgers found in interviews conducted in 1998 that younger feminists had often not read it at all – though they had usually absorbed its chief arguments. A number of reasons explained (and continue to explain) a certain ambiguity vis-à-vis the woman sometimes described without irony as the ‘mother’ of French feminism. In part, this

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relates to the philosophy underlying The Second Sex. Françoise Picq has suggested that, taken as a whole, the book offered a negative view of woman, ‘midway between the male and the castrato’. Beauvoir envisaged men as representing the universal, the model: only by ‘assimilating to them, will [woman] gain her freedom’. Beauvoir’s view of her fellow women could be perceived as condescending or even contemptuous: bound by their condition, unless they took their own individual destiny in hand. For Beauvoir, the individual had to seek her salvation, throw off her chains. While mentioning the past history of feminist struggles, she did not locate herself inside them. By contrast, ‘the new generation of feminists, coming from May 1968 had learnt to think of its revolt as a social movement and a collective struggle. That meant a redefinition of female identity’ (Picq, 2008a, 176).11 As for being a role model, this too was not everyone’s choice: Beauvoir might have had to brave obstacles to emerge as the famous freelance intellectual of post-war years, but her situation, particularly her relationship with Sartre, seemed to young women in the early 1970s a paradox: both privileged and questionable. Her rejection of motherhood (not unknown among educated women of her own generation) looked a luxury to those who were shortly to campaign for contraception and abortion, but at the same time a rejection of the experience of a large majority of women. She was also by 1968 a celebrity, a star, something which did not appeal to a movement vociferously opposed to individual prominence in the name of anti-elitism.12 Beauvoir herself later went some way towards resolving these issues. She had, of course, made the pages of Les Temps modernes available for the original publication of the writings contained in Les Femmes s’entêtent, and in her foreword to the book version she offered some (mild) auto-criticism, admitting that she had perhaps been a femme-alibi (token woman) in the past, and often blind to forms of discrimination which she had considered trivial. By 1975 she had committed herself wholeheartedly to the feminist movement, joining the campaigns for abortion and contraception, signing the Manifesto of the 343, lending her name to petitions and demonstrations and, to a remarkable degree, 11 For another analysis of this disjunction between Beauvoir’s thinking and the MLF, see Duchen, 1994, 186–9. 12 Beauvoir had continued to publish in the 1960s and 1970s a string of works (memoirs, fiction, philosophy) which, while not necessarily defined as feminist, raised her profile as a woman intellectual.

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reinventing herself. Many of those involved in the 1970s campaigns have spoken of her generosity with time, money and commitment. But the ambiguity remained, both about her analysis in The Second Sex and about the revelations in her posthumously published private correspondence, indicating a more complicated and arguably less admirable figure (or role model) than previously thought. Clearly Beauvoir was a figure of many contradictions.13 A less famous book than The Second Sex, but often mentioned by feminists from the 1970s, is La Condition de la Française aujourd’hui by Andrée Michel and Geneviève Texier, first published in 1964. Anne Zelenski (b. 1938), one of the very early figures of the MLF from 26 August 1970, writes in her memoirs that, when she spotted it in a bookshop in 1966, ‘Everything I thought was written down there, providing a formal contradiction of the current vox populi.’ It challenged the view that ‘women have everything. They’re equal. What more do they want?’ (Zelinski, 2005, 35).14 The data in Michel and Texier’s survey are from the early 1960s and systematically cover French women and the law; family status; discrimination at work; the vote. The authors concluded that their study demonstrated ‘how archaic French society has remained … . In no Protestant or socialist country of comparable industrial level is there such an effort to limit the rights of woman in the family and society.’ It offered to provide a blueprint for political change, since what France was experiencing, despite the grant of the vote, was an ‘insufficiency of democracy’ (Michel and Texier, I, 1964, 232, 236–7). Their book was not alone. In post-war France a number of women took up the relatively new (and thus less competitive) discipline of sociology, and the CNRS was particularly open to women as researchers. Françoise Picq, arguing that The Second Sex had provided ‘some keys’ of militancy without being militant, lists the sociologists who in the 1960s conducted research into what was still known as ‘the female condition’: among others, Marie-José Chombart de Lauwe (Images de la femme dans la société, 1962); Anne-Marie Rocheblave-Spenlé (Les Rôles masculins et féminins, 1964); Françoise Guélaud-Léridon (Recherche sur la condition 13 See her foreword to Les Femmes s’entêtent; see also Rodgers, 1998. Bonnet, 2015, is an intemperate, if well-documented, polemic addressing the question of Beauvoir’s sexual history. For a different view see Sallenave, 2008. 14 A banner reading ‘Mais Qu’est-ce Qu’elles veulent’ (capital Qs as feminist symbols) appears on the cover of the original edition.

Before Les Femmes s’entêtent

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féminine dans la société d’aujourd’hui, 1964); and Evelyne Sullerot (Histoire et sociologie du travail féminin, 1968) (Picq, 2011, 31). At the same time, works on women, or by foreign feminists, were being translated into French in the 1960s. They included William Masters and Virginia Johnson’s Human Sexual Response (1966, tr. 1968) and, perhaps more importantly, Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique (1963), translated by Yvette Roudy in 1964. Even before the wave of works by such as Kate Millett, Germaine Greer, Sheila Rowbotham and others in the 1970s, these books were helping to create a new intellectual atmosphere. They were part of the prehistory of the MLF. The 1968 Generation? As suggested earlier, the intervention of the events of May 1968 made it look as if there had been a break with the past. But the question is a little more complicated. During the events themselves, women had indeed been involved at various levels in the universities, the strikes and elsewhere. But there had been virtually no calls for women’s rights as such, while the face of the events as reported in the media made it look a very male affair. It is true that Anne Zelenski and Jacqueline Feldman had organised a briefly well-attended session at the Sorbonne, by posting a call to action, pointing out that, while women were present, there had been no calls for equal pay or other rights, and proposing a new morality that would be the same for young people of both sexes.15 But the impact had not lasted and the (originally mixed) movement they founded, Féminin Masculin Avenir (FMA), though important in terms of ideas, was extremely small, just a few people. What was more, the rapid about-turn of events had seen a particularly conservative National Assembly elected in June 1968 and virtually no improvement on the kinds of issue that mattered to most women. So it could be said that there was a slow burn of two years until the emergence of the women’s movement, which quickly snowballed from 1970. But were the new feminists actually the children of 1968? Was the MLF a young phenomenon? Françoise Picq conducted a survey in the 1980s, based on 122 returns of a questionnaire circulated to women who had mostly been grassroots MLF activists, and this is probably the nearest 15 The full text is in Duchen, 1994, 198; see also Feldman, 2009, and Artières and Zancarini-Fournel, 2008, 2015.

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we can get to a photograph of the early movement. She found a wide age range. The oldest woman surveyed was born in 1920, the youngest in 1953, and a large tranche of those who replied were in their mid–late 20s in 1970, which meant that they were young women, but older than the students of May. Many of them had been politically active, both in May and earlier in the Algerian War protests; most of them were in an intellectual profession of some kind (teaching, writing, the arts), unlike their own brothers and sisters. Many had mothers who had always worked outside the home, although respondents often claimed that they had inherited militancy from their fathers. Picq commented that ‘we had always known this wasn’t a movement of rebellious teenagers’ and, although ‘les filles du baby-boom’ were quite numerous, they were by no means the majority. What was evident, and is the subterranean accompaniment to second wave feminism probably everywhere in the world, is that these women, even the older ones, had massively benefited from receiving levels of secondary and (in many cases) higher education denied to previous generations of their family. They formed the ‘1968 generation’ by reacting to the events – in which universities played a leading role – whatever their age. One can complement Picq’s survey with the rather different group of the 343 women who in 1971 signed the manifesto declaring that they had had an abortion (the ‘manifeste des 343 salopes’; see Timeline). This was conducted in the first place among a certain Parisian elite, since it was launched by journalists from the left-wing weekly Le Nouvel Observateur. It is a mixture of very well-known names – writers, broadcasters, actresses – and ‘ordinary’ women who were of no notoriety (and who might be at some risk thereafter). Bibia Pavard has explored the make-up of the list – necessarily short on information about the ‘obscure’ names, but quite significant in some ways. Among those for whom information could be found, she identified several generations of women, with a bias towards the middle-aged and above: the oldest included Beauvoir (b. 1908), Colette Audry (b. 1906) and Violette Leduc (b. 1907), followed by those born during or after the First World War: Marguerite Duras (b. 1914), Christiane Rochefort (b. 1917), Francoise d’Eaubonne (b. 1920), Gisèle Halimi (b. 1927) and Yvette Roudy (b. 1929). All of these women had been old enough for, at the least, an awareness of the wartime Resistance or campaigns during the Algerian War, or had actually taken part. Some had been active in the MFPF or the MDF, ‘a corridor between post-war feminism

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and what came after 1968’, as Pavard calls it (Pavard, 2012a, 78). The women who signed the manifesto and were active in the MLF at the time – such as Zelenski (b. 1935), Monique Wittig (b. 1935), Antoinette Fouque (b. 1936) and Christine Delphy (b. 1941) – were of a generation who also had some history of militancy. Pavard remarks that some of the younger MLF women were unsympathetic to the whole initiative partly because of the celebrities, dismissing it as ‘le féminisme de maman’, but she points out that in their age group, it was less likely that they had endured abortions under the illegal and often dangerous conditions evoked by many older women, and perhaps too they had easier access to contraception. (Abortion was not legalised in France until 1975, partly as a result of the 1971 ‘343 salopes’ manifesto.) These are mere samples of women active in the very early 1970s, but there is enough evidence to indicate that the movement did not emerge directly out of May 1968, nor was it launched by very young baby-boomers. Most of the women who took an active role (and that includes the nine of the 26 August 1970 as well as contributors to Les Femmes s’entêtent) had some experience of the earlier manifestations of feminism, a ‘backstory’. What May 1968 had done was to help galvanise them into no longer being the ‘foot soldiers of someone else’s revolution’. As Bibia Pavard remarks, the point about the Manifeste des 343 was that it was an all-women manifesto/petition, unlike the many previous petitions in French politics. Did any of the women who went on to be ‘femmes qui s’entêtent’ explicitly recognise this? As distinct from historians looking back over these years, participants in the movement do tend to stress the ‘newness’ of their ideas and actions. Anne Zelenski remarks in her memoirs, however, that while many of the first MLF activists ‘believed there had been nothing before us’, FMA was ready to ‘reclaim the title feminist’ – notably absent from post-1944 women’s movements (Zelinski, 2005, 46 ff). She associates the word with ‘a long historical struggle, through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries’. The only specific feminists she mentions are, however – in a slightly clichéd turn of phrase – ‘the ‘celebrated suffragettes … those little women with their umbrellas … who had pined in prison, confronted mounted police, and sacrificed family and reputation to the struggle. Thanks to them we were able to change course.’ This rather selective homage stops short of seeing any continuity with French women of the 1950s and 1960s, but can perhaps be seen as a nod of recognition. As Sylvie Chaperon writes (1995, 74): ‘nothing would have been able to happen without the long mutation

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process of the 1960s.’ But what changed was the practice: after the disappointments of a mixed cultural revolution in 1968, women had to organise themselves autonomously and collectively in new ways ‘not [actually] starting from zero, but starting differently’.

chapter two

1975 The Year of Women Diana Holmes and Imogen Long 1975: The Year of Women

In the heady early days of post-1968 feminism, 1975 stands out as a year particularly dense with new forms of activism and with the appearance of feminist texts and films that would resonate through the following decades. It was also the year designated ‘International Women’s Year’ by the United Nations and the year in which France first established a government department charged with improving what was termed women’s ‘condition’. These intergovernmental and state initiatives were sceptically received by the feminists of the MLF, who saw in them attempts to appropriate and defuse their own radical aims: the 1975 postface to Les Femmes s’entêtent warned that oppressors came not only in traditional guise but also in the camouflage of reformist ‘liberators’ (Bernheim et al., 1975, 478). 1975 was ‘women’s year’ in more senses than one, and in its course the tensions between state-endorsed, reformist feminism and the thoroughgoing radicalism of the new movement were played out on the public stage. This chapter addresses these two very different modes of feminism through the prism of a single, eventful year, and assesses the relationship between them. New Feminisms: The MLF Siân Reynolds’ chapter shows how the MLF was preceded by a long history of feminist struggles in France and how even the apparent quiescence of the 1950s and 1960s concealed threads of quiet militancy

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that would feed into the movement after May 1968. Some reforms had been won, from the vote to the partial legalisation of contraception and women’s greater access to all levels of education, yet in the early 1970s the paltry presence of women in public and, notably, political life1 confirmed the continuing dominance of the ‘first sex’. In some ways the nation’s rapid post-war transformation ‘from a rural, empire-oriented Catholic country into a fully industrialised, decolonised and urban one’ (Ross, 1995, 4) had further consolidated traditional gender roles, for pro-natalist policies and the new consumerism promoted motherhood and sexual allure as central to female identity. In other ways, though, the modern consumer culture set up tensions that encouraged women to become critically aware of the restrictions on their lives. The booming economy produced more opportunities for female employment, while the new youth culture that developed from the 1950s on (New Wave films, rock’n’roll, teenage magazines, fashion) emphasised self-fulfilment, freedom from authority and a style of music, dress and behaviour that was (albeit often superficially) oppositional. While post-war intellectual trends rarely extended to an interest in gender, some of the most influential theories inadvertently nourished critical thinking about women’s situation: structuralism emphasised the deep systems that determine the scope and form of individual lives, and the Situationists’ anarchic, festive challenge to traditional leftist politics brought everyday, intimate experience into the realm of the political.2 May 1968 as a broad cultural revolt emerged, of course, from the same socio-economic and intellectual context while remaining largely blind to its own gendered power dynamics, but the movement embodied a sense of joyful rebellion, involving an exuberant questioning and reworking of language and what had been considered ‘common sense’ – ‘Soyons réalistes, demandons l’impossible’ (‘Be realistic – demand the impossible’) ran one of the slogans. All of this fed into the bubbling cauldron of anger, hope and inspiration that produced the early women-only meetings of 1968 and all that followed. The extensive media of the new consumer age meant, too, that French women were aware of the nascent women’s movements abroad and could feel themselves part of a world-wide uprising 1 By 1974 only seven out of 283 senators were women, nine out of 490 MPs (Picq, 2011, 228). 2 ‘Those who speak of revolution and class struggle without referring explicitly to everyday life, who fail to understand what is subversive about love and positive about the refusal of constraints – those people have a corpse in their mouths’ (Vaneigem 1967, 4).

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of what Simone de Beauvoir (herself soon wholeheartedly engaged in the new movement) had famously called the ‘second sex’. May 1968 lit the touchpaper: many of the women active in or inspired by ‘the events’ began to meet, write and develop radical analyses of their own situation as a sex. The first public women-only assembly on the Vincennes campus, in May 1970, led to a snowballing proliferation of meetings, in Paris but also nation-wide, and to the now well-known series of demonstrations, manifestos, happenings and publications. 3 The media soon translated the American term ‘Women’s lib’ to christen the new movement the ‘Mouvement de libération de la femme’ (soon corrected by feminists themselves to the plural ‘des femmes’), and focused, inevitably, on the most sensational, public dimensions of the nascent movement. Behind the public events and performances much grassroots activism also continued, in terms of both campaigning and offering practical support for women’s causes (Allwood and Wadia, 2000, 173). Most feminists were united in their conviction that sexual inequality was a fundamental, structuring principle of the society in which they lived, and that both systems and mentalities must be thoroughly changed. But divisions were already emerging that were both conceptual and tactical. Early meetings had led immediately to conflict with male leftists, for whom women’s sense of oppression (which uncomfortably cast the revolutionaries themselves as oppressors) could only be a frivolous distraction from the real problem of class. Many women members of leftist groups struggled with priorities: were women a class? Could their struggle be as significant as that of the working class or colonised peoples? The group usually designated ‘radical feminists’ resisted any subordination of the fight against patriarchy to the anti-capitalist cause, and also resisted all forms of totalising theory or ‘theoretical, bookish, borrowed frameworks’, insisting rather on the primary importance of ‘personal experience and personal revolt’,4 and on spontaneity, humour and shock rather than more conventional forms of political strategy. Others wanted more practical, material forms of action: FMA helped to set up the Ligue du Droit des femmes, 5 with Beauvoir as its president, in 3 See Timeline. 4 ‘We won’t sweep away the obstacles that weigh us down if we start from a theoretical, book-based, borrowed framework […]. The foundation of everything, for us and for all women, must be that of personal experience and rebellion’ (Kahane, 2009, 58). 5 See Picq, 2011, 254–5.

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March 1974, and from January 1975 ran a centre in Les Halles (Paris) that offered meeting space, café, shop, workshops for children and classes for women, as well as a legal advice centre staffed by lawyers. Crucial conceptual divisions emerged too over the question of sexual difference: was the supposed specificity of the female sex a fiction that served merely to justify women’s subordination? Or was femininity a reality, distorted and exploited by a phallocentric culture but to be reclaimed and celebrated? The latter position was adopted in particular by Psych et Po, who (funded by a wealthy member) opened their own publishing house and bookshop, as well as a daily newspaper, Le Quotidien des femmes, in 1974. The question of sexual orientation could divide the movement too: while the liberation of women’s sexuality was a matter of consensus there was discord over the extent to which intimate relations with men, the oppressors, were politically possible. Against this background of feminist activity, debate and conflict, 1975 dawned as ‘Women’s Year’ in ways neither intended nor recognised by the United Nations, nor by President Giscard d’Estaing and his newly appointed secretary of state for women’s condition, Françoise Giroud. If the legalisation of abortion in January 1975 brought MLF priorities briefly into harmony with state reform, most feminist activity of that year took place outside the official circuits of political life. The MLF marched in loud, colourful demonstrations for a variety of women-related causes, formed women-only consciousness-raising groups, supported the first prostitutes’ strikes and established the first rape crisis centre. There was an explosion of feminist culture: 1975 was the year of Hélène Cixous’s powerfully influential ‘Le rire de la Méduse’, of Marie Cardinal’s bestselling and soon to be classic Les Mots pour le dire, of Benoîte Groult’s mordantly funny, angry Ainsi soit-elle and of Les Femmes s’entêtent as a Gallimard paperback prefaced by Simone de Beauvoir.6 It was the year, too, of women’s film festivals organised by the film branch of the MLF, Musidora, and of important films made by what was still a tiny minority of women directors, including Agnès Varda, Chantal Akerman and Marguerite Duras. Feminist interventions, both political and cultural, converged around certain key themes, of which the two most prominent were women’s control of their own bodies and – in the broadest sense of the word – language, or how systems of representation constructed the world solely from the perspective of men. 6 Les Femmes s’entêtent was originally published as a special issue of Les Temps modernes in 1974.

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Mon Corps est à Moi (My Body is my Own) Female bodies were highly visible in 1970s France, but represented in advertising, the press and popular culture primarily as either highly sexualised objects of desire or as maternal. Women’s own lived experience of their bodies was largely absent from public discourse: to speak or write frankly of periods, sex and pregnancy was difficult in the face of powerful taboos and the sheer lack of suitable words to name body parts and processes. Throughout the century the French state, anxious about the nation’s low birth rate, had presented maternity both as the natural goal of the female body and as a patriotic duty, enforced by methods at once dissuasive (the banning of contraception and abortion) and persuasive (family allowances and propaganda).7 No wonder, then, that reproductive rights were foremost in post-war feminist campaigns. By 1975 contraception had only recently been legalised, and Simone Veil’s law decriminalising abortion was finally passed in January of that year. Meanwhile, sexual harassment had not yet even been named, let alone sanctioned by law (1992), and was an everyday experience for many women, while French pornographic cinema was about to reach its heyday as President Giscard d’Estaing liberalised the censorship laws: the subsequent surge in pornography can be seen as a backlash against women’s public reclaiming of their own sexual agency (Hayward, 1993, 245). The right to choose whether or not to have a child, to be the subject and not only the object of desire, and to name and own one’s body are central connecting themes in the feminist politics and culture of 1975. Les Femmes s’entêtent, with its eclectic mix of statistically based argument and subversive fantasy, discursive essay and personal testimony, returns repeatedly to the question of bodies, addressing in a variety of voices and styles menstruation, pregnancy, birth, abortion, sexual desire and sexual violence. Menstrual blood is named and reclaimed from the shameful silence to which it had been consigned (because ‘men don’t want to hear about things like that’ [168]), echoing Annie Leclerc’s 1974 Parole de femme, which puts into (often lyrical) words the sensations 7 Since the Second World War a system of generous family allowances had encouraged the production of large families, a policy whose effects on the lives of women (and children) was famously satirised in the 1961 novel Les Petits Enfants du siècle by Christiane Rochefort, later a leading player in the radical feminist wing of the MLF.

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and emotions that attend the menstrual cycle.8 Cardinal’s Les Mots pour le dire offers a graphic representation of the narrator–heroine’s excessive menstrual flow, not only transgressing the taboo on literary representation of such bodily matters but also attacking the cavalier control of women’s bodies by a male medical profession: the narrator only ceases to bleed when she rejects the doctors and takes control of her own destiny. The authoritarian management of birth by the medical profession is also recounted and condemned in Les Femmes s’entêtent. Indeed, it is compared negatively to the experience of a well-managed, non-judgmental abortion (149–66), while the joy of having a wanted child is lyrically affirmed by a collective of women who are mothers (349–96). Agnès Varda also challenged linguistic and visual taboos on representing the female body in her seven-minute ‘ciné-tract’ Réponse de femmes. Broadcast on national television in June 1975, the film opens with a warmly lit close-up of the genitals of a female baby (‘to be a woman means to live in the body of a woman’, says the voice-over) and treats the naked pregnant body with the same unembarrassed appreciation, while a diverse chorus of women respond a clear ‘no’ to the question ‘do all women want to be mothers?’ – some do, some don’t. Benoîte Groult tackles female circumcision in Ainsi soit-elle, as a particularly brutal but in a sense logical form of patriarchy’s need to censure, control and castrate women’s bodies, linking this to the verbal violence of many male politicians who opposed the legalisation of contraception and abortion. Cixous proposes maternity not as a dutiful fulfilment of biological destiny but as the transmission from mother to daughter (and the roles may be symbolic rather than literal) of a transgressive creativity: ‘Il y a toujours en elle au moins un petit peu de ce bon lait maternel’ (‘there is always within (a woman) at least a little of that good mother’s milk’ (Cixous, 2010, 48). Anxiety over the ‘demographic deficit’ was particular to twentiethcentury France – intensifying the pressure on French women to be mothers, it also heightened the need for feminists to challenge this. Another French specificity was the (male) nation’s self-perception as the ‘doux pays de l’amour courtois’ (‘land of courtly love’, Bernheim et al., 2009, 278), where both sexes enjoyed the play of male seduction and female resistance, ending – in the ideal scenario – in her surrender (‘Vive la différence!’). American-style ‘women’s lib’ was felt to be 8 See Chapter 11.

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quite foreign to the inter-sexual harmony that – many men believed – prevailed in France.9 The year 1975 saw many feminist challenges to this male-centred, utopian view, both in the form of MLF campaigns, and in cultural production. In June French prostitutes occupied churches and demonstrated to protest against police repression and a new parliamentary bill that would recriminalise passive soliciting and thus send more women to prison. Many MLF groups actively supported the prostitutes in Paris, Lyon and other cities, highlighting the poverty that led women to sell their bodies and the objectifying sexual culture that formed the context of their work. In Chantal Akerman’s brilliant Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles, which premiered at the 1975 Cannes Film Festival, prostitution forms part of the oppressive domestic routine that makes up the life of the housewife-heroine (played by Delphine Seyrig).10 Prostitution thus becomes not the domain of alien ‘others’ but part of the fabric of female lives. Feminist campaigns also drew attention to the seamless continuity between the plight of prostitutes and the everyday experience of ‘ordinary’ women: one tract pinpointed the injustice of making solicitation by women a criminal offence when women found themselves harassed on a daily basis by sexual innuendo and invitations – ‘tu viens chérie?’ (‘come over here sweetheart’) – and, moreover, by ‘solicitations’ that could rapidly turn to insult or downright violence. In summer 1974 two young Belgian women camping near Marseille were raped by three men. In September 1975 the men were put on trial for the relatively minor offence of ‘coups et blessures’, or assault. Feminists attended the trial and protested, demanding (successfully) that they be sent to a higher court.11 This event triggered a wider campaign on rape and sexual violence that included the setting up of a rape/sexual violence crisis centre, SOS Femmes-Alternative, by the Ligue du Droit des Femmes. Crucially, the campaign also related rape to a normalised practice of sexual harassment (Les Femmes s’entêtent contains a section ‘on the street’ that defines urban walking for women as the ‘the place where we 9 The entrenched belief that French culture is characterised by a harmonious, pleasurably seductive relationship between the sexes has also been very evident in the 2017–18 #MeToo debates in France. 10 See Chapter 3. 11 Feminist lawyer Gisèle Halimi was one of those representing the rape victims. The men were tried by a higher court in 1978 and condemned to four and six years in prison.

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learn fear, trepidation and anger’, 31912), and to the pervasive presence of objectifying, humiliating images of women in everyday culture. September also saw MLF demonstrations against the serialisation in the high-selling weekly L’Express (a magazine closely associated with Françoise Giroud) of Histoire d’O, in which a woman finds intense sexual and quasi-spiritual fulfilment through submission to her sadistic ‘lover’. Varda’s TV film used visual humour to attack the contradictory imperatives on women to be, on the one hand, modest and ‘non-provocative’ and, on the other, to fulfil their role as objects of desire: a woman discusses the difficulty of reconciling the two with one half of her body completely naked, the other shrouded in a robe. The chorus of women concur on the effect on all women of objectifying imagery: ‘C’est moi qu’on affiche’ (‘It’s me who’s put on show’). ‘Volupté’, says another woman, ‘mais pas voyeurisme’ (‘Sexual pleasure, but not voyeurism’). The body is reclaimed as the agent of desire, not solely its object and, as Beauvoir puts it in her preface to Les Femmes s’entêtent, ‘the struggle against sexism [...] contests desire itself and the forms that our pleasure takes’ (Beauvoir, 1975, 13). Cixous makes masturbation a legitimate, indeed creative, expression of female sexuality, part of ‘a precise and passionate investigation of the erogenous body’ closely associated with ‘aesthetic activity’ (Cixous, 2010, 38). The comic yet serious parable of the ‘Ghena Goudou’ (Les Femmes s’entêtent, 409–28) opposes a utopian women-only world of lesbian love and sensuality to the dystopian era that preceded it, where women were oppressed by the ‘ptituyaucrates’ (‘little prickocrats’13) with whom ‘pleasure didn’t exist’, until they discovered ‘that pleasure did exist between women and it was subversive and revolutionary’ (422). The Words to Say It The parable of the Ghena Goudou not only imagines a feminist Eden, it also linguistically mirrors the feminising of an androcentric culture by a tongue-in-cheek recasting of all nouns gendered masculine in French (e.g. le désir, le groupe) as feminine (‘la désir’, ‘la groupe’).14 Language 12 ‘Nous femmes’, Tract from 1975, reprinted in Bernheim et al., 2009, 231–3. 13 See Chapter 7. 14 The issue of inclusive rather than masculine-for-universal language remains controversial and highly topical in France over 40 years on. In November 2017 the

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itself is signalled as a crucial feminist issue. Beauvoir, whose rallying to the cause of the MLF had led, since 1973, to the regular highlighting of sexist language in her ‘everyday sexism’ column of Les Temps modernes, emphasised the centrality of language for feminism in her preface. However, she also identified a division in feminist theories of language: for some (including herself) language was a ‘universally valid instrument, even if shaped by men’ which women needed to ‘steal back’ for their own use; for others, language was so profoundly made in the image of the dominant sex that if women were to speak or write authentically they must ‘invent for themselves a language (“une parole”) that would reflect their specificity’ (Beauvoir, 1975, 12). While this certainly corresponds to a real divide in feminist thinking, in reality it proves far from absolute: language, being a social medium, cannot simply be reinvented from scratch, and the creation of what Annie Leclerc called a ‘parole de femme’ proves to be very close to ‘stealing’, and refashioning, the ‘tools’ available. What is certain is that in terms of both a critique of masculinist discourse and its creative appropriation, language was a central thread of MLF thought and action in 1975. The campaigns on reproductive rights and sexuality themselves performed an attack on the linguistic repression of female experience, by naming what shame and modesty were supposed to leave unspoken. Benoîte Groult, casting herself as a sort of mother-figure to the MLF (she was 55 in 1975) but very much in tune with their aims, challenged another linguistic taboo with her comically frank description of the male body in Ainsi soit-elle: hitherto, with few exceptions, even the most daring of female authors had kept male genitalia ‘off-screen’ in their texts. Groult reduced the powerful phallus to an unsightly piece of flesh in a chapter entitled ‘It’s red and rather funny’ (‘C’est rouge et puis c’est amusant’15), ridiculing Freud’s widely popularised theory of penis envy: ‘and we’re supposed to want one of those?’ (Groult, 1975, 191). Her graphic but vaguely fond description of testicles (‘poor little things, they look like two rather sickly toads huddling under the fragile branch of a tree’, 192) provides a nice riposte to that brutally misogynistic male discourse on women so admired in the writers such as Sade, Georges Académie Française – the august body responsible for the defence and promotion of the French language – declared gender-neutral modifications of grammar and terminology to be an ‘aberration’ that constituted a ‘mortal threat’ to the language, sparking a further impassioned debate. 15 The words are borrowed from a comic song about a tomato.

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Bataille and Michel Leiris whom she cites – and attacks – elsewhere in the book. Other forms of public intervention dealt explicitly with the misogyny signified by common nomenclature for women, with one MLAC campaign taking lists of insulting, sexualised terms for women, all from contemporary film posters, out onto the streets to stimulate discussion with passers-by.16 The Temps modernes column was part of a broader analysis of the misogyny entrenched in much everyday language, and Les Femmes s’entêtent includes a study of the insidiously anti-women discourse of women’s magazines (72–84). Beauvoir and the Ligue du Droit des femmes even drafted the text of an anti-sexist bill, modelled on the 1972 anti-racist law, and proposed it to Françoise Giroud, who did not see this as a priority for her department.17 The will to deconstruct existing language and forge the ‘words to say’ women’s experience resounds in the texts and films that marked 1975. Cixous exhorted women to ‘write woman’ (‘il faut que la femme écrive la femme’, Cixous, 1975a, 40), releasing energy repressed throughout history to explode masculine syntax and logic (40). Cardinal’s bestselling novel told the story of a woman on the verge of breakdown who recovers through the ‘talking cure’ of psychoanalysis and through writing: in other words, by finding a language that reveals the felt truth of physical and emotional experience. In film, too, the Musidora collective shared and published reflexions on women’s marginal space in the cinema industry (the book paroles … elles tournent would appear with des femmes in early 1976) and called for a new cinematic parole de femme. This might, some suggested, be characterised by less rapid cutting and fragmented framing than in ‘masculine’ cinema, by a slower rhythm and the ‘resonance of absence’ (Des femmes de Musidora, 1976, 19). These stylistic features are certainly present in Varda’s Daguerréotypes, a quiet documentary on the everyday life of her own neighbourhood in Paris, shot close to home both to keep the budget down and because the director was heavily pregnant at the time of shooting. Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman, shot with an almost wholly female crew, uses long, long takes and a largely static camera to render visible the texture of a woman’s domestic routine and the quiet desperation beneath its surface. In that same year Jeanne Moreau, one of French cinema’s most glamorous female stars (and a contributor to 16 See MLAC Bulletin, November 1975, in Laubier, 1990, 83. 17 The bill would be resuscitated in 1983 when Yvette Roudy was minister for women’s rights, only to be bitterly opposed by the advertising industry and a large section of the press and voted down in the National Assembly.

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paroles … elles tournent) stepped behind the camera to make Lumière, a film that centres on female friendship, Marguerite Duras brought out the slow, lyrical and wholly woman-centred India Song, and its star, Delphine Seyrig, in collaboration with the other Insoumuses, employed the new language of video to articulate MLF mockery of Françoise Giroud’s complicity in the patriarchal culture she claimed to oppose. Les Femmes s’entêtent used the image of encirclement: women were caught in an enclosing ring of oppression and must ‘break the circle’ to change their lives. That circle was formed in part by those who posed as ‘liberators’, and by their ‘allies, accomplices and victims’ (478). For many feminists of the MLF, Giroud belonged somewhere in this last category, between an accomplice and a victim. State Feminism and Françoise Giroud This explosion of effervescent feminist energy in the 1970s meant that women were now in the public eye and it was clear that the loud call from women for change needed to be taken seriously by the political establishment. When, in an effort to respond to this gathering momentum, Giscard d’Estaing invited Françoise Giroud in April 1974 to serve as ‘Secrétaire d’état à la condition féminine’, it was a move that was arguably ‘a world first’ (de Cordon, 1987, 134). Critics dismissed the measure as political expediency rather than genuine conviction: Claire Duchen shows how ‘the centre-right, under Giscard, prided itself on its powerless secretariat’ (1986, 135). Giroud’s pragmatism led her to accept the role but her decision brought puzzlement from political allies such as Pierre Mendès France and criticism from political enemies. The far left newspaper Lutte ouvrière published an attack on Giroud in an article on 8 March 1975, detailing many of her previous criticisms of Jacques Chirac (Giscard’s prime minister) and of Giscard himself, which Giroud subsequently glossed over forgivingly, insisting that ‘Giscard d’Estaing really wants to change things’, (Le Monde, 9–10 February 1975). Thus Giroud started off on the back foot: she had voted for the socialist candidate Mitterrand and had been very critical of Giscard’s UDR, and Jacques Chirac in particular. A mutual animosity had developed between Giroud and Chirac, who protested at her inclusion in the government and, when Giscard stayed firm, continued to snipe sporadically from the sidelines. From the start the post was inadequately resourced: Giroud had a handful of women MPs and a group of volunteers to help her in her

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mission. Her powers were limited; she had no real budget to speak of and ‘only the power to propose or to promote laws’ (Rabaut, 1978, 358). When in 1981 Yvette Roudy took office in the newly designated Ministère des droits de la femme under the Mitterrand administration, the budget that had been available to Giroud was increased tenfold. Roudy’s vision of a ‘women’s ministry’ retrospectively highlighted Giroud’s lack of any radical approach to feminist issues that concerned the patriarchal bias of everyday life, such as language. Roudy, unlike her predecessor, was sympathetic to Benoîte Groult’s campaign for linguistic equality and, controversially, appointed Groult president of the commission de féminisation des noms de metiers (Commission for the Feminisation of Professional Titles) in 1984. However, even though the secretariat’s remit was to be dwarfed by the later, better-equipped ministry, on 26 May 1975 Giroud still managed to present a hundred-point programme for women that included practical measures such as the requirement of the signature of both spouses on tax returns and the lowering of the retirement age for women to 60. Giscard’s logic in asking Giroud to lead his secretariat was clear. A former editor of Elle, she became co-editor of L’Express in 1953 with her colleague and erstwhile romantic partner Jean-Jacques ServanSchreiber, and took over alone at the helm when Servan-Schreiber was called up to military service during the Algerian War. Giroud was an important and influential cultural figure with clout. The fact that she was a high-profile public figure and ‘a star’ (Ockrent, 2003, 187) meant that she was able to speak to a broad range of women, not just the radical feminists of the MLF, and she had also had a long-standing interest in and commitment to women’s issues. Ever since her editorship of Elle in the immediate post-war period, she had encouraged women to believe in themselves, exhorting them to vote and consistently pushing for the legalisation of contraception and abortion. In 1972, in the pages of L’Express, she had asked pointedly why men were still able to dictate the agenda when it came to women’s bodies (L’Express, 27 November–3 December 1972). Despite her record on women’s rights, though, when asked whether she was a feminist Giroud dismissed the idea out of hand (1972, 227), showing herself to be out of step with contemporary feminist thinking in France. Her views on women’s roles were by now rather old-fashioned for the 1970s. She argued that women’s way to emancipation and fulfilment lay in the workplace but maintained that most women still aspired to and needed marriage as a central framework in their lives. Feminists

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rounded on her for privileging a mainstream, middle-class, heterocentric optic. To anyone familiar with Giroud’s work as a journalist, this stance could hardly come as a surprise. Her innovation of the Madame Express section in L’Express contained recipes and handy household hints to facilitate women running a home and holding down a job, but there was no question of rethinking patriarchal order. Revealingly, she had declared that the best way for women to get into politics was to convince their husbands to let them do it. ‘After all’, she remarked in a gauche jokey way, ‘they’re pretty smart at getting their husbands to roll up their sleeves when the kitchen needs repainting!’ (Femme-Pratique, 1974, 134). Giroud’s discourse and views were anachronistic, as can be seen from the outdated rhetoric on divorce, which she affirmed should always and only ever be a ‘last resort’ (Le Monde, 18–19 August 1974). Nor did she see herself as part of a collective movement, distancing herself from leading feminist thinkers. She dismissed Beauvoir, censuring her for ‘never having had to do a real job’ and for her sustained support from Jean-Paul Sartre (Marie-Claire, 1974). Although Giroud had spent some time in the US in the early 1950s, was familiar with US feminisms and claimed to ‘enjoy reading Kate Millett’ (1972, 227), she was on the whole far from sympathetic to (the widely read in France) work of American feminist Betty Freidan (Adler, 2011, 370). She seems to have remained unaware of the fierce feminist debates around ‘difference’, perceiving sexual difference in a traditional way. Despite her liberal economics and support for Mendès France, Giroud’s gender politics were more in tune with those of the women from the conservative Catholic centre and centre-right, an important section of the population but one largely absent from the MLF-dominated feminist zeitgeist of the mid-1970s.18 Confrontation: ‘Giroud, t’es pas dans le coup’ Many feminists expressed reservations about participating in state politics and law making. In fact, women’s involvement with party politics in any form was fraught with tensions (Duchen, 1986, 104), and state initiatives on gender were frequently seen as ‘bogus reforms’ (‘réformes-bidons’) (Duby and Perrot, 2002, 648). ‘New’ feminists were loath to tinker with a patriarchal bourgeois system and wanted instead to revolutionise it, 18 One important exception to this is writer and feminist Françoise Parturier, who was an unabashed devotee of Charles de Gaulle. See Long, 2011.

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a perspective encapsulated in Libération on 6 February 1975: ‘these measures – at least on paper – will improve women’s lot, but “improve” only ever means bringing women fully into the existing economic and socio-cultural order.’ The MLF suspected the secretariat of ‘having no real power to bring about anything other than cosmetic change’ (Laubier, 1990, 75). While support from radical feminists was understandably in short supply, even more ‘moderate’ feminists such as Benoîte Groult felt they could not endorse ‘this weird role, which is multiform and ill-defined’ (Le Nouvel Observateur, 22 July 1974, 22). French feminists were equally unimpressed by the UN’s international women’s year, a sentiment reflected in headlines such as ‘Neither the UN nor Giroud will speak for us’ (Libération, 10 March 1975, 3). The initiative was written off as a gimmick (‘une année gadget’) in a statement signed by feminist groups from most ‘wings’ of the MLF (Libération, 4 March 1975). The UN women’s year was also contentious because its goals were limited in scope; they were centred on improving access to contraception in order to halt the worldwide population surge and boosting general economic development. In France, beyond three days of events devoted to women from 1–3 March, promoted as the highlight of the women’s year, plans were rather nebulous. Aside from the three-day March conference, there was but vague talk of, for example, holding a women’s sporting event in Lyon later in the year. The conference in March was Giroud’s initiative and a showcase for her new secretariat. The themes under discussion ranged from ‘political participation, trade union activism, women in the workplace, women and the economy, women’s rights, women and family life, the environment, women and maternity, education and training’ to ‘culture and sport’. As Janine Froissart noted, it was a rather ‘vast’ and ambitious programme (Le Figaro, 1 March 1975). Unfortunately, several of the keynote speeches were given by men, with Giscard opening proceedings in front of the 2000 all-female audience at the Palais des congrès, Porte Maillot in Paris. His speech, which referred to women’s importance to the economy, was interrupted by a group of communist women who were present despite their official boycott of the event. Their intervention prior to ejection was brief but disruptive (Le Monde, 1 March 1975). Libération journalist Martine Storti complained of a ‘saccharine atmosphere […] bourgeois women have got the message that we need to talk about women so there they are, nattering away’ (Libération, 3 March 1975). The next day Storti described the conference as packed with women who looked as if they belonged to ‘an exclusive

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women’s club in the [well-heeled] 16th arrondissement of Paris’. ‘This is not a recuperation of the women’s struggle’, Storti continued the next day, ‘it’s a complete perversion of everything that women have said and done in the name of their cause’ (Libération, 4 March 1975). The middle-class appropriation of the event was underscored when Gisèle Halimi was booed for talking about class exploitation, further fuelling feminist anger: MLF protestors then quickly gathered at the event’s reception at the Hôtel de ville. Chirac rounded the event off by criticising the MLF, whom he accused of ‘intolerance’ and ‘a desire for destruction, which is some women intellectuals’ favourite pastime’. The mismatch between governmental endeavours and feminist feeling can be seen in the fact that although the French parliament was starting to pass some important legislation, such as the ending of gender discrimination for appointments to civil servant/public sector jobs,19 measures such as these not were seen as the real way to bring meaningful change, and feminist protests continued apace. Later the same month, 200 women from different feminist factions (MLF, MLAC, Pétroleuses, Femmes en luttes, Groupes de quartier) protested outside ‘Le Salon des arts ménagers’ (the Houseware and Domestic Arts Fair) at La Défense in Paris, making it clear that ‘No, Moulinex does not liberate women’ (Le Monde, 11 March 1975). Indeed, on 13 March, while Giroud attended an evening dinner-debate for young people at the Chamber of Commerce in Grenoble, 40 women from Choisir, MLAC and the CGT (one of the major trade unions) protested outside. A climate of hostility from class tendency feminists and women from the trade union movement on the issue of women and work formed the backdrop to Giroud’s mission. On 10 March a 3,000-strong women’s demonstration marched from the Bastille to the Place d’Italie, sporting banners with slogans such as ‘neither accomplices nor victims’ and the now iconic ‘but what do they want?’ (‘mais qu’est-ce qu’elles veulent?)’, referring to Freud’s incomprehension of women, which was used on the cover of Les Femmes s’entêtent. Placards urged ‘Giroud, get with it’ (‘Giroud t’es pas dans le coup’) and asked for ‘funds not fibs’ (‘des sous pas des bobards’) (Le Monde, 15 March 1975). These women were keen to distance themselves from Giroud, a point made when they chanted ‘ni clochettes 19 Other measures encompassed the banning of employers using pregnancy as a reason to dismiss or treat women differently and the raising of the age limit for appointment for single mothers/divorced women to jobs in the public sector.

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ni Girouettes’, clochette meaning Tinkerbell and girouette being a pun on Giroud’s name and the word for weather vane, symbolising political inconstancy (Libération, 10 March 1975). Attacks rained down from all sides and the radical left was particularly unsparing of Giroud. An unsigned article in the extreme left Front libertaire in May 1975 was rather rudely entitled ‘A year for women – what a load of bull’ (‘L’année de la femme et mon cul c’est du poulet’). Giroud was rejected by voices such as these because ‘she has nothing in common with women’s struggle because she reckons that all women can be like her and “succeed” in society if they want it badly enough and if they have a strong personality’. In October 1975 Giroud nonetheless met with the Ligue du droit des femmes, of which Simone de Beauvoir was president, to discuss issues which were of greater concern to most feminists than the legislative measures mooted so far – issues that figured centrally in the agenda of the MLF, such as rape, violence against women and working conditions for prostitutes (Le Nouvel Observateur, 20 October 1975). Positive progress such as this, though, was undermined by embarrassing episodes for Giroud such as the untimely publication in L’Express, the outlet of which she had been so recently editor and to which she was still contributing, of photos and excerpts from the sexually violent text and film Histoire d’O, just as the secretariat was working on legislation to tackle the widespread circulation of pornographic films in France (Le Nouvel Observateur, 8–14 September 1975). Giroud’s personal style did not always help her either. She was undoubtedly better at writing than talking and was often ill at ease at public functions, suffering from what Christine Ockrent terms ‘absolute awkwardness in public’ (2003, 180). She often smiled, according to friend and political ally Michèle Cotta, in order ‘to hide her emotions and to help her keep her composure’ (L’Express, 22–28 July 1974, 19). This tic would be mercilessly exploited by the 1975 film Maso and Miso, in which Giroud is seen to be grinning, somewhat inappropriately, while in conversation with Bernard Pivot on Apostrophes. 20 For someone so good with words, Giroud oddly lacked media savvy. In April 1975 Halimi got the better of her in a public debate: Giroud was no match for the lawyer’s persuasive eloquence, leading Bruno Frappat to observe that she was ‘much more of a writer than an orator’ (Le Monde, 30 April 1975).

20 See Chapter 14 in this volume.

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Conclusion: Legacies Giroud resigned from her post in August 1976, briefly moving to the post of minister of culture before leaving the government altogether. She is often derided in historical and empirical accounts of French feminism of the period, but her government role was undoubtedly something of a poisoned chalice. She had no budget, no real support and was politically cut adrift, as can be seen in her rivalry with Simone Veil who, as health minister, could actually get things done for women. When Giroud approached Giscard for a bigger budget, he flatly refused (Adler, 2011, 384). Her secretariat can plausibly be seen more as a public relations exercise by the new president than as a mandate for meaningful change. The political context with which she had to contend was extremely difficult. Isolated and lacking in political experience, she was attacked from both right and left. The hostile Chirac was a particularly heavyweight enemy, and even her mild reform projects alarmed a France that had only just approved the abortion bill (not passed officially until January 1975) and was still coming to terms with the impact of May 1968. From the left, Georges Marchais, general secretary of the French Communist Party, wrote her off as ‘just there to lend Giscard some credibility’ (‘une caution féminine’) and argued that her mission was to ‘make people think that the government is doing something for women and to try to convince French women of the necessity of austerity measures’ (Le Figaro, 6 September 1974; Le Monde, 29–30 September 1974). Opposition and mockery from the more radical feminist movement was a constant of her short time in office. However, Giroud’s mix of brash pragmatism and earnest endeavour is now looked back on fondly by some as an attempt to bring about institutional change for women in a pioneering age before the parity legislation of the 1990s. As Giroud said at the time, ‘If I manage to get a few things done for women by being in this government then I won’t be sorry to have been a part of it’ (Le Monde, 30 April 1975). Afterwards she commented rather wistfully, ‘I thought I could work to help women. I did what I could within the limits of what I had to work with. I don’t regret it. It was a positive act’ (L’Express, 24–30 October 1977). As a journalist at the time summed up her achievements: ‘although she lacks money and authority, Mme Françoise Giroud has nevertheless managed to establish a few ideas, some good intentions which can’t always fall on deaf ears’ (Le Nouvel Observateur, 7–13 June 1976). And she did leave a legacy. Although her departure allowed Chirac to immediately downgrade the already rather anodyne secretariat into

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a toothless ‘delegation’ headed by Nicole Pasquier, Giroud had laid the foundations for Yvette Roudy’s ministry only five years later, and helped change perceptions about women in power. Edith Cresson’s appointment as the first woman prime minister in 1991 represented a breakthrough which was then followed by Ségolène Royal’s landmark presidential candidature in 2007. Ockrent (2003, 187), in a rare moment of praise, notes how Giroud ‘quickly became the most popular personality in the government’, and acknowledges that she raised the profile of women as politicians. It is worth noting, too, that many of her 100 proposals were implemented later, leaving a lasting legacy to be more fully developed by others. Even though Duchen argues that ‘no action was ever taken to realise any of her suggestions’ (1986, 127), Albistur and Armogathe explain the complex afterlife of Giroud’s 100 measures, which, owing to the folding of the secretariat in September 1976, remained on the books if not fully ratified until years later (1978, 659–60). Giroud figured in the March 2017 women’s day issue of Marie Claire, a mass-market women’s magazine like her own Elle, as one of the ‘40 women who have changed our lives’. The article features a quotation from Giroud, highlighting her habitually wry humour: ‘Women will really be on an equal footing with men the day when they nominate a useless woman to a crucial role’ (46, 43–8). The legacy of the MLF is more palpable, more threaded into the feminist culture that has never gone away but is currently enjoying a strong resurgence as women react with anger and a renewed sense of solidarity to revelations of undiminished sexual violence and harassment and to the seemingly immutable nature of inequality. The tone of early 1970s feminism, that mix of rage and joy, outrage and humour, conflict and sisterhood, is present in the knitted pink pussy hats of the anti-Trump demonstrations, the vibrant tracts and postings of Ni putes ni soumises and all the other contemporary feminist activist groupings, the wealth of women’s books and films that – despite the resilient male bias of the cultural industries – continue to appear and to proliferate. Many of the 1975 texts have become classics – read, studied, acting as inspirations to millions of women in the francophone world and way beyond. Giroud’s cautious, but in the longer term productive, attempts to improve women’s legal and political situation also have their place in the narrative of French feminism and women’s history in France. The women’s movement, though, recognised (as had The Second Sex) that the exclusion of women from power was deeply embedded in the culture and that wilder, more radically subversive strategies were needed for the long, transformative struggle towards liberation.

chapter three

From Muse to Insoumuse Delphine Seyrig, Vidéaste Grace An From Muse to Insoumuse

For most cinephiles, the name Delphine Seyrig evokes ethereal beauty, gestural mannerism, high-literary experimentation and a chiselled, aristocratic bearing – qualities that were cemented by her role in the film that catapulted her career and left audiences spellbound: Alain Resnais’s 1961 Last Year at Marienbad. This performance forever caged her in the image of a heavenly ‘apparition’, reinforced by one admirer’s reading of divine destiny in her initials ‘DS’ as ‘déesse’ (Poirié, 2007): French for ‘goddess’. Even though Marienbad presented Seyrig to the world as a muse for art and literary – male auteurist – cinema,1 the 1970s witnessed a Seyrig who redirected her talents and commitments toward women’s cinema and an explicitly defined feminist politics. Through Seyrig, we can tell the history of 1970s French feminism as a media history, which she helped document by co-founding the Centre audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir, a feminist video archive, with co-conspirators Carole Roussopoulos (a singular vidéaste in her own right) and Ioana Wieder. While working on the periphery of the French New Wave, Seyrig associated with more politically committed Left Bank filmmakers such as Resnais and Agnès Varda, acted in films by photographer-filmmaker 1 Similar roles in other auteurist films include the titular character of Muriel (Alain Resnais, 1963), Fabienne Tabard in Baisers volés (François Truffaut, 1968), la Fée des lilas in Peau d’âne (Jacques Demy, 1970), and Simone Thévenot in Le Charme discret de la bourgeoisie (Luis Buñuel, 1972).

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Figure 1. Maso et Miso vont en bateau Courtesy of the Centre Audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir.

William Klein 2 and collaborated with filmmakers Chantal Akerman, Marguerite Duras and Ulrike Ottinger. Notable performances in films such as India Song and Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (both 1975) marked Seyrig’s transition into a film practice that was driven by women for women. Seyrig also acted on the stage – some 25 plays between 1952 and 1987 – but her accomplishments in the theatre, like her feminism, receded into the shadows of Marienbad and auteurist cinema. Critics have questioned the politics of films such as Jeanne Dielman and India Song, despite the counter-argument that politics and formalism weren’t mutually exclusive. If feminist politics were discerned at all, critics attributed it to the films’ directors, such as Akerman and Duras. Seyrig understood at the time that working as an actress and a feminist appeared oxymoronic, even impossible, which contributed to the erasure, if not dismissal, of the artistic and cultural labour of female performers and citizens. Moreover, film history has typically favoured the history of film directors. In pursuing this angle of approach, it has marginalised actors and actresses. Stars studies has become an important subfield investigating the industrial and capitalist side of cinema, propelled by a longstanding obsession with celebrity. Yet Seyrig’s story becomes all the more interesting for her rejection of stardom and her readiness to put her public image to social and political use, whatever the cost. The Marienbad muse-cum-agitator also appeared in public meetings 2 Mister Freedom (1968) and Qui êtes-vous, Polly Maggoo? (1966).

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and on the barricades on the side of workers on strike and signed the Manifeste des 343 demanding abortion rights alongside 342 other, often high-profile, women – acts which earned her the pejorative moniker ‘pétroleuse’ (a reference to the revolutionary women of the Paris Commune). It has been suggested that Harvey Karman introduced ground-breaking abortion methods to the MLF in Seyrig’s living room (Pavard, 2009, 29). Seyrig became the most famous anti-star whose principal platform became her talents and vision instead of her looks and marketability. This stance prevented her, alas, from assuming the place she deserves in the history of cinema. We can better appreciate Seyrig’s contributions to the histories of feminist media practices and French feminism if we study her work across the many categories that prove her versatility: auteur cinema, feminist video and militant cinema, which I address in a forthcoming monograph on Seyrig. This article will focus on her militant video work to expose the radicality of her gender politics. Her fans will be astonished to learn that she completed militant video work during the early to late 1970s, both individually and as a member of the feminist film collective Les Insoumuses (Figure 1). An accidental reframing of their original name, Les Femmes s’amusent (Women having fun), Les Insoumuses combined ‘insoumise’ (France’s adjective for a fiercely independent woman) and ‘muse’. Marked by the events of May 1968 and the founding of the Mouvement de libération des femmes (MLF) in 1970, their activist bandes vidéo captured women’s lives through a raw documentary lens, as opposed to idealised images of women in film and television, therefore bringing the off-screen on screen. 3 More independently, Seyrig’s individual works included Sois belle et tais-toi (Be Pretty and Shut Up, 1976), one of the first feature-length documentaries devoted to the subject of the film actress, and Inês (1974), which urged the release of a female Brazilian political prisoner. Seyrig’s shift from intellectual actress to cinéaste militante raises important questions regarding the conditions and implications of the work assumed by feminist cultural workers, and how they inscribed themselves in their times. Rather than consider Seyrig’s different incarnations as radically incompatible, it is important to appreciate the continuum she travelled along: on the one hand, serving as a muse

3 See Grant (2016) and Biet and Neveux (2007) for comprehensive accounts of militant cinema in France.

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for art cinema and, on the other, striking out as a disobedient muse, confronting the misogynist practices of the 1970s.4 Vidéastes Entre Elles – Women’s Collective Filmmaking Seyrig’s successful circulation through different categories of media production complicates narratives of her career, as the histories specific to each category split her narrative into mutually isolated parts. Militant cinema remains removed from histories of auteur cinema of the same period, and even within that micro-history, feminist militant cinema remains more marginal still (Fleckinger, 2007a). At the time, Seyrig already understood that her versatility did not increase but rather split her audiences. 5 Beyond acting and filmmaking, she found another tactic for de-isolating women’s experiences and their representation by engaging in the archiving of their histories. With vidéaste Roussopoulos and lifelong friend and collaborator Ioana Wieder she founded in 1982 the Centre audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir, which remains an important archive of feminist video and ‘la matrimoine’ (women’s cultural heritage), according to its director, Nicole Fernandez Ferrer. Seyrig’s career also offers an opportunity to emphasise the almost simultaneous emergence of video and the MLF. Affected by the events of May 1968, many women seized upon video, a medium immediately conceived as an instrument for militant action, as it had yet to be appropriated and monopolised by institutions – and men. In fact, Roussopoulos was the second person in France to own a Sony Portapak after its arrival in France in 1969 (Jean-Luc Godard was reportedly 4 Françoise Audé (1981) attempts to reconcile the tensions between Seyrig’s different images: ‘C’est par son engagement personnel, féministe, qu’elle oblige la femme à faire surface au travers de la trop belle enveloppe […] Si “performance” il y a, Delphine la réalise au service d’une vérite profonde et au service du Mouvement des femmes’, p. 86. (‘It is through her personal engagement as a feminist that she reveals the woman beneath the beautiful appearance […] If Delphine “performs”, she does so in the service of truth and of the Women’s Movement.’) 5 Seyrig: ‘C’est vrai que ce que je fais s’addresse à un public restreint […] À une époque où les médias s’adressent à tant de gens, je considère comme un privilège de parler à peu: les gens qui viennent voir ce que je fais font un effort’ (unidentified source). (‘It’s true that what I do is addressed to a limited public […] In an era when the media address the many, I consider it a privilege to speak to the few: those who come to see my work make an effort to do so.’)

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the first), and she opened her private home to the teaching of video to Seyrig and Wieder, among others. Only one year later, in 1970, the MLF was founded and took advantage of this new and ‘concrete’ means of expression – and ‘participation’. Training on video occurred away from film schools and state institutions, consistent with video’s capacity for counter-cultural, anti-establishment practices, such as institutional criticism, which were immediately tied to women’s emancipation. Indeed, as the feminist collective VIDEA expressed in their manifesto: ‘We claim video as a feminist intervention. By women for women, we film our struggles, our lives, our dreams […] Everything concerning us should be said by us, and not by men who, claiming a monopoly on media, distort information.’ Television was the medium that especially embodied these dominant and monopolitical discourses, and video soon became understood as counter-information, if not counter-television, providing a platform for a multiplicity of voices. Roussopoulos and other vidéastes immediately formed video collectives such as Vidéo Out, Vidéo 00, and les Cent Fleurs, which, along with les Insoumuses and VIDEA, eventually constituted a distribution network named by Seyrig Mon Œil (‘My Eye’) and directed by Marque and Marcel Moiroud. Participation in collectives corresponded to the counter-cultural spirit of the times, rejecting hierarchy and the usually male first-person singular.6 In her seminal study Video: la Mémoire au poing (1981) media scholar Anne Marie Duguet characterised the effects of ‘the emergence of a new social language’ with this new medium: ‘revolutionise human relations, activate communication between social groups, encourage personal expression’ (Duguet, 1981). Jean-Paul Fargier, a critic for the journal Cinéma Militant and Cinéthique, observed ‘romantic’ notions surrounding the idea and the ideal of a collective, particularly ‘the radicalization of cinema’, while video essentially offered ‘the only cinema possible to actualize a cinema of struggle’ (Fargier, 2006).7 It liberated women from financial dependency by creating easier affordability of and access to equipment, 6 This lies in contradistinction to the first-person singular of male auteur cinema, as foregrounded by Geneviève Sellier in the title of her book La Nouvelle Vague: un cinéma au masculin singulier (Paris: Broché, 2005), which offers the most specific and helpful account of the New Wave in relation to Seyrig’s work as an actress of that time. 7 Fargier’s writings have since been edited into the volume Ciné et TV vont en vidéo (De l’incidence éditeur, 2010).

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as outlined in the VIDEA manifesto. Anne Marie Faure-Fraisse, one of VIDEA’s co-founders, noted the direct connection between ‘autonomous production without the slightest bit of financial assistance’ and their ‘freedom of speech (Faure Fraisse, 2004). Dominique Poggi explained the new cultural logic around video: ‘It’s more live than tracts. It’s dynamic. We didn’t care if it wasn’t preserved or archived’ (Poggi, 2013). No longer driven by ‘posterity’, or the desire for future perfect historical importance, different forms of circulation and authorship came into play. Eventually, video collectives realised the importance of networks and centralised coordination for exhibition. As Roussopoulos explained: Everything evolved in function of new audiovisual media. In the beginning, since there weren’t any VHS players in institutions, public places, etc., we had to take care of distribution ourselves. People would call us and we’d go screen our films in employment councils, for women’s groups, at university campuses, the University of Vincennes, and sometimes in markets. (Fleckinger, 2007b)

Maso et Miso vont en bateau (Maso and Mise take a boat trip) would prove the exception to the rule that cinemas didn’t have the equipment to project these videos since the cinema-theatre l’Olympique-Entrepôt successfully projected this film, perhaps Les Insoumuses’ best-known work. In short, video was construed more as action and participation, and less as the creation of an artefact or work of art. Questions about signature resonated differently, too. Seyrig, Roussopoulos, Wieder and sociologist Nadja Ringart did not each work on every single video attributed to les Insoumuses, the collective they formed together. Authorship became yet another difficult factor to consider in collective work, which carried its own tactics of counter-memorialisation. We can observe the converging histories of feminism and media in the 1976 video by les Insoumuses: S.C.U.M. Manifesto, which borrowed its title from the original 1967 text by American Valerie Solanas, most famous for her failed attempt to murder Andy Warhol in 1968 yet credited for her contributions to feminism.8 Since the manifesto was out of print, les Insoumuses filmed the reproduction of an excerpt to apply pressure on French editors to resume publication and distribution. The sparse mise-en-scène of S.C.U.M. Manifesto allows Seyrig’s famous 8 See Avital Ronell’s comprehensive and spirited introduction to S.C.U.M. Manifesto (Solanas, 2016).

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voice to call attention to itself, yet, instead of reciting a literary text or screenplay, as in India Song and L’Année dernière à Marienbad, Seyrig’s reading performed a video translation and dissemination of Solanas’s original work while Roussopoulos took dictation on the typewriter. When asked to explain the presentation of the television between them in the kitchen, Seyrig replied, ‘It’s where the feminist movement was born’ (Seyrig, 1987). It is silent except when Roussopoulos raises the volume to hear the news, whose coverage oscillates between that of conflict (nuclear disarmament in the former USSR, Protestants and Catholics marching together in Dublin and terrorism in Buenos Aires) and footage of women in protest. After all, Roussopoulos claimed, they sought to draw connections between Solanas’s text and other important moments of feminism. Les Insoumuses filmed S.C.U.M. Manifesto in Seyrig’s apartment, with Roussopoulos’s husband Paul working the camera and the actor Sami Frei, Seyrig’s partner, monitoring the sound. No editing occurred between the original footage and the final product (Fleckinger, 2007b, 95). The only camera movement resides in the slightly changing proximity between the camera and the television, but never enough to coincide perfectly with the images on the small screen. Video therefore remains visibly framed by the S.C.U.M Manifesto as both a counter-discourse against the institutional voices of television and a new platform for resistance, now manipulable for the once passive spectator, who finds agency therein. However banal such behaviours may appear today, S.C.U.M Manifesto shows women’s hands on media – the typewriter, the television, the microphone, the book and, implicitly, the video camera (Figures 2 and 3). It shifts the paradigm of women’s work in domestic spaces, which is made clear by the last moment of the film, when Seyrig and Roussopoulos have left the frame (Figure 4). Roussopoulos verbally signs the film in voiceover as ‘Delphine et Carole’, thus removing patriarchal family names and cementing the spirit of the collective endeavour, rendered more intimate and familiar. Although never confirmed by Solanas herself, the understanding of S.C.U.M. as signifying Society for Cutting Up Men risks a reductive characterisation of its complex polemical discourse as castrating rather than adversarial. It also established the collective’s reputation for producing ‘des films vengeurs’ (avenger films) (Hermann, 1998, 152). A more attentive reading of Solanas’s manifesto, and by extension the film, reveals both an unusual authorship (yet again) and a speech act

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Figures 2, 3, 4. S.C.U.M Manifesto Courtesy of the Centre Audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir.

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Figure 5. Apostrophes Courtesy of the Centre Audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir.

by a single woman and amplified by others, a cogent analysis of the corrosive effects of the patriarchal order, and a repudiation of violence committed against women on the physical, sexual, socio-economic, political and institutional levels. The visual presence of the television and the typewriter together, in tension with the recitation of the manifesto and the broadcast of the news, presents media at work by and for this feminist video collective seeking to re-envision the media ecology that affected their lives, up to and including the symbolic space of the kitchen table. Between television and typewriter, les Insoumuses explore the political potential of media technologies to concrétiser their commitments, enriched by a reading and a hearing of Solanas’s political vision. Les Insoumuses also pursued this agonistic dialogue between television and video in their response to a 1975 episode of the television programme Apostrophes, whose star host Bernard Pivot invited Françoise Giroud, the newly appointed but reluctant secretary of state for women (Figure 5). The title of the episode was ‘Encore un jour de l’Année de la femme. Ouf! C’est fini!’ (Only one more day of the year of Women and then it’s over!), referring to the declaration of 1975 by the United Nations as the Year of the Woman while expressing the frustration felt by misogynists and feminists alike. After Seyrig recorded this episode at home on her broadcast videotape recorder, she and her co-conspirators remixed and reframed the original footage in what became their best-known film, Maso et Miso vont en bateau (1975). Their tactics and antics grapple with the offensive absurdity of statements made by the specimens of male misogyny that Pivot ‘promised’ to deliver (‘Je vous ai promis des misogynes!’) – which is to say, public

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or powerful men such as Marcel Julian, CEO of Antenne 2; Marc Féraud, fashion designer; Christian Guy, chroniqueur gastronomique; and Jacques Martin, journalist. Hand-written title cards punctuate original found footage and prerecorded interviews, while other gestures, deploying the wide range of video’s expressivity and manipulability, regale the viewer with music and sound effects, pause on images demanding further attention, and present the self-conscious repetition of statements that surprise no one within the frame but astonish les Insoumuses, whom we hear in running voiceover commentary. Language play abounds as well, especially once viewers have suffered Pivot’s rhetorical questions (‘Misogyny, does it really exist?’) and assertions by his guests that misogyny is either nonexistent or justified for ‘natural’ reasons. When Giroud dares to utter ‘C’est normal’, Seyrig and friends issue the rejoinder title card ‘C’est normâle’. Indeed, video enables les Insoumuses to hyperbolise statements and behaviours whose motivating sexism has become ‘normâlised’ and invisible over time. Pivot constantly forces Giroud to declare the non-existence of sexism, yet overwhelms her with the misogynists’ claims of male superiority. In fact, Giroud forecloses every critique of sexism with compulsive reassurances that ‘tout va bien’ (‘everything’s fine’) – even ‘très bien’. In response, les Insoumuses perform an entertaining but incisive deconstruction of this mise-en-scène of reactivity. When Giroud defends super-misogynist couturier Louis Ferrand by explaining, ‘He’s not a misogynist, he’s just fascinated by women’, les Insoumuses issue an unrelenting series of title cards, each a commentary on what it means to be ‘fascinated by women’ (Figures 6–8). The editing of this special episode of Apostrophes by les Insoumuses reveals how Pivot had positioned Giroud in a purely reactive role and forced her to come to the rescue of his male guests. Giroud might have preferred to forget this performance, given the future controversy regarding her secrétariat, and it surprised no one that she tried to suppress the screening of Maso et miso vont en bateau at l’Olympique-Entrepôt. Throughout the film, les Insoumuses reposition Giroud among other female voices – journalist Anne Sinclair (who interviews many of the guests), Simone de Beauvoir (recalling a well-established rivalry between her and Giroud), and others – in their remixing of the episode of Apostrophes responding to l’année de la femme. At the end of Maso et miso vont en bateau, les Insoumuses explain that they seek not to attack the character of Giroud but the selection of one woman to ‘incarner’, or

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The title cards read: ‘Like the man who feels us up in the metro’; ‘Like the man who rapes us in the suburbs’; ‘Like the man who goes to prostitutes’.

Figures 6, 7, 8. Maso et Miso vont en bateau Courtesy of the Centre Audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir.

personify, all women, especially in a patriarchal government. They also acknowledge that a woman such as Giroud must oscillate between, on the one hand, the necessity to please (‘maso’ for ‘masochism’) and, on the other, the misogynistic desire for power, which leads to masculinisation (‘miso’ for ‘misogyny’). Against Giroud’s cheerful insistence that ‘tout va bien’, les Insoumuses articulate an alternative set of responses for Giroud and reopen lines of inquiry that she has shut down, all the way to the closing credits, which reveal an apparatus of enduring female subordination yet to be redressed: ‘alienated camerawomen’, ‘exploited actresses’, ‘frustrated women directors’, and ‘revolted journalists’ (Figures 9–12). Their penultimate title card addresses their use of video: ‘It’s through video that we will recount our lives’ (Figures 13–14), after which they sign the film on a first-name basis (Figure 15). By pitching video against television, les Insoumuses multiply the voices representing ‘Woman’ in face of the one single voice installed by the producers of Apostrophes in the person of Giroud. Video thus presented opportunities for alternative readings and uses of media by women on the institutional, technical and cultural levels. As Ringart explained during a seminar on the first waves of video, ‘We were passive when it came to using television as a tool. We didn’t

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Figures 9, 10, 11, 12. Maso et Miso vont en bateau, the credits Courtesy of the Centre Audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir.

react. Twitter and texting weren’t available at the time.’ She further observed how unusual it was to record a television programme in the first place, in order to do something even more unusual – a re-viewing of the programme that extended the opportunity to respond. The humour served ‘as a weapon’ (Ringart, 2013), one of sublimation and subversion. Les Insoumuses seized upon the oppositional and alternative modes of expression afforded by video, as suggested by Duguet, who identified ‘the disassociation that it brings about within lived experience’, which maintained a space for inquiry and enabled a series of ‘critical manipulations of dominant codes of representation’ (Duguet, 1981, 83–9). These vidéastes deployed video’s transformational expressivity to undo the illusion of objectivity, itself an effect of the normative and instrumentalist discourses of television. How vital their editing techniques have

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Figures 13, 14, 15. The closing credits Courtesy of the Centre Audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir.

become to our age, dominated by social media and the countless Twitter and Facebook memes to late-night comedians and mockumentary filmmakers, all deconstructing the lies and absurdity produced in social and political spaces. However mainstreamed such practices appear today, we should not forget their radicality – especially through their implementation by les Insoumuses – in the 1970s. Feminist Actress–Director Seyrig’s experiences with les Insoumuses gave her critical tools to examine the most pernicious aspect of the film industry yet: the cultural and creative labour of the film actress. In 1976 she released a featurelength documentary Sois belle et tais-toi (Be Pretty and Shut Up), where 23 actresses discussed the conditions of an industry that subjected them to deceit, abuse and exploitation. It was by becoming a director that Seyrig could give voice to her perspective as an actress. Sois belle et tais-toi presented a panorama of actresses from diverse backgrounds: French, American, Québécoise, British; television, stage, film; internationally famous leading ladies, as well as lesser-known actresses in niche roles, all interviewed in Hollywood in 1975 or Paris in 1976. Shot in

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video by Roussopoulos, they appeared in a long series of video-portraits in stationary medium shots, a key form for early video. No actress ever appeared with another, 9 but their remarks converged into shared experiences of abuse in a documentary presentation addressing them on the same plane, with no hierarchy despite celebrity differentials. Industrial practices and mainstream approaches to women on screen removed, the actresses reclaimed their work in direct opposition to the alienation imposed by their industry. Sois belle et tais-toi begins by jumping head-first into a young woman’s decision to become an actress. Seyrig has asked each actress if she would have become an actor if born a man; that most actresses respond ‘no’ is startling. Millie Perkins volunteers, ‘If I were born a man, I dare say I would have had a larger choice over what I went after. I don’t think I would’ve been an actor.’ She is the first of several actresses to describe acting as an answer to a girl’s dream to ‘escape’ from a restricting life, only to find herself imprisoned again. ‘With the background I had,’ Perkins remembers, ‘girls had to do it themselves, to break away, to go after a life adventure by themselves without the help of their parents.’ Acting also constituted one of very few professional outlets available to women, yet financial and personal autonomy remained the province of husbands and male authority figures. Subsequent remarks reveal the actresses’ general view of a film industry that was created by and for men, as expressed in stories of stereotypes of women reinforced by limiting roles, ageism, intellectual repression, coercion if not violence, pressure to undergo enhancement (i.e. plastic surgery, makeup, wardrobe) and especially the lack of agency in the face of other personnel on the set: directors, producers and even screenwriters, who are unavoidably male. While certain actresses sound analytical and reflective, others hardly refrain from emoting or performing their analyses with humour to counter the misogyny they describe. They immediately tackle the myth of cinema as a body of ‘love stories for women’. In fact, the consensus among the actresses, ranging from Jane Fonda and Cindy Williams to Ellen Burnstyn, Shirley MacLaine and Hélène du Bois, holds that filmmaking valorises both male hierarchies and relationships between men. Viva, most known for her work in films by Andy Warhol, declares cinema as ‘covert homosexuality’, even ‘an all-encompassing gay male world’, pitching women against each other while preventing them from, 9 One exception: a two-shot of Pat D’Arbanville and Jenny Agutter.

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say, directing or screenwriting.10 Maria Schneider, who became the object of most of the scandal of Last Tango in Paris (1972), addresses her erasure off-screen.11 ‘Bertolucci and Brando’, she offered, ‘those two, they did this film together, between themselves’, reinforcing Rose Di Gregorio’s observation that cinema is ‘a bunch of love stories between men’. No love for the actress. Another ‘vicious circle’, as identified by model–actress Rita Renoir, is the cycle of ignorance, wilfully perpetuated by the scripting of female characters based on ‘women who do not exist’ (Jane Fonda). By the end of the first quarter of the film, the actresses have itemised the limiting repertoire of female roles: nurse, housewife, prostitute, alcoholic. According to Mady Norman, roles are even more limiting for black actresses. If it’s going to be an industry of lies, stereotypes and falsehoods, these actresses seem to say, at least make them interesting. Millie Perkins exclaims, ‘Psychopathic killer … now that’s a great role!’ An acting career resembles marriage insofar as they constitute two of the limited paths offered to women, and both lead to the same conclusion: existential ruin for a stock life character, the ‘ridiculous woman who doesn’t exist’. Like Seyrig herself when interviewed by journalists, Pat D’Arbanville pleads with the film industry to depict women naturalistically: ‘I’d like to portray what I really am […] a woman with real experiences, not the clichés of cinema.’ How these actresses long for a diversity of roles that mirror the diversity of experiences of women, whether lived or desired. Other exclusively male privileges include immunity from ageism, which means that ‘men can be attractive their entire lives’ (Louise Fletcher), and freedom, the principal object of envy for these women, who suffer coercion on a regular basis. Barbara Steele exclaims, ‘I haven’t played anything I’ve liked for so long […] you’re always doing things you don’t want to […] always generalised situations, bad karma.’ If it’s not coercion, it’s violence, as suffered by Rita Renoir when she left home at the age of 16 to become a dancer and actress in Africa. The 10 Even Ellen Burstyn exclaims toward the end of the film, ‘It never would have occurred to me that we could be directors!’, as if a nascent epiphany had just befallen her. 11 In 2007, Schneider eventually revealed in an interview that she had been essentially raped during the production of Last Tango, but people only really paid attention when Bertolucci himself admitted it in 2013, a year after Schneider died of cancer. This story reappeared in venues such as Variety as I finished this article in late 2016.

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humiliation hurled at these actresses is most intensely expressed halfway through the film, when Renoir exclaims the following: Plier pour qu’ils se sentent exister. Plier l’autre pour qu’ils se sentent exister soi. Pas éduquer. Pas agrandir la conscience de l’autre. Plier l’autre pour se sentir plus grand. C’est ce que j’ai ressenti. (Bend over so that they can feel their own existence. Bend the other person over so that they feel their own existence. Don’t educate. Don’t raise the consciousness of the other. Bend the other over in order to feel bigger. That’s what I experienced.)

Misogyny begets masochism again (maso et miso). Jill Clayburgh describes how misogyny determines the professional – and emotional – arc of an actress: the desire to be accepted, get a part, achieve, depend on one’s ‘daddy’ – in other words, the necessary self-subjection to an external power to complete the work that has been determined by someone else. Motivated by her signature interest in relationships between women, Seyrig attempts to redress the resulting isolation of women from each other. The actresses’ surprise upon receiving her question ‘Have you experienced enjoyable relations with women on set?’ suggests the likelihood that Sois belle et tais-toi offers them the first opportunity to countenance such a notion. A chorus of actresses resounds through French New Wave actress Anne Wiazemsky, whose remarks about a script were misinterpreted as aggression by the male director. Her contemporary Juliette Berto recounts that Céline et Julie vont en bateau (1974) was the only film in which she could contribute artistic vision: ‘[Jacques] Rivette allowed us to co-create the film with him.’ With Seyrig as director on one side of the camera, and these thinking and speaking actresses on the other, we can understand this film as having been co-directed (or ‘co-created’) by the actresses who bring their lived experiences to light. Away from bright lights, manipulative close-ups, glamour shots and all Hollywood stagecraft exploiting their corporeal ways, the actresses are shot from the shoulders up and without makeup, including Maria Schneider, who speaks candidly about Last Tango in Paris without the requisite and now infamous black lines around her eyes, and whose scripted and typecasted air, she claims, was ‘vulgar and perverse’. By the end of Sois belle et tais-toi the actresses allow for some optimism and oxygen to enter this hell, a partial reversal of the film’s beginning, where Perkins and others declare they would never have become actors if born male. Mady Norman speaks about an ‘evolution’

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in roles for African-American women, while Marie DuBois discusses the need for women to be writers, to write their own roles and scripts – a future she and Wiazemsky eventually pursue. The last actress to speak is Burnstyn, who optimistically exclaims, ‘We will change things […] we need to save the planet. Women need to be themselves. I never would want to be a man.’ In effect, Sois belle et tais-toi enacts precisely what the men of cinema had suppressed: the recognition of actresses’ work as work, while generating dialogue and consciousness. Indeed, this film invites actresses to perform the opposite of Rita Renoir’s definition of an actress: ‘someone who is always working on other people’s projects’. They reclaim their work as work in their terms. It is worth noting that Seyrig could not reclaim her work as an actress from the working standpoint of an actress, but only as a director. Interestingly enough, the documentary’s use of interviews opposes the ways Seyrig was herself directed in the interviews she reluctantly gave to journalists. After all, she was known for resisting, if not offending, entitled and aggressive journalists – even winning the annual Prix Citron from journalists for distinguishing herself as an especially difficult subject with a very short temper.12 In her film Seyrig asks no questions about family secrets or love lives. Instead, she focuses on the work and on friendship between women. The deceptive simplicity and deceptively minimal direction form a baseline for the multiple effects of counterrepresentation against dominant modes of presenting actresses on screen. Inês (1974), the other short film that Seyrig directed, was a call to action, urging Brazilian president General Ernesto Geisel to issue an immediate and unconditional order for the liberation of Inês Etienne Romeu, one of many political activists taken prisoner in Rio de Janeiro in 1971. This militant musical video-tract presents Romeu’s suicide attempt, portrayed by Brazilian actress Normal Bengell (Figures 6 and 7), hardly recognisable because of the stripping of her body to a raw nakedness, yet covered in body paint. Bengell’s acting competes with the dominance of both the song Amada amante (‘beloved love’), supposedly played when Romeu was being tortured, and the décor, which replicates ‘the Petropolos House of Death’, out of which no prisoner was to emerge alive. 12 Journalists started awarding the Prix Citron in the 1950s to celebrities deemed to be difficult and bad tempered. Other recipients include Gérard Philippe, Léo Ferré and Simone Signoret. Since 1981, this prize has been determined by les Internationaux de France in connection to the French Open tournament, and therefore focuses on tennis players.

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Figures 16 and 17. Inês Courtesy of the Centre Audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir.

Despite Romeu’s wish to die in order to protect her family, the police tortured and raped her for three months and denied her all rights, including the reconsideration of a trial, according to the Congrès international du mouvement de la libération des femmes held in Frankfurt during November 1974. Eventually, Romeu escaped, and her testimony helped disseminate knowledge of the Petropolos House’s existence. In this video-tract, Seyrig directly addressed President Geisel and insisted that one should ‘denounce and judge all who are found guilty of crimes against women’.

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Identification with her subjects and heroines continued in her last film project, Calamity Jane, which she was unable to complete before her death in 1990. In her treatment for the film, Seyrig described Calamity Jane as an ‘eccentric’ who had transgressed norms and refused to succumb to the expectations of a traditional woman: ‘Every now and then, throwing herself into adventure and action in a style generally reserved for men, while at other times giving herself over to demands and passions specific to women’ (Seyrig, undated). In 1903 she died essentially alone, ravaged by alcoholism, near a town aptly named Deadwood in the middle of South Dakota. National and folk heroes remain interesting bedfellows in this story, since Calamity Jane is first evoked as sharing company with the likes of Wild Bill Hikok and even Lewis and Clark, the famous explorers of the Louisiana Purchase, the territory President Thomas Jefferson bought from the French. Drawing inspiration from an epistolary journal left by Calamity Jane herself, Seyrig found a first-person narrative, whose words would be the only ones spoken in the entire film – by Seyrig herself in voice-over. Footage captured by Jeanne Dielmann cinematographer Babette Mangolte of Seyrig’s research trip in the US consists of encounters with American women who knew Jean Hikok McCormick, Calamity Jane’s daughter. We watch Seyrig the archivist–historian attempting to reconstruct Calamity Jane through artefacts that had passed through many hands. Calamity Jane never reached completion and thus remains a trace of the future that Seyrig lost when succumbing to cancer in 1990. Contact, Conversation, Community Seyrig’s video work heightens awareness of the potentialities yet contingencies of a militant media practice and its recording – or erasure – in cultural memory. From the live moment to its memorialisation, or between the ephemeral and the historical, Seyrig’s work with les Insoumuses has been caught between conflicting impulses regarding the temporality of eternal struggle or its resolution through posterity. Between Marienbad and militant cinema, Seyrig’s career, from muse to insoumuse, may find its rightful place in film history with expanded frameworks and categories of understanding, and informed dialogue (however agonistic) between them. When, during a televised interview, Anne Sinclair asked Seyrig ‘What defines your feminism?’, Seyrig replied, ‘Communication with other

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women, listening to women when they speak, speaking with them’ (Sinclair, 1980). Not that she would claim to speak for others – in fact, Seyrig would comment often in interviews that she spoke only for herself. But the company of and solidarity with others remained crucial. Seyrig insisted upon her constant quest for ‘new forms’ in order to ‘make films and speak out without men as intermediaries’, to initiate ‘points of contact’ between women and to ‘wreak havoc on norms’ (Seyrig, 1987). From muse to insoumuse, Seyrig brought new meaning to the words ‘actor’ and ‘acting’, as her works of art were also actions, contributions to an unending feminist struggle to show – and change – the truth of women’s work and lives.

part 2

Then and Now: Feminism and Public Arenas

chapter four

Work–Family Reconciliation Policy in France Challenging or Reinforcing the Gender Division of Domestic and Care Work since the 1970s? Jan Windebank Work–Family Reconciliation Policy in France

In her preface to Les Femmes s’entêtent, Simone de Beauvoir writes that the anti-sexist struggle must not simply be targeted at social structures but that it should ‘target that which is the most private and which seemed the most certain to all of us’ (1975, 13). This idea is akin to the oft-repeated English slogan of second wave feminism: ‘the personal is political’, a particularly pertinent idea to apply to the question of men’s and women’s roles in the family. In the 1970s, within the context of what came to be known as ‘the domestic labour debates’, Marxist feminists such as Danielle Drevet (1977), writing in the Revue d’en face, and radical feminists such as Christine Delphy (1977) debated materialist accounts of the oppression of women, arguing over whether it was primarily capitalism or patriarchy that women’s unpaid domestic and care work (social reproduction) served. Theorists on all sides sought to reveal the power relations in the home that were masked by the notion that unpaid work for the family was a ‘labour of love’ or the simple result of biological function. Through subsequent feminist analysis the mechanisms by which women’s responsibility for the home and child-rearing acted as barriers to progress in other areas of life, such as politics, leisure and, very importantly, employment, were laid bare. Moreover, feminists argued that for women to be relieved of this

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domestic burden both as individuals and collectively, and therefore for real gender equality to come about, it was necessary for men’s role to change in the home (Delphy, 1977). During the 1970s France, alongside the Scandinavian countries, began developing suites of work–family reconciliation policies to help women maintain a relationship with the labour market throughout motherhood. However, while work–family reconciliation policy particularly in Sweden, Denmark and Finland, and to a slightly lesser extent in Norway, were heavily influenced by second wave feminist thought on the importance of men participating in unpaid work, as well as on women’s right to employment, in France only the right to employment for women was addressed (Revillard, 2006). The result was that although the work– family reconciliation policy that developed over the ensuing 40 years in France enabled women to emerge from the home and enter employment – in 1975 the economic activity rate for French women of working age (15–64) was 48 per cent but by 2014 it had risen to 67.5 per cent (INSEE, 2014) – change in the gender division of domestic and care work in the French family, as evidenced by France’s regular time-budget studies, was much slower than in Scandinavia. Furthermore, reductions in the difference between men’s and women’s unpaid work came about essentially by women doing less of it, helped by technology, domestic outsourcing or changes to cultural expectations concerning standards of housekeeping, rather than by men doing more such work (Brousse, 2015). For example, in 1986 French women aged 15 to 60 spent on average five hours and seven minutes per day on ‘domestic labour’ widely defined (to cover cleaning, laundry, shopping, cooking, care, DIY and gardening) whilst men spent only two hours and seven minutes on these activities. Nearly 25 years later, in 2010, the average amount of time spent on domestic labour by women had decreased by one hour and six minutes to four hours and one minute per day, whereas the time spent on these activities by men had only increased by six minutes per day to two hours and 13 minutes (Ricroch, 2012). Furthermore, it is still women who disrupt their careers in order to raise children: Govillot (2013) notes that in France more than half of mothers stop or reduce their employment after the birth of their children over and above statutory maternity leave, whereas this is the case for only 12 per cent of fathers. Agreeing with Fuwa and Cohen (2007, 513–14) that ‘social policy […] contributes material and ideological support for a certain division of household labour’, this chapter explores the influence of work–family reconciliation policy in France on the gender division of labour in the home and asks

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whether the recent changes in work–family reconciliation policy in France that for the first time target the behaviour of men – namely the introduction of a ‘daddy quota’ into parental leave benefits – represent a fundamental shift and feminist turn in reconciliation policy that may eventually lead to the greater equality in domestic and care work which materialist feminists were calling for in the 1970s. In the 1960s a modernising and expanding economy gave opportunities to French women to take up posts in the growing service sector and by the 1970s mothers were using the facilities and benefits on offer from the state to continue working frequently on a full-time basis after childbirth, part-time work being very underdeveloped in the French labour market. On offer to parents were free full-time nursery schools – the écoles maternelles, which had existed since the nineteenth century – for children aged three to six; local-authority-run crèches for the under-threes; and a benefit to cover childcare costs – the allocation pour frais de garde, introduced as early as 1972. As Fagnani (1998, 58) notes, French family policy at this time was informed by the ‘model of the working mother’, with mothers working without career breaks and on a full-time basis. It looked as if the country was on a trajectory towards becoming a ‘universal breadwinner’ state (Fraser, 1994) with both men and women fully involved in the labour market. However, it was not ‘state feminism’– in other words, policy inspired by the promotion of equality between men and women – which had informed these policies. As Revillard (2006, 143) notes: ‘The history of work/family policies in France shows that women’s rights have hardly ever been promoted per se.’ Rather, a particular brand of ‘state familialism’ promoted the family but, unlike in other conservative welfare regimes, in so doing encouraged rather than sought to curtail women’s employment. This had resulted from a number of factors. First, the secularisation of the French state meant that state familialism in the country was based on science rather than on religious values, which gave greater scope for supporting mothers’ employment (Revillard, 2006). Second, there had long been a perception in France that the country was demographically weak, having a much smaller population in comparison with its geographical size than Britain or Germany, for example. The argument ensued that France would be stronger economically and diplomatically with a larger population. Consequently, during the economic boom of the 1960s and early 1970s, women were needed to produce babies and at the same time work in offices and factories (Allwood and Wadia, 2009; Jenson, 1986; Revillard, 2006; White,

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2004). In other words, state familialism did not impede women’s participation in employment precisely because of this anxiety concerning the country’s demography. Indeed, there was the pragmatic acceptance of women’s employment by right-wing politicians in the 1960s and 1970s, with both de Gaulle and Giscard seeing women in the labour market as necessary for modernising the economy. This relative absence of feminist objectives in constructing work– family reconciliation policy in France helps to explain why reconciliation has been viewed until very recently as a contract between mothers and the state to facilitate their employment, rather than as an instrument with which to redraw gender roles around paid and unpaid work for both men and women (Revillard, 2006). Given that there has been little or no explicit encouragement for men to participate in unpaid work in the home, it is unsurprising that French mothers have tended to carry out domestic and care duties with the assistance of the state more than with the assistance of their partners. In this regard, France can be contrasted to the Nordic social-democratic countries, where men have participated to a greater extent in domestic and care work than elsewhere because the state not only took much of the burden (for example, of childcare) from the shoulders of the family but also explicitly targeted men to take more responsibility in the home through coercive policies such as the ‘daddy quota’ in parental leave and through propaganda campaigns (Geist, 2005). The provision of childcare support for mothers without any policies to address the role of fathers reinforces a gendered division of care at the societal level, as when the state intervenes to relieve some women of their domestic burden by paying others, either directly or indirectly, to assume it and addresses the issue as being of concern solely to women and not also to men, it reduces the necessity for change on the part of men. Within mixed-sex couples, men who may otherwise have been obliged by circumstance or by their female partners to involve themselves more in these tasks are excused by the intervention of the state. Indeed, Geist (2005) has noted that in liberal states such as the UK which did not have a work–family reconciliation policy in the 1970s and 1980s the entry of mothers into the labour market necessitated more change on the part of men than in countries with supportive policies, a finding reinforced by a comparative study of childcare in France and the UK in the mid-1990s (Windebank, 2001). Not only did this pragmatic rather than committed and feminist approach to work and family policy on the part of the French state leave the gender division of domestic and care work relatively untouched, it

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also made reconciliation policy vulnerable to regressive reform in the 1980s. On taking office in 1981, the socialist administration sought to address the economic and unemployment crisis of the time by promoting an employment policy of ‘work sharing’: that is, the reduction in working hours (which were reduced from 40 to 39 with an extra weeks’ annual holiday included) and working life (early retirement was promoted and young people were encouraged to stay in education) to share employment more evenly across the population and thereby reduce unemployment (Michon, 2009). The socialists also believed that such an approach would give workers more flexibility and choice over their work time (Windebank, 1988). Two aspects of this approach, although couched in gender-neutral terms, had very gendered effects and steered France away from the path towards a universal breadwinner state on which it had started in the 1970s (Fagnani, 1998). On the one hand, the restrictions on part-time working which had existed previously were lifted, and through the 1980s and into the 1990s part-time work was encouraged with a range of incentives for employers. Ulrich and Zilberman (2007) argue that the 1982 employment legislation, which introduced a precise definition of part-time work as up to 80 per cent of a normal contract, marked a break with the past that favoured the subsequent rise in this employment form. Over this period, the percentage of employed women working part-time rose significantly from 20.1 per cent in 1983 to 31.5 per cent in 1997; in contrast, employed men’s uptake of part-time work remaining limited, with around 6 per cent working part-time (Silvera, 2008, 7). On the other hand, paid parental leave was introduced for the first time in 1986. Unpaid parental leave had existed in France since 1977 first for mothers and then from 1983 for parents of children under three, but in 1986 a parental leave benefit was introduced – the Allocation parentale d’éducation (APE) – for parents of three or more children where the youngest was aged up to three. In 1994 the APE was extended to parents of two children up to the third birthday of the youngest and offered on a part-time basis. This increased the number of families claiming the benefit significantly from around 150,000 to 500,000 by the late 1990s (Ananian, 2010). The extension of the policy had a net incentive effect on women with two children to withdraw from the labour market or reduce their work time (Paihle and Solaz, 2007) and the activity rate of women with two children with at least one aged under three fell from 69 per cent in 1994 to 53 per cent by 1997 (Fagnani, 1998). In 2004, the benefit was renamed the Complément de libre choix d’activité (CLCA)

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as part of the Prestation d’accueil du jeune enfant (PAJE), at which point it was offered for the first time for the first child for six months after the end of maternity leave. In all cases the benefit has been paid on a low flat-rate basis: where parental leave is paid in this way and offered for a long period of time, it is more likely that women alone will take it up. In France, the vast majority of the claimants of these benefits – 96–98 per cent – have been mothers (Ananian, 2010). It must be noted that these policies providing flexible employment were coupled with the ongoing nursery school and crèche provision discussed earlier and a range of new benefits introduced in the late 1980s to help with the cost of childminders and nannies. This variety of policies to help both working mothers and those who wanted to stay at home with young children, all framed within the notion of providing ‘choice for families’ over their work–family reconciliation options, has been very popular among the French (Ananian, 2010). However, long parental leave and the encouragement of part-time work had two negative consequences. The first has been that long parental-leave benefits have contributed to a bifurcation in the French female labour force between more highly qualified women who work full-time or long hours part-time on a continuous basis, taking advantage of the varied childcare provisions on offer, and lower-qualified and younger women who take long parental leaves and become increasingly distant from the labour market. Long parental leaves are thus cited as a factor in social inequality, job insecurity and poverty risk and have been shown to have a long-term negative effect on women’s career trajectories in terms of unemployment and job instability (Boyer and Céroux, 2012). The second consequence has been that these policies entrenched differing employment patterns for men and women, which in turn reinforced a traditional division of both paid and unpaid labour and ideas about work and care roles (Anxo et al., 2002). As Fuwa and Cohen (2007, 515) note: ‘parental leave policies are a double-edged sword: while they may mitigate women’s family responsibility and encourage job continuity, patriarchal bias in the policy structure and low benefit rates may reinforce gender inequality in the market and in the family.’ However, by the beginning of the new millennium, there was an increasing emphasis on the reorientation of gender roles in French policy and more government pronouncements on the need to get men more involved in the domestic sphere and in caring (Mazur, 2001). To a degree this was due to an ever-increasing pressure from the European Union: for example, in 2002, under the impetus of a European directive,

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two weeks’ statutory paternity leave was introduced in France (Fagnani, 2011). Furthermore, in 2010 a directive from the Council of the European Union called on all member states to put into place at least four months of parental leave, of which one month should be non-transferable between parents. The French public was also becoming more open to the idea particularly of fathers becoming more active in their children’s lives. However, it was not until 2013, with the return of the left to power, that a move in policy in this direction took place in the form of the introduction of the ‘daddy quota’ into parental leave. The introduction of a ‘daddy quota’ into the French parental leave scheme was one of François Hollande’s 40 engagements pour l’égalité hommes-femmes published before the election in 2012. The ‘daddy quota’ first appeared in Scandinavian reconciliation policy in the 1990s and is a coercive measure to encourage active fatherhood by obliging couples to share parental leave benefit entitlement in a particular proportion if they do not want to lose part of that entitlement. A wide-ranging bill entitled the Projet de loi pour l’égalité entre les femmes et les hommes was voted into law by the Senate in September 2013 and came into effect for children born from 1 January 2015. The reformed parental leave benefit was renamed the Prestation partagée d’éducation de l’enfant (PreParE) and introduced the following changes: for parents of one child who were previously entitled to six months of paid parental leave, a further six months’ paid leave was now available for the ‘other’ parent. The previous entitlement of parents of two or more children to paid leave up to their child’s third birthday remained unchanged, but each parent was now entitled to a maximum of only 24 months of leave to include postnatal maternity and paternity leave, with no possibility of transfer of leave between parents. The PreParE continued to be paid at a flat rate rather than as a percentage of previous earnings, as is the case in the Scandinavian countries and Germany, and no overall reduction in leave entitlement for families was announced. It is clear, therefore, that on one level this reform constituted a radical departure for French reconciliation policy, in that men’s behaviour in the family was being targeted for change. As the minister for women’s rights Najat Vallaud-Belkacem said in an address to the Senate on 16 September 2013: ‘Equality today is giving fathers the freedom to be fathers and giving mothers the freedom to be something other than mothers.’ There are two principal problems with this reform, however, in terms of strengthening women’s place in the labour market and men’s place in the family. The first is that the length of leave, at up

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to 24 months for the second child and for any subsequent children, is still long for women and potentially deleterious to their future labour market engagement. The justification for this decision by the Ministry for Women’s Rights was that a severe cut in leave entitlement can only be enacted when there are sufficient childcare places to cope with the increased demand: otherwise such a change in policy would not result in higher levels of employment for women, but rather higher levels of unemployment or inactivity. Indeed, when the bill was first published in 2013 and the legislation passed in 2014, the plan was for each parent to be entitled to up to 30 months’ leave, up to three years in total. However, in the budget for 2015 it was decided to limit the leave per parent to 24 months while retaining the overall three years’ entitlement for the family within the context of limiting public spending. The longer-term aim of the socialist government was still further reductions in the length of leave coupled with higher remunerations. Second, and no doubt a consequence of the continuing length of the leave, is the problem that the benefit was still paid at a flat rate, rather than based on a percentage of previous income. Sharing the leave therefore remained an unattractive option for most families, given the continuing gender pay gap in France. For this reason, the claim by the Ministry for Women’s Rights, drawing on the German example, that the 18,000 fathers who were then taking up parental leave could be increased to 100,000 by the PreParE, has been deemed unlikely, as the German benefit replaces 67 per cent of former salary – an important factor for father take-up. The reactions to this reform reflected these problems: for example, the reform was described as ‘timid’ (Libération, 2013) in the press, while feminist lobby groups such as the Laboratoire d’égalité1 were disappointed that the leave had not been further shortened and paid at a percentage of previous earnings (Roucheux, 2013). Meanwhile, pro-family groups such as the Union Nationale des Associations Familiales (UNAF), which had been strong supporters of the concept of ‘choice’ in reconciliation policy, viewed the reform as nothing more than a backdoor means to reduce the length of leave for mothers, as 1 The Laboratoire d’égalité was created in 2010 as a lobbying group of women and men from the public and private sectors. It calls for immediate action to achieve gender equality in the workplace with a mission to promote ‘un meilleur partage des responsabilités citoyennes, économiques et familiales entre les femmes et les hommes’ (a better degree of sharing of civic, economic and family responsibilities between women and men).

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few fathers would take it up, a view shared by the UMP deputy Valérie Pécresse, who in an interview with the Journal des femmes said that she suspected the government of ‘trying to make savings because a parental leave of two-and-a-half years costs less than one of three years’ (Journal des femmes, 2013). In order to understand both why the reform took the shape that it did and the ensuing suspicion towards it among both feminist activists and conservative politicians it is useful to look at the history of its development. In 2009, in his annual address on the family, Nicolas Sarkozy turned his attention to work–family reconciliation policy, suggesting that the CLCA should be reduced to one year for all parents but be much better remunerated. The reduction of parental-leave benefit entitlements had been raised previously in a number of official and legislative reports (Fagnani, 2011) but Sarkozy’s speech was the first time that a member of the ruling administration had proposed a reduction in the CLCA, reducing state support for parents wishing to look after pre-nursery school age children themselves at home and thus limiting parental choice. This proposal can be understood within the context of Sarkozy’s overall employment strategy. During his election campaign Sarkozy made it clear that his platform was to be one of reform and change (Marlière, 2009), a principal area targeted for such change being work. Turning away from the idea of work-sharing, Sarkozy called on the French to ‘travailler plus pour gagner plus’ (‘work more to earn more’) (Michon, 2009), suggesting that public policy should increase employment rates for those groups currently under-represented in the labour market in order to improve living standards. This approach represented Sarkozy’s embrace of the concept of the ‘active society’, around which consensus had crystallised in the European Union over the previous decade. One of the groups targeted was mothers taking long parental leaves who, as mentioned previously, tended to be younger and less well-qualified. Long parental leave was therefore an obstacle to their integration into the labour market. In this ‘active society’ paradigm, mothers should be discouraged from becoming divorced from the labour market in order to protect their human capital and future earnings. In the months and years following Sarkozy’s landmark speech, a further discourse and set of proposals regarding the reform of parental leave benefits began to emerge concerning its uptake by men and the non-transferability of a portion of the leave between parents (Haut Conseil de la Famille, 2009). In June 2009, in a press interview, Nadine Morano, secretary of state for the family, called on the Haut Conseil

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de la Famille to include in its review of the CLCA the reservation ‘of a period of the leave for each parent, like in the Nordic countries’ (Le Figaro, 2009, 4). However, the next decisive step in this process did not come until two years later, in February 2011, when Roselyne Bachelot, minister for solidarity and social cohesion, commissioned a report from the general inspector of social affairs, Brigitte Grésy, on the participation of men in parental responsibilities, with particular attention being paid to men’s take-up of parental leave. The Grésy report was published in June 2011 and contained proposals for the modification both of maternity/paternity and parental leave in order to encourage greater participation of fathers (Grésy, 2011). As regards parental leave, the report recommended the reduction of the CLCA to one year, proposed the reservation of two months of this leave for the ‘other’ parent, with the exception of lone parents, and suggested a payment of 60 per cent of previous salary. On the publication of this report, Bachelot promised the production of a white paper which would promote the ‘equal sharing of parental responsibilities within the couple’ by December 2011 (Ministère des Solidarités et de la Cohésion Sociale, 2011). However, no white paper on the subject was produced prior to the 2012 election for a number of reasons, including the Euro crisis and the continuing shortage of childcare places. It is debatable whether or not these proposals would have made it into law if Sarkozy had been re-elected president. The eventual legislation by the Hollande government, however, looked timid by comparison, particularly given that it had traditionally been those on the left who had called for a shorter, better-remunerated and more equally shared parental leave and those on the right who supported choice and flexibility in the reconciliation of work with family. Given the relatively recent introduction of the benefit reform, there are few evaluations of its impact to date with the exception of a 2015 Caisse des allocations familiales report (Crépin and Boyer, 2015), which stated that among families who are or will be entitled to the PreParE 78 per cent have already declared that they have no intention of sharing the leave. It remains to be seen whether the remaining 22 per cent made the same choice. It is only now (in 2017) that it is becoming possible to gather meaningful information on what happens when mothers come to the end of their entitlement. And it is only if fathers take up the leave that there is a hope that the policy will change the balance of factors within the household and lead to a fairer division of unpaid work in the home. In sum, therefore, the demands of second wave feminists, and

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particularly those materialist feminists who were part of the ‘domestic labour debates’, have been partially met. French women are well integrated into the labour force, albeit not on a completely equal footing with men, and have used a variety of resources available to them to free themselves from domestic and caring responsibilities in order to pursue other avenues. The support afforded to them by the state, particularly in the form of work–family reconciliation policy, has played a major part in this process. However, until very recently, these policies were construed as part of a ‘mother–state’ contract – the onus being on women not men to change – and men’s role in the family has changed very little in comparison with women’s role in the workforce. There is no doubt that the introduction of the PrePaE represents a significant shift in work– family reconciliation policy, but it is not so clear that it represents a major shift in France from state familialism to state feminism, especially given that the origins of the policy reform lay in the activation strategies of the Sarkozy government.

chapter five

Feminist Publishing in France 1975–2000 A Quest for Legitimacy Fanny Mazzone Feminist Publishing in France 1975–2000: A Quest for Legitimacy

The sociologist Pierre Bourdieu defines the field of publishing as a relatively autonomous social space, governed by its own set of rules but reflecting external forces that are both political and economic (Bourdieu, 1999). According to cultural historian Jean-Yves Mollier, the history of publishing intersects with social, legal, political and religious history, each of these dimensions contributing to the globalising ambitions of the industry (Mollier, 1996). In this chapter, these critical analyses of publishing will be used as a framework to analyse feminist publishing. In France, the development of feminist publishing coincided both with the second wave of feminism, the Mouvement de Libération des Femmes (MLF), and with a major restructuring of the publishing industry. The 1960s were a golden age for publishers in the humanities and social sciences, thanks to the combination of technological innovations (such as the mass production of paperbacks), the growth of an educated readership and wide interest in the work of French intellectuals such as Sartre, Lacan and Althusser (Surel, 1997). This tendency was reversed in the 1970s, at a time when conglomerates were taking over the publishing industry. A shift occurred in the nature of capital investments from the domination of market sectors typical of conglomerates towards the financial priorities of groups outside the publishing industry: namely, the increase in the value of the shares of companies in the cultural sector, the demands of economic

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globalisation having spread to the market of cultural commodities (Mollier, 2009). As commercial and financial agents intervened more and more in book production, publishing policies were forced to adapt to market forces. However, seeking short-term profits demands a diversified catalogue that can only be created by long-term publishing policies which create an attractive commercial portfolio. This model was also hard to reconcile with the needs of smaller publishers, or of recently created publishing houses, whose ‘brand’ depended above all on the charisma of their founding editor. In the 1980s a new generation of publishers tried to combine intellectual value with financially savvy policies to develop publishing strategies based on the distinctive nature of their catalogue (Bouvaist and Boin, 1988). Throughout the 1970s, from the first intimation of the introduction of discounting tactics by the biggest companies to the legislation freeing up book prices passed in 1979, the publishing profession repeatedly warned the government of the risks that a purely market-based policy posed to the quality and range of literature. Jérôme Lindon, director of the prestigious Éditions de Minuit, led the first campaign for a single price system, or fixed book price agreement. This meant that the price of a book was determined by the publisher – the person who selects which work to publish, pays the author and (where needed) the translator, and invests in the design, production and marketing of the book. Thereafter, the price could not be undercut or discounted in a way that would damage the interests of authors, publishers and independent bookshops. The ‘prix unique’ law resulting from this successful campaign was voted in in 1981, symbolically as the first piece of legislation by the incoming socialist government. Fundamental to the law was the support for and continuing production of the types of book that might take time to find their public. With a high-profile minister of culture, Jack Lang, and a doubling of his ministry’s budget, the new government aimed to democratise culture, in part through broadening access to books and promoting reading (Sapiro, 2005), encouraging creativity rather than mere productivity and protecting the less commercial sections of the book trade. The only danger in this book-friendly policy was that it might make publishers and intellectuals somewhat dependent on the goodwill of the state, and thus discourage political opposition. At the intersection of these developments and of the MLF, feminist publishing was established and followed the feminist movement in its many tendencies and political trajectory. French publishing’s ‘niche’

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structure, with its many specialised collections encouraged by market developments, provided a favourable environment, structured by activist, economic and political forces, for feminist publishing nationally and internationally, which meant that it soon found itself caught between its particular ideological market and the ideology of the market. The structural diversity of the two fields (in the Bourdieusian sense) of publishing and feminism provided a context for the different feminist positions and enabled the entry of women into the field of publishing. Publishers were interested in the exciting new ideas and literary forms that feminism provided, but needed militancy to be combined with market appeal; the women’s movement gained a public voice and a degree of legitimacy from publication under a recognised ‘brand’, but also saw publishing as a means to subvert the dominant regime of representation. If these tensions remained submerged in the climate of the early 1970s, the greater concentration and commercialisation of the sector from the 1980s on led to the disappearance of many feminist collections and to the demise of (for example) the feminist publishing house Éditions Tierce in the 1990s. The Feminist Publishing Field: Activism as Capital If publishing represented a means of legitimising feminism, while feminism in turn widened the boundaries of the publishing field (as André Schiffrin explains in Le Contrôle de la parole), financial capital could not in itself guarantee the survival of a publishing enterprise. In the 1980s state subsidies and other forms of financial support tightened the links between political power and the intellectual sphere. This relationship could discourage the production and promotion of books that expressed dissident views, often on the pretext that there was no audience for these, that they would not sell or that they were now out of date. A consensual cultural politics worked against the development of oppositional values, whether economic or ideological (Schiffrin, 2005, 77–83). Schiffrin notes that publishers found it difficult to innovate at this time, and this helps to explain the disappearance of many feminist collections which were deemed to have outlived their relevance, as well as the reduced activity of specialised publishing firms such as the Éditions Tierce in the 1990s and the temporary shutdown of Éditions des femmes from 2001 to 2005. The 1980s saw the end of the previous

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decade’s boom in politically engaged publishing: militant voices were no longer so welcome. However, feminist activity in publishing by no means disappeared. Some forms of cultural production survived, such as the printing firm Voix off, which printed the feminist journal Vlasta and had signed its first contract with the Éditions Tierce (Louis, 1985). The reduction in feminist publishing nonetheless signalled its diminished appeal for publishers after a period of commercial success. If activism was to maintain its commercial value it needed to take new forms and, as feminism itself became more institutionalised, des femmes and Tierce also changed their editorial policies, in terms of both overall presentation and the design of book covers. Again in the 1980s, as feminists shifted focus to demands for parity in the political sphere, feminist book collections tried new approaches, from historical studies of past struggles to biographies of great female figures, alongside the continuing production of more ‘domestic’ texts dealing with everyday life. Twenty years earlier, the reconfiguration of the feminist field from its first state – existing during the period from 1970 to 1974 – and the second state – during the period from 1977 to 1978 – had been reflected in that of publishing, as MLF political events were mediatised and feminist publishing companies (des femmes and Tierce) were founded. Developing alongside and as part of the MLF, feminist publishing was shaped by the evolution of the movement itself, including its internal divisions and determination to maintain its independence. Indeed, diverging positions on the definition of feminism (Garcia, 1993) also underlay the division between the Psychanalyse et Politique group, who owned and remained in firm control of the des femmes publishers and bookshop as well as the Quotidien des femmes newspaper, and the rest of the feminist movement (Fougeyrollas-Schwebel, 1977). Though such divisions are typical of groups anxious to establish their autonomy, they also explain the movement’s internal erosion (Picq, 1991). Within these ideological, theoretical and disciplinary disagreements, Psych et Po and its publishing arm, des femmes, played a central role, identified as they were with their founder Antoinette Fouque and the theoretical positions she adopted. In publishing terms, des femmes’ emphasis on psychoanalysis, semiotics and aesthetic experimentation gained a high profile and considerable cultural capital. The goal of their subversion of language and writing was to change the very nature of cultural representation through a process of ‘symbolic destruction and construction that aimed to impose new categories of perception and appreciation’

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(Bourdieu, 2002, 167, à propos of the gay and lesbian movement). Other collections, with mainstream publishers, also emanated from this approach, with Hélène Cixous and Catherine Clément editing the Féminin futur collection for 10/18 and Luce Irigaray founding Autrement dites (In other words) for Minuit, both in the mid-1970s. The concept of sexual difference as liberating (rather than oppressive) was expressed in literary form, with writing itself seen as a subversive tool, as well as in the form of discursive essays defending the importance of changing representations. Thus, for example, historical and sociological analyses of women’s situation were published by Tierce as well as in the collection Libre à Elles, edited by Monique Cahen for the well-respected Éditions du Seuil, founded in 1978. As the 1980s approached, the movement’s own reflexion on its goals and definitions occurred concurrently with institutional recognition of its demands and the development of the academic study of women and gender in France.1 The 1980s was a decade of gradual change in feminist publishing, with a lesbian perspective becoming increasingly significant following the publication in Questions féministes (no. 7, 1980) of Monique Wittig’s ‘La Pensée straight’ (The Straight Mind). The journal Vlasta, centred on Wittig’s work, was launched in 1983, and in 1985 Geneviève Pastre’s collection Octaviennes appeared, to be followed in 1989 by the establishment of her own lesbian-themed publishing house. The visible presence of LGBT texts in mainstream publishers’ catalogues came later, towards the end of the 1990s, as the lesbian movement sought to unite under the umbrella of the Coordination lesbienne nationale. Some specialist firms continued with an editorial policy that foregrounded literary texts (Double Interligne, La Cerisaie, Kata Tjinta Media), while others provided a platform for the developing LGBT and queer movements. Traditional publishing houses also developed their offerings for this newly identified and growing readership: Balland introduced their popular Rayon Gay, while L’École des Loisirs, Actes Sud Junior and Syros Jeunesse all introduced themes of gay parenthood into their children and young adults’ lists. In the academic field, Éditions Epel (founded in 1990 by the Lacanian school of psychoanalysis) developed a ‘gay and lesbian studies’ collection. According to Bourdieu (2002, 18), the strength and influence of feminist, gay and lesbian movements comes from their capacity to set theory and symbolic action to work for the common good. 1 The first Centre for Feminist Studies was established by Hélène Cixous at the University of Paris VIII in 1974.

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These movements have tended nonetheless to fragment and diversify, and thus to compete for the right to speak for the movement as a whole. Feminist publishing has often worked well, reconciling the financial needs of publishers with the political aims of the movement. To achieve its aims, feminism needs to be visible and to address an audience that extends beyond those already committed to the cause. For publishers, topical, committed texts or collections can increase their visibility in the market, reach new readerships, increase sales and stimulate profits. The transition from niche publishing by small, highly specialised firms to a presence in the collections of mainstream publishers is neither automatic nor certain, but where it happens (and it has, with second wave feminism, lesbian feminism and the LGBT movement) it can extend the intellectual and commercial frontiers of the publishing field and work to the advantage of both authors and publishers. Literary Capital The literary wing of second wave feminism in France saw women’s writing as a way to find a feminine voice that had hitherto been stifled and silenced. Already by the 1960s, Monique Wittig had published the stylistically innovative L’Opoponax, with a postface by Marguerite Duras (Éditions de Minuit, prix Médicis 1964), then her incantatory story of Amazonian warriors, Les Guérillères (1969), in the same year as Cixous published her experimental auto-fictional novel Dedans (Grasset). Among the mainstream publishers who supported this new feminist writing was Pierre Horay, whose collection Femmes en mouvement was inaugurated in 1972 with the multi-authored La Création étouffée, which included texts by Marguerite Duras and Agnès Varda. In 1974 Grasset published Annie Leclerc’s polemical and controversial Parole de femme, and Minuit brought out Les Parleuses, a dialogue between Marguerite Duras and Xavière Gauthier, as well as Luce Irigaray’s Speculum de l’autre femme. In the same year Éditions des femmes launched their first series. In 1975 Marie Cardinal’s Les Mots pour le dire appeared with Grasset and Hélène Cixous opened her collection Féminin Futur (10/18) with La Jeune Née (The Newly Born Woman), co-written with psychoanalyst Catherine Clément, while Cixous’ manifesto for écriture féminine ‘Le rire de la Méduse’ was published in the review L’Arc. Also in 1975, the magazine Sorcières began publication, with the aim of serving as a ‘laboratory’ of women’s writing.

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On the one hand, writing was to be subversive, transforming both aesthetics and ideology; on the other, the theoretical roots of écriture féminine lay in the experience of motherhood, whether literal or symbolic. The new writing was to emerge from women’s difference, and the female body was seen as a source of creativity and new language. The exploration of subjectivity and the reworking of language became revolutionary tools in the service of a symbolic revolution (Pénicaud, 1993, 90). Thus conceived, feminism committed itself to promoting, publicising and publishing women’s voices. The publishing industry offered the possibility of making this happen by increasing the presence of women authors within publishers’ catalogues, and thus opening a new chapter in their legitimisation. The texts and theories of Julia Kristeva, Luce Irigaray, Hélène Cixous and Antoinette Fouque (Fouque, 1995, 219–25), exported to the Anglophone world as ‘French feminism’, sought to reveal the way that androcentrism and patriarchy were inscribed in language and literature (Humm, 1994). The des femmes company pursued the same project: Antoinette Fouque published many texts by Cixous as well as Kristeva’s speech to the Psych et Po conference held in Milan in 1973, which appeared in Kristeva’s Polylogue (1977), a book that also contained interviews with the Psych et Po group from Le Torchon brûle, the MLF’s first newspaper. Though des femmes had also brought out Kristeva’s Des Chinoises (1974), by 1977 Kristeva was distancing herself from the group: in the Revue des sciences humaines she condemned the sectarian, dogmatic and obscurantist practices of some feminist groups (Kristeva, 1977, 499). The psychoanalytical and linguistic analysis of symbolic images was a significant dimension of the struggle against misogyny, alongside the construction of alternative discourses. For example, the substitution of the terms ‘parole’ (word) and ‘écriture’ (writing) for ‘literature’, the overturning of genre conventions, the development of gender-specific themes and a ‘feminine’ style – all of these strategies combined to realise the aim of creating a new literary language. This aim, and the ‘differentialist’ philosophy that underpinned it, were opposed by many who were equally committed to the struggle against patriarchy, and particularly by materialist feminists who subscribed to a social constructionist view of gender identity (Delphy, 2001, 319–58). The first wave of feminism, at the end of the nineteenth century, had made good use of the expansion of the press; second wave feminism took full advantage of the media boom of its era, with 142

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feminist publications appearing between 1970 and 1990 (El Yamani, 1998, 73; Kandel, 1979–80). There was considerable diversity in terms of both political tendencies and intended readerships: some reviews were produced by feminists belonging to left or far-left organisations; others were concerned primarily with women’s rights and performed a federating function across groups; some addressed lesbian issues and others were largely concerned with theoretical and literary questions. Among the most widely read were F-Magazine, created by Benoîte Groult and Claude Servan-Schreiber, and Des femmes en mouvement, published by the Psych et Po/ Éditions des femmes group. Histoire d’elles combined politics and fiction, while the low-circulation journal Sorcières articulated feminist theories of women’s writing. According to the latter’s editor, Xavière Gauthier, the review gave voice to a new and different language that no longer echoed masculine discourse and broke the pattern of social uniformity. By enabling and publishing a diversity of women’s writing, it allowed ‘another music’ (in Luce Irigaray’s words) to be heard and, to quote Julia Kristeva, brought into the public domain ‘femininity in the sense of a space of otherness in all symbolic experience. (Gauthier, 2002)

Like so many other feminist reviews and collections, Sorcières collapsed at the beginning of the 1980s, just as the movement was assessing its achievements over the preceding decade. To what extent did these ‘women’s’, ‘feminine’ and ‘feminist’ publishing projects open up the fields of literature and publishing? It is certainly the case that in the 1980s and the 2000s the proliferation of literary prizes produced a number of awards named in honour of women writers, some of whom were little known. 2 The number of women members of prize juries, and of female prize winners, also increased from the 1970s. These changes do indicate women’s increased presence in the literary and publishing fields, but there was less movement in terms of the academic recognition of women writers, as the views expressed on the day of the investiture of Marguerite Yourcenar as the first woman member of the Académie Française showed. The ceremony took place on 7 March 1980, and the speech of welcome refused to accord any significance to the fact that this was a historic occasion in terms of gender: ‘I 2 For example, Paule Verdier, Nelly Sachs, Julia Verlanger, Albertine Sarrasin, Lucette des Vignes, Anna de Noailles, Marguerite Audoux, Anne Hébert, Edmée de la Rochefoucauld, Marguerite Duras.

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will not conceal from you, Madame, that you are not here today because you are a woman, but because you are a great writer’ (D’Ormesson, 1981). The insistence on gender neutrality was further emphasised by a careful choice of words: ‘The word “writer” [gendered masculine in French] knows no distinction of sex:3 it can only acknowledge – alas! or perhaps fortunately – differences of strength, talent and style.’ During the period of the MLF, the syllabus in secondary education accorded different degrees of space to women writers at different moments and in different disciplines. If some feminist texts appeared on the syllabus in the 1970s and 1980s, their number diminished in the 1990s and the theme of women’s writing disappeared in the course of the 1980s. In secondary textbooks for the more academic, university-orientated classes, women writers have tended to be grouped together in thematic chapters (‘Literature and feminism’, ‘Women’s writing’ etc.) In those aimed at the more vocational and technological streams, women’s writing tends to appear under the heading of the social analysis of gender. Within feminism itself, the importance accorded to ‘female difference’ in aesthetic terms seems to have diminished as women have advanced towards more equal rights, and as the ‘second wave’ period has moved to a close. French Feminism and International Publishing The translation of both political and literary texts internationalised feminist publishing. As Pascale Casanova has showed, a number of factors explain the differing extents of international cultural (or, more specifically, literary) exchange in and between different countries: geographical proximity, cultural centralism (particularly in the case of the old colonial nations), the structure of national space, literacy rates and the degree and variety of activity in publishing (Casanova, 2002, 8). To these one might add the extent of female literacy and of feminist presence in publishing – the latter dependent on the existence of a possible readership. The process of internationalisation (which Casanova distinguishes from globalisation, defining the latter as the generalisation of a single model) depends on the existence of a world 3 The feminised form of ‘écrivain’ (writer) is ‘écrivaine’, commonly used in Quebec and increasingly in France, though still opposed as ‘ungrammatical’ by the French Academy.

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literary field made up of national fields all seeking to achieve legitimacy (Casanova, 1999, 63). Within this space, the translation of texts can mean additional symbolic value for the publisher. Exchanges across national literatures have both a political and an economic value and are often facilitated by international organisations that promote literary and ideological interchange through translation (Heilbron and Sapiro, 2002). Thus international feminist book fairs have contributed to, or at least demonstrated the existence of, an international subfield of feminist publishing. Which languages are most translated is clearly a relevant question, and the dominant position of English here gives it a central role in the structuring of the world literary field. Other tensions arise too, including that between the restricted (or high culture) subfield and the mass market, and linguistic and cultural rivalry between nations. The role of intermediaries within the global literary field allows us to judge how forms of capital are transferred from the field of production to the field of reception (Helibron and Sapiro, 2002). Translation occupies a central place in the editorial policy of des femmes. An analysis of production from 1974 to 2001 shows that 57 per cent of publications were imported from other languages, including translations by Viviane Forrester, Sylvie Durastanti and Nicole Canova of (respectively) Virginia Woolf, Clarice Lispector and Lou Andreas Salomé. An average of four des femmes texts per year were translated, a third of these for the American and British markets, almost as many for Italy, with Germany, Spain, Brazil and Japan accounting for a significant part of the rest. Translation enhanced the profile of des femmes on the international publishing scene and increased the literary capital of the ‘difference’ strand of feminism. At the same time, many of their non-fiction publications gave des femmes a more militant image, such as the Spanish anti-Franco activist Eva Forest’s diary and prison letters (Journal et lettres de prison, 1975) which attracted much media publicity. Antoinette Fouque expressed the relationship between feminism and translation in an extended poetic metaphor that linked the activities of translation and publishing to that of gestation: For me, the prefix ‘trans’ governs the amorous commerce of publishing. Like a dream, a text is translation, transliteration, transaction, transport, transfer, a literal metaphor: the translation of unconscious thoughts, the transfiguration of the unfigurable, the translation of the unknown, transliteration of the lost letter, transaction between translator and author, transfer from one state to another, transport of body into

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text. A publishing house is thus the transitional space where these transformations take place, the womb that nurtures these transpositions. Gestation – the capacity to think, welcome and be with the other – seems to me the paradigm of that bodily and linguistic hospitality represented by poetry, thought, translation, and publishing. (Fouque, 1995, 141)

Thus she justified, in a poetic register, the international emphasis of des femmes’ editorial policy and the underlying objective of spreading the feminist movement worldwide (Fouque, 1995, 137). Translation can be seen as revolutionary in that it enables the circulation of ideas: ‘if all writers worthy of the name have revolutionary potential, many revolutionaries have achieved a transnational destiny through their books’ (Grumbach et al., 2000, 175). This quotation also points to a further possible effect of translation, that of winning political and literary legitimacy. Fouque thus described her policy as a ‘geo-political-poeticeditorial strategy’ (Fouque, 1995, 138). Since, she argued, no literature was ever really foreign, translation could abolish linguistic frontiers. Politically, she made use of the important role of the French language in diplomacy (the Rights of Man) to promote the struggles and theories of women across the world (Grumbach et al., 2000, 1975). The publishing house asserted its presence on the international scene at book fairs and at international cultural events on women and feminism. Des femmes also devoted a special issue of the magazine Des femmes en mouvement hebdo (no. 11, December 1978) to feminist publishing houses across Europe, and another (no. 4, April 1978) to women translators and their role as cultural mediators (Fouque, 1995, 140). It is striking that the image of the des femmes publishing company was thus forged through imported texts and its profitability through exported texts. Maintaining Presence on the Publishing Scene Second wave feminism not only brought new forms of capital, both literal and symbolic, to the fields of publishing and political activism but also continued to change and develop in a way that sustained new production. At des femmes, the collections for young girls (‘Du côté des petites filles’) and adolescents (‘Du côté des filles’), founded in 1977, represented a new departure in children’s publishing. Inspired by the success of the French translation of Italian feminist Elena Gianini’s essay Du côté des petites filles, the collections translated texts from Adela Turin’s recently founded Milan-based publishing house, Dalla

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parte delle Bambine. Turin co-published books for girls with other European feminist publishers with the aim of spreading feminist values. Michel de Certeau argued that ‘what creates the difference between different literatures is less the texts themselves than the way in which they are read’ (de Certeau, 1980, 285): each time a book is read it is read differently, and each reading creates a different meaning and a different impact. Thus, the process of transmission depends on the different expectations of readers (Lafarge, 1983, 209–30). Far from being simply the delivery of a message to a passive reader, reading sets up an exchange between two visions of the world, from which each party emerges changed (Dirkx, 2000, 114–15). The encounter between readers’ expectations and the author’s project activates the ideological elements of the text or ‘ideologems’ (Leclaire-Halté, 2004, 10), which correspond to a system of values. Though a publisher cannot be said to control their readers directly, the books in these collections were addressed to a young, female, possibly politically engaged readership and this perspective certainly influenced the text itself as well as its paratext. The republication of some of the texts from des femmes’ children’s collections by Actes Sud, a general-interest publisher, shows both their wider viability and that des femmes was in the vanguard in this area of publishing. As these collections closed (1982), another, quite different, strand of production was beginning, as the audio-book began to take off in France, as elsewhere. The Bibliothèque des Voix (Library of Voices) was launched in 1980 under the initial title of Écrire, Entendre (Writing, Listening). The first title emphasised the relation between production and reception, while the new one linked technological innovation to the established value of the library. The aesthetic value of voice was now claimed as a vital part of what publishing had to offer, as part of the artistic process and as appealingly accessible. The voicing of the text meant both a critical interpretation and an artistic performance, the creative transformation of the raw material of text into sound. Though audio collections did meet with resistance from those who saw them as an aesthetic debasement of the original, their defenders presented them as a form of cultural mediation that widened access to literature and added the listener to the chain of reception. Thus the success of this innovation in publishing was certainly due in part to its convergence with contemporary state policies that aimed to democratise reading. The capacity of feminist publishing – or more specifically of Éditions des femmes – to adapt to a changing context is demonstrated by the successive invention of these two types of collection, children’s books

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and audio, very different from each other in terms of register and market sector. At a transitional period in the MLF’s history des femmes strengthened the originality of its literary and political offering within the publishing field by restructuring the way it presented its stock. This strategy for increasing the value of existing capital was also presented as a political strategy by Antoinette Fouque. The Bibliothèque des voix could claim a political as well as a literary motivation, and the company was enriching its stock with imports from other languages as well as bringing out hitherto unpublished literary texts. The two collections contributed to the financial health of the company and to the opening up of editorial policy. The decision to close the children’s collections and maintain the Bibliothèque des Voix thus marked a turning point. A relationship can be seen between the publication of a text as an audio-book and the extent to which it gains formal recognition, just as the publication of a book in a paperback collection aimed at a wide readership may encourage its translation into other languages. The quest for legitimisation takes place at both a national and an international level. What matters, in the words of Joseph Jurt (1980, 36), is ‘the extent to which a work matches the demands of its public’; a work’s reception in the press gives some indication of a text’s ‘legitimacy’ by reflecting the publisher’s brand image, and how far this matches demand. Thus it is interesting to note the literary press’s interest in the career paths as well as the textual productions of writers such as Hélène Cixous and Emma Santos, an interest confirmed by the columns devoted to the relationship between their biographies and their writing, as was also the case with Victoria Thérame4, Aicha Lemsine, 5 Évelyne and Claude Gutman6 and Nicole Ward-Jouve.7 Alongside other evidence, press reception also shows that some texts receive less attention but nonetheless maintain their presence, while they are also recognised through other means. For example, Angst by Hélène Cixous (1977) was translated and appeared in anthologies for schools, while other texts, such as Rose Saignée by Xavière Gauthier (1974), Théâtre by Emma Santos (1976) or Promenade femmilière by Irma Garcia (1981), were translated and also won prizes in France. Cultural recognition for this field of literature also means 4 Hosto blues (1974), La Dame au bidule (1976), Staboulkash (1981). 5 La Chrysalide (1976). 6 Dans le mitan du lit (1978). 7 Le Spectre du gris (1977), Un Homme nommé Zapolski (1983), L’Entremise (1980).

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that authors such as Chantal Chawaf achieve ‘consecration’, with the translation of her Retable (1974), its publication in paperback and subsequent reprinting in anthologies, in addition to its commercial success. Much the same could be said of the novels of Jeanne Hyvrard and of Gisèle Bienne, which have also appeared in paperback and/or been translated. As a result, the symbolic capital of Éditions des femmes has been converted through the evolution and diversification of their new titles and the production of added value to their back catalogue. Conclusion The feminist publishing subfield has developed its own set of rules, situated as it is at the intersection between those governing the field of publishing and political activism. While public interest in feminism as a movement had meant that feminist publications and authors could maintain their place in the field, the redeployment of the accumulated symbolic capital took place at a time of changing expectations after the wave of MLF activism in the 1970s. Feminism contributed to the rise of publishing in the humanities and social sciences and the emergence of specialised collections in an economic sector that was undergoing significant change. It brought new types of text and new authors to the field and thus added value. The renewed militancy of the early 1980s produced a shift in editorial policies which allowed publishers to stay afloat in a sector increasingly crowded with new publishing houses. As some political demands were met and were translated into public policy, a shift then took place in feminist publishing towards retrospective overviews and histories of past struggles, and collections that adopted a milder, more consensual politics. Some of the texts and authors discovered in the 1970s continued to be coveted by publishers in the following decade, when the sector found itself short of new young initiatives. The logic of the publishing field meant that mainstream publishers opted for tried and tested products, while the newcomers sought new discoveries. Specialised collections dwindled, with the transfer of these texts to general catalogues. Feminism’s capacity to influence and transform the publishing field was shown by the opening up of the catalogues of traditional, mainstream publishers to texts and authors who now appeared with no mention of their feminist credentials, nor any reference to their sex. The old, well-established publishing firms were able to offer an eclectic list without having recourse to the model of

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specialised collections, thanks to their solid financial base and dominant market position. The move away from coherent collections, with the publicity and promotion that they require, demonstrates that publishers were aiming to universalise their appeal, and that this aim was deemed incompatible with a particular emphasis on the author’s sex or the feminist dimension of a book. In the 1980s publishers were faced with a set of different options in relation to feminism: a move into women’s issues, consolidation of an existing specialism, or a complete withdrawal from this sector. Thus, according to the position adopted, editorial policies reflected and also extended the range of attitudes to women and feminism within a field driven by political and literary aims, by the pursuit of capital, both economic and symbolic, and by the need to appeal to an expanded or restricted readership. Though economic opportunities modified the expectations of the publishing field, the demise of most collections and the overall reduction in the scale of publishing did not deter the development of new political and academic projects. New questions and causes emerged, from the cultural and social representation of women to gender criticism and lesbian studies.

chapter six

Parole(s) de Femmes From Le Torchon brûle to Les Nouvelles News Maggie Allison Parole(s) de Femmes

In her introduction to Les Femmes qui lisent sont dangereuses (Women who read are dangerous), Laure Adler states: I believe women have a particular way of loving books, of engaging with reading, of needing books as a source of nourishment and even believing at certain points in their lives that to read is to live. Hence women who read are dangerous. Moreover men will know this only too well and try to hinder, circumscribe and confine women so that they read as little as possible and only works which they themselves have prescribed. (Adler and Bolman, 2006, 15)

What happens, however, when women decide to venture beyond this intimate relationship with the book, not only to write themselves in terms of taking up the pen but also consciously to ‘write themselves’, their world and their desires? By doing so they move into the wider public world of communication and engage with la cité, daring to find their voice. We witness that the text, avidly consumed, erupts into spontaneous combustion, generating women’s expression and their entry into the public arena, thereby changing the landscape. This is where ‘le torchon brûle’ – that is to say, where sparks begin to fly and where women ‘make waves’. The notion of ‘women’s space’ in terms of occupying their legitimate place in the world and finding womenfriendly venues for feminist activism has been explored by Lucy Delap and Maria McGrath with regard to British and American ventures in

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particular (Delap, 2016; McGrath, 2016). Broadening the debate, Claire Hancock explores the complex juxtapositions of feminism and ethnic aspects of gender relations in the spatial context of urbanisation and the stigma of the Paris banlieues (Hancock, 2016). It is poignant that the association Femmes en lutte 93 discussed by Hancock highlights in feminist terms the phenomenon of the laissés pour compte (those left behind) in France analysed in Christophe Guilly’s La France périphérique (2014). This chapter aims to provide an overview of the period 1975 to 2015, charting shifts in the role, place and space of la parole in feminist activism, framed by the following quotation from Simone de Beauvoir’s introduction to Les Femmes s’entêtent, which underpins this volume: Some women believe that current language and logic are universally valid instruments, albeit crafted by men; their problem is purloining the tools. […] [Others consider that] women have created a universe different from that of men: [it is by] referencing their own values that they aim to invent a language reflecting their specificity. (Beauvoir, 1975, 12)

Writing in the same period, Annie Leclerc vigorously concurs with the latter view: ‘Any woman wishing to own her language cannot escape that signal imperative: invent woman’ (Leclerc, 1974, 16). These comments came just 30 years after French women, having gained the franchise in April 1944, had their first opportunity to vote in the French municipal elections of 29 April 1945, in which 12 million women participated. However, with the post-war emphasis on women’s return to home, hearth and the joys of domestic appliances, gaining this right did not provide the shifts in women’s voice and the autonomy required to change the discourse and to occupy public space. The gendering of space, physically, verbally and creatively in terms of the written word and graphic protest will inform the trajectory of women’s parole/s in this chapter, travelling from Le Torchon brûle (published from 1971 to 1973) to the current virtual ‘newspaper’, Les Nouvelles News. Le Torchon brûle More than a quarter of a century on from gaining suffrage, French women in 1971 were still seeking a voice, all the more frustrated following the events of 1968, where they had been relegated to the role of ‘backroom girls’ while male counterparts took to the stage,

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monopolising the microphone and la parole.1 Giving birth to the MLF, this frustration subsequently gave rise to the legendary Le Torchon brûle, with seven issues appearing between December 1970 and June 1973. The publication engaged directly with key issues affecting women at the time, particularly the right for women to control their own body and to choose or not to bear children, as well as the entitlement to contraception and abortion. The latter became a key campaign throughout the seven issues of the magazine, which was framed in the context of all struggles for freedom, as declared in the editorial of issue Number 1: It’s the development of anti-imperialist struggles, of people of colour against the control of the western white male, which enables us to situate the problem of our oppression ideologically […] Our struggle is endemic to all liberation movements. It’s crucial that this power we have grasped, to create a newspaper, should be accessible to all women. (Le Torchon brûle 1, 1971, 3)2

This aim of a democratic, all-inclusive approach to the production of Le Torchon brûle had constraints, however; the plethora of copy necessitated time-consuming collective appraisal and selection of the varied, pugnacious, humorous, challenging articles, poems and graphics submitted. The self-reflexive piece ‘Comment les femmes torchonnent’ (‘How women labour’) explains: ‘The editing and pagination take place in a sister’s home, now transformed into a dormitory and an infirmary. […] Only five people at the printers now […] But the work gets done in near feverish haste’ (Le Torchon Brûle 3, 1973, 24). This vehicle in the mission to make women more visible and audible on their own direct and provocative terms, open to women from all walks of life and backgrounds in a radical challenge to the masculinist status quo, epitomises women’s frustration, irreverent stance and subversive potential. If women who read are dangerous, then how much more so those who wrote and created in the early years of second wave feminism. Michèle Idels of the publishing house Édition des femmes corroborates this, recounting the early days, the spontaneity of the writing event, a 1 ‘In fact, the women’s movement came out of the 1968 movement, but it broke off from the extreme left where the majority of feminists had had their political apprenticeship but where they either felt undervalued, exploited and scorned, or weren’t able to tackle the problems that they were raising’ (La Salle des profs, 2011). 2 This was, in fact, the second issue as the very first carried no number, was considered to be No. 0, and was entitled L’Idiot-Liberté.

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transposition of the oral outburst to the impact of the urgent, thrusting discourse(s) of Le Torchon brûle and other publications: It was a youthful, almost a children’s, newspaper, really free, we were completely carefree, beautiful, full of ourselves … a joyful buzz of twenty to thirty-year-olds. […] Returning to the question of the oral and the written […] it’s true, whether it be the Torchon, the publishing house, Le Quotidien des femmes, or Des femmes en mouvements, the aim was to rehabilitate women, give them a place to reconstruct themselves, feel positive as women, not oppressed. (Idels, 2015)

Via such publications as Des femmes en mouvements hebdo, originally monthly from December 1977 to January 1979, with a weekly circulation of 50,000 throughout France from November 1979 to July 1982, women’s voices were increasingly being heard, arguably with political repercussions in the election of François Mitterrand to the French presidency in 1981, as Idels suggests: […] it was the year the MLF encouraged women to vote for François Mitterrand in the first round, the first elections where women voted like men; previously men voted more on the left than women, but in 1981 women’s vote was more in line with men’s such that Mitterrand got through […] and here we can say that Des femmes en mouvements hebdo really played its part. (Idels, 2015)

If, in 1981, 13 years after May 1968, feminist women’s voices appeared to have made a political difference, it would require nearly two further decades for the parity law of 6 June 2000 to be passed. This law stipulated that, at the risk of a fine, equal numbers of female and male candidates must appear on lists for local, regional and European elections, a requirement often circumvented, again blocking the representative parole des femmes. 3

3 In the primaries for the 2017 French presidential election only one woman figured in the line-ups of the Republican and Socialist candidates, Nathalie Kosciusko-Morizet and Sylvia Pinel respectively, each flanked by six men. Following the 2017 elections the president, Emmanuel Macron, prime minister, Édouard Philippe and elected heads of all six main groups in the Assemblée were men, likewise the président de l’assemblée (‘speaker of the house’), François de Rugy. The record 244 women elected represent 38.8% of the total.

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Manifestos, Protests and Causes Le Torchon brûle, a beacon for French women post-May 1968, signalled the lighting of the blue touch paper for myriad feminist protest movements and causes, constantly evolving and pressurising government, state institutions and idées reçues detrimental to women. Manifs (protests), chartes (charters) and causes célèbres were the order of the day, illustrating Christophe Kihm’s statement that: ‘Protests and activism were two ways of integrating discourse and action, and this experimentation meant a struggle against the truths of their era’ (Kihm, 2013, 15). A turning point came on 5 April 1971 with the publication on the front page of the Nouvel Observateur of the ‘Manifeste des 343 salopes’ (Manifesto of 343 Sluts), signed by well-known French women admitting to having undergone an abortion, including Simone de Beauvoir and lawyer Gisèle Halimi. The latter defended the high-profile Bobigny case in November 1972 concerning the rape of a 15-year-old girl by her boyfriend: the subsequent abortion carried out by a friend of her mother brought the issue into the spotlight. Halimi’s defence not only won the case but motivated women’s and other groups who rallied in support and were persistently vocal outside the courtroom in this north-eastern suburb of Paris. Personalities such as actress Delphine Seyrig spoke for the women involved in this case; their voices, supportive feminism and occupation of public space played a key role in the subsequent legalisation of abortion. Simone Veil, minister of health in the Giscard d’Estaing administration, drafted and piloted the law, passed on 17 January 1975, but not without her, and her family, suffering untold abuse, including being accused of murder by proxy and pilloried for her Jewish origins. Moreover, she braved the public sphere of the male-dominated Assemblée Nationale, addressing what had been understood as one of the most private issues for women, the right to control their fertility and to legal redress following the consequences of rape. These early feminist actions were followed by continuous action by French women’s movements and associations over the next 40 years, from the MLF and Psych et Po to Les Pénélopes (1996) and more issuefocused organisations such as the AFJ (1981–99) and in particular the AVFT (1985) which spear-headed the campaign for legislation against sexual harassment in the workplace.4 Les Chiennes de garde 4 See glossary for acronyms. Provisions against sexual harassment in the workplace were introduced into the Code Pénal on 22 July 1992 and into the Code du Travail on 2 November 1992.

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was founded in 1999 to protest sexist insults to women in public office, La Meute was set up in 2000 to counter sexism in advertising and, more recently, another association, Encore féministes!, has been launched. Les Chiennes de garde largely conducts press campaigns, but also annually commemorates atrocities against women, including the massacre of 14 women students at the Montreal École polytechnique in December 1989 by 25-year old Marc Lépine, who had vowed to ‘fight feminism’. This ceremony occupies the public space of La Place du Québec, Boulevard St Germain on 6 December each year, with a white rose laid for each woman killed. The association also awards their Prix Macho de l’Année to the most offensive male politician of the year, ‘won’ in 2015 by Frank Keller, UMP local councillor for Neuillysur-Seine, who tweeted in 2014 in relation to the newly appointed French education minister: ‘What tricks did Najat Vallaud-Belkacem employ to persuade Hollande to give her an important ministry?’ Taking feminist action into mainstream media spaces, this annual award gains coverage via outlets such as Le Parisien, TF1, LCI, France 2, France Inter and Europe 1. Femen, the women’s organisation that originated in Ukraine in 2008 and is notorious for demonstrating bare-breasted, has more recently joined this panoply, marching alongside the many other organisations in Paris on International Women’s Day in 2015. As a force for protest, Femen notably disrupted the pro-family Manif pour tous demonstration in Paris on 16 October 2016. Manif pour tous is a socially conservative movement that was founded in 2012 in opposition to the bill (made law in 2013) legalising gay marriage and adoption and became a political party in 2015. As Florence Montreynaud claimed in a Le Monde interview in 1999: ‘there are circumstances in which the only thing a woman can do is to scandalise if she wants to bring to fruition that which is within her’ (Montreynaud, 2014, 166). This quotation aptly encapsulates the time–space frame concerning us here and the distance travelled by French feminists regarding both personal development and crucial public achievements, be that a degree of political parity, albeit imperfect, or the key issue of women’s greater control of their own bodies (Green, 2011). In 2009 public policy surrounding the issue of women’s rights to control their bodies and procreation, involving reduced subsidies for French family planning services, provoked the birth of the organisation Osez le féminisme! Marie-Noëlle Bas, currently president of Les Chiennes de garde, explains:

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Osez le féminisme was set up in 2009 by young women emanating from the French National Student Union […] following a huge demonstration opposing reductions in family planning funding. Sarkozy had begun to cut funding for that, also contraception and abortion – all very important for young women. There were thousands of us on the streets. (Bas, 2015)

Mirroring the evolution of Le Torchon brûle and drawing activists from the MFPF and from political parties including the PS, EELV and, significantly, the UNEF, the first outlet for Osez le féminisme! was a militant newspaper, after which an association was formed under the law of 1901, 5 with some 20 branches established throughout France. For Bas, this was a key development in French feminist activism for, while still needing to pursue struggles over three decades old, the new movement demonstrated a welcome generational shift: ‘It’s one of the first associations of really young women – even though Les Chiennes de garde was formed in 1999, we were 1970s feminists’ (Bas, 2015). She also highlights the paradoxically ‘beneficial’ effect on French women’s public voice of the arrest of Dominique Strauss-Kahn in 2012, following his alleged assault of a chamber maid in a New York hotel: ‘[…] for feminist associations this was great because they were given the right to have a voice in the media and were finally recognised as spokespeople.’ Women’s Spaces This account has so far concentrated on the emergence, a ‘coming out’ of women, from private space to the public arena, involving the vocalising of demands for the right to control one’s body, for political equality, for respect in both public and private life; the right to women’s self-expression, sexually, personally, politically and creatively. While these shifts were dramatic and ground-breaking, the women concerned were largely drawn from feminist and activist groups of varying social classes, with strong support from feminist academics. However, even for the latter, in the early 1970s embracing these movements could require courage and determination. Montreynaud explains in her notes on the Assemblée Générale of the MLF on 21 April 1971 that ‘shy, a loner, [she] had not joined in the May 1968 events’, and was surprised by the ambiance at this meeting, having expected ‘to only see lesbians and 5 Law of 1 July 1901 governing the establishment of associations.

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hysterical hippies’. The effect upon her was, she noted ‘The desire to head up a movement’, realising she had ‘the makings of a leader, [and was] capable of devoting [herself] to a cause’ (Montreynaud, 2014, 19). If, subsequently, many women in France have been emboldened to speak out in the public arena, to bare their souls – and their bodies, in the case of Femen – there has also been a steady growth in and a variety of interior spaces for women, some set up for their protection and support, others in which to think and create, for literary and artistic appreciation, for sharing ideas and taking action, and for enjoyment. There is room, and are literally ‘rooms’, where the public and the private overlap. Today’s French women may have emerged from the privé of home and hearth and gained the right to vote, to control their fertility and to be full players in the professional world, yet their ‘glass of autonomy’ is not yet half full, their ‘domestication’ and abuse is still evident. Spaces, actual and virtual, in the public domain that are focused on women’s issues and needs, where women feel comfortable and unthreatened, are still vital. In La Maison des femmes, a woman-only space in central Paris, it is safe to express oneself; there is ‘room’ to be heard. In relation to self-expression, a notable culmination of this reworking of women’s spaces is in the virtual ‘newsroom’ of Les Nouvelles News, which redresses the masculinist discourse of the wider world. This account will now turn to a discussion of these ‘women’s spaces’, considering examples such as the restaurant La Fourmi ailée, the Librairie des femmes/Espace des femmes and the bookshop Violette & Co, before concluding with an examination of the phenomenon of Les Nouvelles News. The website of La Maison des femmes describes it as ‘a place of meetings between women, of feminist exchange and solidarity’ (La Maison des femmes, 2008). It is a supportive women’s space par excellence. Set up by militant feminists, many involved in the MLAC, its early premises of June 1981 were at 8 cité Prost in the 11e arrondissement; a constrained space, but a welcome venue for meetings, information and support, with a newsletter, Le Bulletin d’information de liaisons et d’échanges du réseau féministe, available and distributed elsewhere in the capital. By 1995, with the premises crumbling, the tenants were obliged to vacate, eventually in 1997 finding the current site in the 12e arrondissement.6 La Maison des femmes provides a secure, supportive environment for many women’s groups and associations, offering legal 6 163, rue de Charenton, Paris 75012.

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advice for women experiencing a range of difficulties, including those suffering domestic violence, and support for those seeking work or needing to regularise their situation as non-French residents in France. The Maison’s work has been followed by the more recent creation of the Maison des femmes at St Denis in the 93e district to the north of Paris, inaugurated on 8 July 2016, with a specific mission for the women in that area. This medical facility will welcome every day, from 15 July, between 50 and 80 patients who are victims of sexual violence, and will offer family planning services (Renoir, 2016). Coincidentally, 1997 was also the turning point for a different feminist venue, La Fourmi ailée, rue du Fouarre, in the 5e arrondissement. Hitherto a feminist bookshop, with a small tea shop at the rear, it had provided a quiet space in which to ruminate, read, pick up on current actions and, indeed, find the aforementioned Bulletin d’information, all accompanied by the partaking of tea and cakes. A more public haven, but nonetheless a welcoming refuge, it has subsequently lost this specific feminist vocation, instead, in a curious twist, becoming a restaurant proper, gentrified and otherly feminised, relooké au féminin by the new proprietors (Spaperi, 2015).7 In addition to its regular business it seeks to appeal to younger women of certain means, providing a popular venue for celebrating an enterrement de vie de jeune fille (hen party), often in the mezzanine loggia, the diners no doubt unaware of the ribbon mural running around the ceiling consisting of a quotation from Virginia Woolf explaining the name of the venue: ‘I would like to tell myself a nice little wild story, to spread my wings after this cramped, ant-like morning’ (Woolf, 1940).8 The few books decoratively placed on shelves above the dining tables fail to offset the impression of the marketing of feminism, or at least of the feminist reputation of this space and its sister establishment in the 18e arrondissement; both now feature in 700 tourist guides worldwide and are even the subject of a documentary for a Chinese television channel. Nonetheless, La Fourmi ailée, while exporting la parole des femmes to the Orient, could be said to betoken a new confidence among young women in particular to celebrate their gender(s) and womanhood. Just a short ‘flight’ away from La Fourmi ailée lies the Espace des femmes, in the 6e arrondissement, a space epitomising both the time 7 Interview by Allison with the proprietor, Monsieur Spaperi, on 20 February 2015. 8 Citation attributed to Virginia Woolf, but unspecified.

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and distance travelled and the impact of the parole/s de femmes since the early days of the post-1968 period.9 Its roots lie in the activism of the MLF and Psych et Po, along with publications such as Le Torchon brûle and Des femmes en mouvements hebdo. Éditions des femmes, set up in 1974, and spearheaded by Antoinette Fouque, Sylvina Boissonnas and Michèle Idels, provided the osmosis between activism and feminist theory. Their long-term project, enabling women’s creativity, reached its apogee with the publication of the three-volume Dictionnaire universel des créatrices in November 2013. The first bookshop, the Librairie des femmes, run by militant MLF supporters, was opened in the rue des Saints Pères in 1974, and later moved to the rue de Seine in the 6e arrondissement. It gave their multiple activities exposure and provided outlets for the feminist press and a rich resource centre for activists and academics alike. Here women’s writing gained a vitrine, literally: the window display in the rue de Seine premises foregrounded works by women writers and in 1980 the innovative Bibliothèque des voix offered recordings by prominent French women actresses and on occasion authors themselves, such as Sylvie Germain’s recording of Les Personnages. Innovations also included translations of key feminist texts, novels and poetry by such authors as Kate Millett, Juliet Mitchell and Susana Guzner. Following a gap from 1999, the new Espace des femmes was opened in 2007 in the rue Jacob, and has brought together the three pillars of activity: publishing house, bookshop with an impressive vitrine and an elegant space for meetings, concerts by aspiring young women performers and exhibitions of women’s art. Links between creativity and activism continue, with authors of recent feminist works providing readings and with the venue hosting debates with Femen (Sweatman, 2014). From 1999 until 2007, however, the Librairie des femmes was closed and this, along with the earlier demise of Carabosse, a lively feminist venue at 70 rue J-P Timbaud in the 11e arrondissement, meant there was a serious void in Parisian feminist spaces for several years.10 During the years when Paris was without a dedicated feminist bookshop apart from 9 35 rue Jacob, Paris 75006. 10 Opened in 1978, Carabosse was run by a collective of 15 women, claiming to be ‘[…] not just a bookshop but also a place where women can meet, talk, listen to music, find documentation on the international women’s movement […] The bookshop offers books written about women, and is focused on women and writing’ (Cahiers du GRIF 23.1, 1978, 185).

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the Fourmi ailée, Christine Lemoine and Catherine Florian established their own bookshop-venue for feminist activities, Violette & Co, at 102 rue de Charonne in the 11e arrondissement, in 2004. Lemoine and Florian saw the opening for a feminist space with multiple objectives, Carabosse-style, after the latter’s closure, maintaining the duality of a bookshop and activities venue but also offering a welcoming, supportive environment to lesbians in particular, as Lemoine explains: Also, we are not just a feminist bookshop but also here for lesbians, gays, trans people etc. Yes, there was one bookshop in Paris, ‘Les Mots à la bouche’11, but which is more oriented towards gay men […] whereas we have a more lesbian focus. Our specificity is that we claim to be a feminist bookshop with the commitment to foregrounding women’s writing. (Lemoine, 2015)

The mezzanine – a sine qua non in their choice of premises – hosts a variety of wide-ranging and not exclusively literary meetings and events, often around a recent publication. Activities include creative writing seminars, children’s reading sessions and the recent establishment of a writer in residence, Émilie Notéris, in 2015. Lemoine is adamant that for Violette & Co the aim is not to ‘donner la parole’ to women: ‘Our purpose is not to give people a voice. We see ourselves as go-betweens. It’s publishing houses which enable women to speak. […] Our role is to be aware of what is “out there” and to make things available.’ Yet she concedes: ‘When one writes, one creates; if the message gets across, then perhaps we make waves’ (Lemoine, 2015). The homepage of Les Nouvelles News, an online publication which has ridden the waves of the misogynistic challenge to women emanating from the printed press, audiovisual news media and the worldwide web to strike back via its adopted virtual medium, is headed with the following statement: ‘The Nouvelles News/a different kind of news. The Nouvelles News wants to give women as much of a voice as men. Speech is power.’ The publication represents the tireless work of Isabelle Germain and one full time co-editor, and embodies the purpose of the AFJ, a group set up to challenge both sexist stereotypes in media treatment of women and the sexist attitudes and practices borne by women journalists in France. First exposed in the 1999 publication Dites-le avec des femmes: le sexisme ordinaire dans les médias (Barré et al., 1999), the media abuse and discrimination French women face is 11 6 rue Sainte-Croix de la Bretonnerie, 75004, Paris.

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still painfully evident in the twenty-first century. Germain’s aim was initially to ensure that women are better represented and heard, and are given their true place as authoritative spokespersons, not merely in the shadow of a male, often junior, colleague being interviewed.12 Germain’s current objective, however, is to shift the whole framing of news, better to reflect the place of the 50-plus percentage of women in society. For her: The idea isn’t to give women a vehicle to talk to women, but to create a newspaper which processes news through the prism of equality between women and men. Currently, all newspapers perceive information only in terms of the impact on men. We seek to provide news which takes equal account of women’s perspective and of men’s. (Germain, 2015)13

She cites town planning and public services as being predominantly geared to the male working day and the use of the car, with regular bus services thinly spread after 10.00 am, limiting women’s movement and even work prospects for those organising child care before that watershed. Scorning the fact that ‘women’s issues’ get a significant airing in the mainstream press only on or around International Women’s Day on 8 March, she emphasises: ‘Les Nouvelles News really means having this other, alternative, take on news, one which recognises the other half of humanity.’ This ambitious enterprise faces many challenges, largely financial, with public subsidies refused due to the venture’s obvious antipathy to the mainstream media. As the original paper version became too costly to set, produce, print and distribute, the online solution was inevitable; partially financed by subscription, it nonetheless requires funding for Germain’s salary and that of one other male journalist whom she chose specifically: ‘[…] as I think that it’s good that they too have this perspective on current events – that he thinks that each time he writes an article, that it has consequences, this news item, on men’s and women’s lives’. This balancing act extends to her other professional activities – largely media training in top-flight companies undertaken to enable her and the enterprise to survive. Occasional public events under

12 ‘In terms of finding a source, explains Dorette Kupers, it is quicker to approach the representatives of different business associations, residents’ association etc. But most of the time these are men. This method of journalism is therefore doubtful because it puts women at a disadvantage. If you go directly to businesses and residents, you find women’ (Barré et al., 1999, 31). 13 Interview by Allison with Isabelle Germain, 21 January 2015.

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the aegis of the publication take the parole to a physical rather than a virtual public.14 Conclusion This chapter has shown a toing and froing in women’s occupation of space/s, from the symbolic, secretive ‘lone’ home-based woman reader to the online consumer of instant feminist-orientated news. Curiously, both of these could be qualified as ‘private’ activities, the former conducted in closed domestic space, the latter in a personal media bubble. The gendered relationship between women, space and reading/ writing is, therefore, complex and evolving. The significant physical ‘coming out’ of French women into the public space in the 1970s, combined with the utilisation of the domestic domain to produce such publications as Le Torchon brûle, demonstrates the complex interactions between public and private space in second wave feminist activism. In tandem, this gave way to a certain embourgeoisement, as illustrated by the creation of feminist publishing houses and the establishment of women’s ‘comfortable’ internal spaces, such as bookshops-cum-caféscum-workshops activity centres. However, key causes, campaigns and organisations have run alongside these feminist ventures, including the AVFT and MFPF, whose advisors provide support in safe spaces for women. By contrast, groups such as Femen have taken their cause out into the open, baring their breasts, braving all elements, occupying the street, not to mention Notre Dame de Paris on 12 February 2013, and drawing the crowds on International Women’s Day. Hancock (2017) brings the socio-political dimension to the spatial question full circle, examining the women ‘on the periphery’ in the 93e arrondissement, outside the Parisian ‘bubble’, who seek to occupy and redefine physical, political and feminist space. Hence, much as Penelope stitched and unpicked her tapestry, women’s voice has rippled through time, flowing and ebbing, in a sac et ressac (breaking and backwashing) motion, eventually encroaching upon and eating away at the granite of the entrenched attitudes hampering women’s realisation of their own worth, rights, potential and, above all, equal world space with their male counterparts. Over the 40 years which have elapsed since Les Femmes 14 ‘Féminisme et Médias: Colloque international et pluridisciplinaire’, Université Panthéon-Assas/ Centre Panthéon, Paris, 15 et 16 janvier 2015.

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s’entêtent this pursuit has been amply demonstrated. We witness not only waves but threads and fabric which confirm women’s courage and persistence: the warp of issues such as women’s rights to govern their reproductive choice, women’s political representation, women’s freedom of sexual orientation, women’s challenge to sexual harassment; the weft composed of the spaces made available for women to meet in supportive surroundings, of the richness of French women’s continued thriving associative activism and solidarity over time, accompanied by much humour and irreverence in its challenges to the masculinist status quo.15 From the burning fabric of the Le Torchon brûle to the webbed text of Les Nouvelles News, la parole des femmes in France is alive and vibrantly challenging. Finally, it is significant that this volume itself results from the fact that in 1988 women academics in French studies in the UK decided that they, too, needed their own space in which to debate, challenge and research, not finding a voice in the prevailing heavily masculine context. From fringe meetings alongside mainstream UK events to seminars and biennial weekend conferences with, until very recently, women-only participants, the movement has created a momentum and collaborative space for feminist studies in French in a supportive, celebratory environment, in tandem with Women’s Studies USA and Women’s Studies in Scotland.

15 Tribute must also be paid to two venues, quiet havens, which bear witness to this and are crucial to French feminist research, namely the Bibliothèque Marguerite Durand in the 13e arrondissment of Paris, currently under threat in its present form, and Les Archives du féminisme, set up in 2000 at the University of Angers, founded and directed by Christine Bard.

chapter seven

Utopian Gaiety French Lesbian Activism and the Politics of Pleasure (1974–2016) Tamara Chaplin French Lesbian Activism and the Politics of Pleasure

Les Femmes s’entêtent, first published as a special issue of Les Temps modernes at the behest of Simone de Beauvoir in 1974 and reissued by Gallimard the following year, was written entirely by women and conceived at a time rich in feminist activism. It comprised a vibrant assortment of political analyses, personal testaments, poetry, short stories and manifestos. It also featured one of the unsung utopian texts of the French lesbian movement, a comedic essay called ‘Les belles histoires de la Ghena Goudou’ (‘The beautiful stories/histories of the Ghena Goudou’), by Evelyne Rochedereux, a member of the first lesbian activist group in the French women’s movement, the Gouines Rouges (Red Dykes) (Rochedereux, 1974, 2051–65). Utopian visions have never been far from lesbian activism and the more than four decades that have elapsed since the publication of Rochedereux’s story have produced a plethora of literary and critical texts ruminating on the intersections between the two. In its earliest incarnations much of this work focused on lesbian utopias in which ‘lesbian’ was understood as a figuration existing outside extant mechanisms of power (Bammer, 1991).1 Later scholarship, such as Annamarie Jagose’s Lesbian Utopics, 1 Monique Wittig’s 1969 experimental utopian novel, Les Guérillères (The Female Warriors) was an important reference for French lesbian radical politics throughout the period examined here.

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deconstructs what Jagose sees as lesbianism’s ‘impossible dream of exteriority’, arguing instead that the lesbian body is ‘a site of discursive contestation’ that is nonetheless dependent ‘on those very economies [representational, patriarchal, heterosexual, binary] from which it distinguishes itself’ (Jagose, 1994, 160–1). In this brief chapter my interest is less in arguments over the hermeneutics of ‘lesbian utopics’ as an epistemological category than in the actual deployment of lesbian utopianism as an affective political strategy. To this end, in keeping with the political recuperation of the utopian in the 1970s, I posit utopia not as an imagined perfect society but as an aspirational practice, an ‘approach toward’ (Bammer, 1991, 7) that teaches ‘above all, to desire otherwise’ (Abensour, 1999, 145). My work also situates itself in what Patricia Ticineto Clough has called the ‘affective turn’ in theories of the social – a turn that argues that emotion and modalities of experience are both inextricable from politics and a condition of possibility for subjectivity (Clough, 2007). Specifically, I seek to analyse the practical legacies of two affective impulses that animate Rochedereux’s utopian tale: humour and pleasure. Humour and lesbians are commonly seen as antithetical. As Sara Warner astutely observes, caricatures of the ‘strident, frigid, and frumpy’ lesbian, a mannish bull-dyke whose diatribes are as long as her temper is short, ‘abound in both mainstream and queer subcultural accounts of history’ (Warner, 2013, 9). 2 Mention lesbians and pleasure together and dominant stereotypes quickly turn sexual, whether pornographic or disparaging (referencing, for example, the disputed eclipse of desire known as ‘lesbian bed death’), effectively erasing pleasure’s myriad modalities (Blumstein and Schwarz, 1983). This chapter nevertheless explores the ways in which some French lesbians have celebrated humour and pleasure, recognising them as necessary – if distinct – affective elements of lesbian utopian political strategy. Indeed, since its emergence in the 1970s French lesbian activism has sometimes faltered in the absence of what I will call ‘utopian gaiety’, in which laughter, the ludic and a politics of pleasure – what Warner in the American context has dubbed ‘acts of gaiety’ – play a prominent role. Put otherwise, I argue that French lesbian activism has proven most resilient when it utilises utopian gaiety in its political responses to the manifold difficulties of lesbian existence. 2 The quotation is taken from Sara Warner’s brilliant analysis of the uses of ‘gaiety’ in LGBT activism.

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In what follows I expand on this claim by bringing three examples from the history of French lesbian activism into dialogue: Rochedereux’s 1974 utopian manifesto ‘Les belles histoires de la Ghena Goudou’; a political entity founded in 1980 called the Front des lesbiennes radicales (Lesbian Radical Front, or FLR); and a socio-cultural initiative launched in 1988 now known as Bagdam Espace Lesbien. I contrast these three examples of lesbian activism not only to make a case for the importance of ‘utopian gaiety’ as a politically progressive tool for combatting France’s heteronormative, patriarchal state but also to demonstrate that – precisely because of their inherently utopic dimension – French lesbian politics are often most robust and enduring when exercising the pleasure that the comedic entails. 1974: ‘Les belles histoires de la Ghena Goudou’ Simone de Beauvoir intended Les Femmes s’entêtent as an extended manifesto – its aim was to collectively describe women’s oppression and, in so doing, to express the multiple newly articulated goals of the French women’s movement. Consonant with a feminist politics that (ostensibly) eschewed hierarchies, the young Evelyne Rochedereux, despite lacking experience as a writer or journalist, was among those encouraged to write ‘something’ for the special issue of Les Temps modernes. But the ‘something’ she submitted was initially deemed unacceptable: ‘[Beauvoir] declared that we feminists must give a serious image of ourselves, and that this text, which she judged completely “loony” would totally undermine our cause’, Rochedereux recalls (Rochedereux, 2010). Instead of accepting Beauvoir’s judgement, Rochedereux’s colleagues refused to allow their own work to be published if Rochedereux’s submission – which they saw as exemplifying the movement’s diversity – was not also included in the special issue. Some weeks after this confrontation, Rochedereux and her then girlfriend Françoise Flamant entered the Parisian café La Coupole, one of Beauvoir’s habitual haunts. On catching sight of the young couple, Beauvoir called them over. ‘The issue is out and it’s a great triumph!’ she crowed, adding, as she turned towards Rochedereux, ‘My sister read all the articles and she adored your story. It was the only one that made her laugh!’ (Rochedereux, 2009, 195). Although she draws no concrete conclusions, Rochedereux clearly found Beauvoir’s contrary responses – first her explicit insistence that humour would damage feminism’s

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political impact and, second, her implicit acknowledgment that it might contribute to their project’s success – worth noting, since this exchange now figures prominently in Rochedereux’s memories of the event (Rochedereux, 2009; 2010). But what was it about Rochedereux’s text that had so piqued Beauvoir’s attention? ‘Les belles histoires de la Ghena Goudou’ recounts the ‘beautiful stories/histories’ of a post-apocalyptic utopian world in which the aptly named ‘little prickocrats’ have all died out following a feminist uprising known as ‘The Great Subversion’. 3 On the planet Ghena (as well as in all the other planets of the cosmos), only women (now able to reproduce parthenogenetically) remain. When the story opens, Clito, Risse and Utérine have just completed an intergalactic voyage and landed their space ovule among their earthling Goudou sisters (‘goudou’ being an affectionate French term for lesbian derived from the derogatory ‘gouine’) so that they can attend a fabulous festive barbecue. What follows is a hilarious romp in which, after much feasting, the visitors ask their hostesses to regale them with stories of the ancient days before The Great Subversion when the little ‘prickocracy’ ruled. Gesturing, horrified, at the hirsute nakedness depicted in a drawing of one of these strange, now extinct rulers, Clito demands, ‘And that thing between the legs? What is that?’ ‘Ahh’, responds Françoise, ‘That was the heart of the problem! He who had neither vulva, nor breasts, believed that he should hold all the power on Earth simply because he had that little twig between his legs’ – a fact made all the more hysterical, the women agree, since miniaturisation (not only in the clitoris, but in all things) is always a clear indication of progress (Rochedereux, 1974, 2055). Irreverent and cutting, ‘Les belles histoires de la Ghena Goudou’ drips with satire. Punctuated with erotic odes to lesbian sexual pleasure – young girls engage in games like ‘who can dive the furthest and hardest into the vagina of Marie Claude’ and ‘who can have the most pleasure caressing the vulva with a faded violet’ – the text is linguistically innovative and, although occasionally verging on the saccharine (life between women is unequivocally depicted as la vie en rose), also politically barbed (Rochedereux, 1974, 2052). Neologisms – some later included in Monique Wittig and Sande Zeig’s 1975 publication Brouillon pour un dictionnaire des amantes – both reflect feminist attacks on male privilege (the ‘little prickocrats’) and – like many feminist utopias – critique the gendered nature of language (for example, the women live 3 Rochedereux’s term in French is ‘ptituyaucrates’.

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not in monasteries but in ‘donnastères’, from the Latin domina for ‘lady’ or ‘dame’) (Rochedereux, 1974, 2051).4 There is a Marxist–feminist analysis: before The Great Subversion ‘women served […] as [unpaid] machines to produce children’, to sew, to cook, to clean, to type and to ‘pleasure’, but also as ‘machines for “venting” that could be beaten, insulted, raped and murdered’. Women employed ‘in factories and offices’ also received less pay than prickocrats for the same work (Rochedereux, 1974, 2056). Patriarchal domination, ensured through ‘lies and flattery’, is ridiculed: ‘They told [women] that they were beautiful (self-evident!)’ or took them ‘on holiday’ (‘where women performed the same tasks that they usually did in the houses of the little prickocrats, just in another location’) (Rochedereux, 1974, 2057). And there are obvious allusions to contemporary politics. The intergalactic lesbians whose upcoming visit is being prepared for are 343 in number, an explicit nod to the 343 signatories of the 1971 ‘Manifeste des 343 salopes’, which helped move French feminist debates over legalising abortion into the public eye. The Goudous’ festival – and Rochedereux’s story – draws to a close with a delicious descent into desire as the women make love ‘until the new moon rises’ (Rochedereux, 1974, 2065). ‘Les belles histoires de la Ghena Goudou’ is just one example of a kind of risible politics that delivers its deadly serious utopian messages through mockery, merriment and the subversion of gender and sexual norms. 5 The comedic, whether expressed as emancipating laughter or the kind of joyous flippancy discussed here, empowered as it enlightened, using utopian humour to render ridiculous and to make obvious the socially constructed nature of an unbearable status quo.6 On the other hand, the utopian erotic catalysed a libidinal energy that exerts what Miguel Abensour has called ‘an organizing function’ on political possibility (Abensour in Levitas, 2013, 113). Thus, while not itself a political programme, Rochedereux’s little story manifests, I would argue, a call to arms.7 And in its perspicuous elaboration of a politics of pleasure 4 For an investigation of the use of gendered language in feminist utopias, see Hartman, 1986. 5 Self-mockery and laughter are likewise at the violent core of Wittig’s Les Guérillères. 6 It is worth noting that, almost 40 years later, ‘Les Belles histoires de la Ghena Goudou’ experienced a brief renaissance; between 2009 and 2011 it was performed as a play in two voices in Toulouse, Angers, Paris and Nantes. 7 On how feminist utopias function as forms of pragmatic political persuasion, see Peel, 2002.

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– embodied, comedic and erotic – ‘Les belles histoires de la Ghena Goudou’ legitimises the very world that it brings into being, no longer laughing at, but laughing with the women whose sexualised existence it both celebrates and champions. 1980: The Lesbian Radical Front Fantasies of lesbian futurity like Rochedereux’s, which comprehended precisely how pleasure promotes possibility, were vital in the early years of French lesbian activism. They countered the historical weight of homophobia – which had long depicted ‘same-sex love as impossible, tragic, and doomed to failure’ (Love, 2007, 1) – and nourished a nascent lesbian political imagination. But, by 1980, the joyful enthusiasm that had so brilliantly animated the French feminist and lesbian movements in the early 1970s was on the wane. In Paris, both straight and lesbian feminists were plagued by the eruption of two scandals. The first took place in 1979, when Psych et Po, having registered an ‘Association MLF’, controversially claimed the initials MLF as a marque déposée (official and exclusive trademark). The second catastrophe involved a schism in the editorial board of the MLF’s major theoretical journal Questions féministes over Monique Wittig’s highly publicised and controversial assertion (expressed in her 1978 Modern Language Association conference paper, later published as ‘The Straight Mind’) that ‘lesbians are not women’ (Wittig, 1992, 32).8 In this formulation, Wittig identified heterosexuality as a political regime rather than simply a sexual practice, called the very categories of ‘man’ and ‘woman’ into question, and identified lesbianism as both an act of resistance and the only viable response against patriarchal oppression and the appropriation of women.9 The political and social implications of this argument ‘upon straight culture and society’, Wittig declared, ‘are still unenvisionable’ (Wittig, 1992, 32). 8 The story of how Questions féministes was resurrected as Nouvelles Questions féministes under Christine Delphy’s leadership has been covered elsewhere (Jackson, 1996, 20–6; Duchen, 1986, 1987). 9 These debates were also not unique to France. Although this argument was the fuel that lit the fire, lesbians and feminists had been debating the feasibility of fighting patriarchy while working within a heterosocial/ heterosexual system for some time (Turcotte, ‘Foreword’, in Wittig, 1992, ix).

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Established in June 1980 by lesbians from the Groupe de Jussieu, the FLR took up Wittig’s charge. They insisted – following Wittig – that heterosexuality must be rejected as a direct extension of phallocentric power. This rejection was presented as the logical and necessary result of the radical arguments that had animated both feminist and lesbian politics thus far. The FLR claimed not to be separatist (‘We want to stay in society in order to change it’), but their utopian vision demanded the destruction of the social order they sought to transform (Laroche and Larrouy, 2009, 88). Despite calling for an end to patriarchy, phallocracy and heterosexuality, the FLR never successfully articulated a unified political programme for this post-patriarchal, post-phallocratic, post-heterosexual world. But if their future vision failed to cohere (‘we disagreed about our Utopias’, one woman reported), their present agenda was clear: ‘For us’, the collective wrote, ‘the revolution does not consist of waiting for the Great Day but of setting up means of resistance now’ via the collective disavowal of heterosexuality (Duchen, 1987, 92). The lesbians of the FLR thus advanced themselves as a new ‘radically subversive’ avant-garde: ‘Lesbianism’, another of the group’s members would claim, ‘is the future of feminism’ (Duchen, 1987, 95). In response, many feminists (both lesbian and heterosexual) deplored what they saw as a deathblow to feminist solidarity. The FLR was fuelled by fury. Its members denounced all female heterosexuals, whether feminist or not, as ‘collabos’ – a reference to the ‘horizontal collaborators’ who had shamed France by sleeping with the occupying German enemy during the Second World War. Lesbian feminists who remained loyal towards heterosexuals of either gender were condemned as ‘kapos’ – a vitriolic invective that associated them with those concentration camp prisoners who had cooperated with their German captors and contributed to the extermination of their fellow inmates during the Holocaust. FLR posters announced, ‘Heterofeminism is class collaboration’ and called on lesbians to ‘Break the Silence: Recover our Violence’.10 In response, radical feminists accused radical lesbians of practising a politics that in its ideological extremism bordered on fascism. 10 Posters, tracts, theoretical manifestos and journals produced by the FLR are held at the ARCL in Paris. Marion Page has self-published a collection of these materials. Among the few English translations that exist to date are those in Duchen, 1987.

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The resultant political confrontations were nasty. In an interview conducted in 2012 Catherine Gonnard (former editor-in-chief of Lesbia magazine, France’s longest running homosexual monthly, 1981–2012) remembers the only meeting of the FLR that she ever attended as ‘the worst experience of my lesbian life!’11 Gonnard’s reaction was far from unique. For many women – lesbians and feminist heterosexuals alike – the FLR’s politics were nothing short of terrifying – so much so that its members were refused entry at the October 1980 radical feminist meeting in Le Mans. While not excluded from meetings held the following year in Exoudon (Poitiers) and l’Euzière (Gard), conflicts between radical lesbians and lesbian feminists dominated the proceedings (Chronologie lesbienne, 2010, 219–22). While foolhardy to attribute political outcomes to any single cause, the FLR’s relentlessly violent affect was, by many accounts, a significant factor in its demise. Thus, despite making crucial contributions to the theorisation of lesbian political subjectivity and embarking on critical initiatives – including founding the French lesbian archives in 1983 (the Archives recherches cultures lesbiennes, or ARCL), producing two short-lived journals (Espaces and Chroniques aiguës et graves, publication bimensuelle de Diabol’amantes) and networking with radical lesbians in Quebec, Belgium, Great Britain and Switzerland – this particularly aggressive strand of radical lesbianism burnt itself out by the mid-1980s. Its members’ ideological rigidity and anger ultimately proved a form of political suicide, alienating audiences while fomenting discord among its own constituency. In the end, maintaining unmitigated rage – regardless of how utopic a vision it served – proved unsustainable: ‘Ultimately’, one woman told me, ‘it took too much energy to be that angry all the time, so I left.’12

11 Catherine Gonnard, interview with the author, 21 June 2010. 12 Antagonisms from this period continue to fracture lesbian solidarity. The woman responsible for this quotation agreed to its inclusion on condition of anonymity. Interview with the author, Toulouse, 16 January 2011.

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1988: Bagdam Cafée [sic], Bagdamorum and the Birth of Bagdam Espace Lesbien When France’s first completely non-mixte (women-only) associative commercial café opened its doors in Toulouse in 1988, the centre of gravity in the French lesbian world shifted south. The brainchild of Brigitte Boucheron and Jacqueline Julien, Bagdam Cafée (now reincarnated as Bagdam Espace Lesbien) was dedicated to lesbian politics, pleasure and culture, and born of precisely the kind of political burnout that had caused the FLR to implode. Drained by the relentless infighting that was tearing lesbian and feminist communities apart in the early 1980s – and that was so characteristic of the FLR – Boucheron had retreated from political activism for almost a decade. She was not alone. In Julien’s words: ‘The fact was that Brigitte and I and everyone else were exhausted, but do you know why? By the lack of pleasure. We found ourselves in a dead end that we couldn’t see our way out of’ (Julien, 2003, 57). Consequently, at Bagdam Cafée, pleasure figured prominently on the political agenda. Bagdam’s utopian gaiety, which deployed humour and pleasure to bolster radicalism, was part of a larger shift in French lesbian activism throughout the 1980s that privileged convivial visibility as a new form of militant radicalism (Larrouy, 2010, 67). In the case of Bagdam this shift manifested in the lesbian events, festivals, conferences and performances that the café sponsored. The utopian dimension of this affective cultural agenda was regularly articulated, both then and after. ‘Lesbian fury is legitimate’, Julien later argued, ‘but […] in producing laughter in spite of my rage I share my delight at being a lesbian, not just as a “sexual preference”, but as a way of thinking, of constructing and deconstructing, and of hoping from morning to night for a different order for the world’ (Julien, 2013). Longitude femme, latitude lesbienne, an evening-length slide show with audio narration created in 1992 by Julien and her then lover, Caroline Godon, offers a classic example of this utopic political practice, ‘producing laughter’ as a way of working towards ‘a different order for the world’. Longitude femme, latitude lesbienne’s comic plot functions as a radical manifesto that recounts the history of lesbian life from Eve to Sappho to Natalie Barney and then propels us into a utopian lesbian future in the mythical here and now of ‘Bagdamorum’. ‘For we women’, the droll narration opens after a carillon of bells, ‘history began very badly. A man’s history – and what a man, because he consisted [image

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from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling] of God the father, himself.’ The creation story [in which Eve is explained as ‘a clearly superior being’ since she was formed ‘on the second try’] gallops forward by centuries, turning hetero history on its hubristic head and leading us to an analysis of lesbian existence – and sexuality – in all its varied glory. A section mischievously entitled ‘The Sad Lesbian’ captures the tone. It starts with a sepia tinted close-up of a woman’s face, her chin cupped sombrely in her hands as she gazes disconsolately at the camera. Against a thrumming tango score, the narrator mournfully declares, ‘The sad lesbian is sad because she has reasons to be sad. And because’ [more mirthful now] ‘we find her annoying, she ends up even more lonely, distrustful, and sad!’ ‘Sometimes’, [advance to another sepia slide, this time of a scowling young woman in dark clothing, sitting alone in front of a stand of trees] ‘the sad lesbian is a former angry activist!’ (a jab, perhaps, at the FLR?). ‘Disappointed’, our narrator grieves, ‘and therefore, exhibiting little solidarity, she is unlikely to take pleasure in the simple joys of our gatherings.’ [Music accelerates, narration brightens. Advance to a group photo taken behind the bar at Bagdam Cafée, women grinning madly, teeth flashing and heads tilted back, emanating such joie de vivre that they look like they will burst.] ‘The sad lesbian’s prolonged isolation’, the narrator continues, ‘only increases her bitterness, and her pride keeps her from flirting with the same ease’ [advance to a slide of bartender Sylviane Francesconi and her barmaid, singing karaoke, with arms akimbo and goofy smiles] ‘that seems to be the rule’ [two women, shot from behind, sharing the same barstool, locked in a tight embrace] ‘all around her’. ‘P.S.’, our guide concludes, now singing gaily: ‘we’re calling on all joyful lesbians to do everything they can to help the sad lesbian smile again!’ (Godon and Julien, 1992).13 Over the course of an hour, the lively presentation reinterprets heteronormative history in its ‘true’ light as a misstep on the way to lesbian fulfilment. Here, as in ‘Les belles histoires de la Ghena Goudou’, we are in a world of linguistic playfulness and gender mockery: women’s oppression since ‘la nuit du temps’ (the beginning of time), gives rise to the homonym ‘l’ennui du temps’ (endless boredom); the winner of the ‘Prix Mable’ (Nobel Prize) discovers the ‘error of XX and XY chromosomes’, revealing lesbians as ‘the most evolved of all creatures’ 13 DVD copy of Bagdorama courtesy of Jacqueline Julien. Access to the original handwritten version of the script courtesy of Caroline Godon.

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(the ‘Y’ is actually a degenerate ‘X’ that has ‘lost a lower limb’ – ‘when we think that they (men) – and not we – are the ones who lack!’). Heterosexuality is merely a ‘stagnant stage’ where some unfortunate females get stuck. ‘But no excessive pessimism! Even after marriage some women manage to escape the hetero world to discover their true – lesbian – destiny!’ we are assured. In utopian Bagdamorum, our happy narrator concludes, where lesbians represent the absolute height of human evolution, ‘lesbian life is always golden’. And is there an end? It seems not. Because after the final on-screen ‘Fin’ [‘The End’] we get yet another screen, ‘Non! à suivre … .’ (‘No! To be continued … .’), as the musical accompaniment escalates to Tina Turner’s raucous voice singing ‘You’re simply the best! Better than all the rest!’ (Godon and Julien, 1992). The affirmative message couldn’t be clearer. Spectacles like these used arch humour and collective creativity to combat stigmatism and personal grief, transforming negative feelings into an emancipatory political practice by spoofing the stereotypes endemic to straight culture. Longitude femme, latitude lesbienne delivered an audio-visual utopia in which a joyful and relaxed lesbian existence was self-evident and lesbian sexual pleasure normalised. The theatrical event was such a smash hit that after touring lesbian France (from Toulouse, to Amiens, Marseille and Paris) during the 1990s, Julien and Godon turned the slide-show into a DVD in the 2000s for distribution at film festivals and lesbian events. The Bagdamiennes (as the women of Bagdam continue to call themselves) maintain that it was precisely because they put a premium on pleasure that social, cultural and political initiatives such as this blossomed and endured (Godon, 2013). Since 1988, Bagdam (first as Bagdam Cafée and later as Bagdam Espace Lesbien) has been at the centre of lesbian life for the Midi-Pyrénées region and played a critical role in French lesbian activism nationally. In 1995 alone, Bagdam hosted 13 literary evenings, nine seminars, 27 concerts, 11 film showings, 11 art exhibitions, four lectures and multiple parties and fundraisers for the panoply of legal battles regarding lesbian rights that the Bagdamiennes regularly supported. During its ten years of existence, the café logged approximately 8,000 entries annually – an average of 25 women per night (Bagdam Cafée 1996 Newsletter, unpaginated). When the café closed its doors in 1999 it was reincarnated as the ‘newly mobile’ Bagdam Espace Lesbien. The latter organisation has continued to host international colloquia, hold workshops, publish books, maintain a web presence, participate in legal

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actions and political demonstrations and sponsor an annual festival known as the Printemps Lesbien (The Lesbian spring). This celebration occupies the city of Toulouse each year during the month of April via film festivals, readings, performances, theatre, parties and exhibitions. Bagdam’s impact on political and cultural life was underscored in 2009 by Pierre Cohen, then mayor of Toulouse, when he received over 200 lesbians in Toulouse’s Hôtel de Ville and declared his city a ‘Lesbopolis’ as he opened that year’s festivities. The 2009 theme? ‘Laughter is a Weapon’. And the theme in 2016? ‘Building Utopia’. ‘Building Utopia’, the nineteenth annual Lesbian Spring produced by Bagdam Espace Lesbien, was inspired by the 2015 publication of Françoise Flamant’s Women’s Lands, a history of the experiments in feminist utopia which mushroomed across the American Pacific Northwest in the 1970s. (Flamant, interestingly, is the same young woman who had accompanied Evelyne Rochedereux at the meeting with Beauvoir in La Coupole some 40 years earlier, discussed above). Reiterating the importance of lesbian utopics in the festival program, the Bagdamiennes state, ‘We grow strong from the certainty that a utopia is first and foremost the COURAGE to never relinquish personal desire, even when it involves a radical break with those who would deny our claim, forever granting it second-place status.’ ‘Needless to say’, they continued, ‘the end of our battle to render visible, and hence legitimate that desire, cannot wait another day.’ ‘Utopia’, they proclaimed, is ‘alive and well, here and now!’ (Bagdam Espace Lesbien, 2016, 3). The enduring presence of Bagdam Espace Lesbien in the city of Toulouse testifies to the vibrant survival in France of a kind of pragmatic lesbian utopian gaiety that might seem, to many, passé. All the organisation’s offerings ferociously indict the systems – heterosexist, monotheistic, misogynist, racist and capitalist – that are central to the functioning of Western patriarchy. Bagdam’s utopic commitment to the creation of non-mixed, women-only spaces as opportunities for political activism, conviviality and erotic encounter remains central to its mission. The result is that, despite not having a large lesbian commercial presence or geographic footprint in the city (and although recent political developments increasingly threaten their hard-won achievements), lesbians have had unprecedented political and cultural importance in Toulouse. For decades their power regularly matched (and sometimes superseded) that of the gay male community—a situation virtually unheard of in other major cities around the globe. Bagdam endured, I would argue, because it incarnated both the outrage and the

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jubilation that have long been central to lesbian activism in Toulouse, making utopian gaiety an intrinsic part of its political agenda. Conclusion: Utopian Gaiety: ‘Here and Now’ or Over and Done? One of the things that I’m implying throughout this chapter is that radical politics – particularly radical lesbian politics – are necessarily utopian. Importantly, in advocating for a world free from patriarchal and heterosexist oppression, lesbian ‘modelling or scenario-building’ (what Levitas calls the ‘Imaginary Reconstitution of Society’) is ‘not simply a thought experiment in the conventional sense, for it necessarily operates at the level of affect as well as intellect’ (Levitas, 2013, 153, 218). Both negative and positive affect can, of course, manifest in praxis and it is not my intention to either denigrate the politically productive function of negative affect or argue that positive affect alone can create social change. But utopian battles can be exhausting ones. By both embracing utopia as method and incorporating a politics of pleasure, lesbian utopian gaiety – as this brief history has demonstrated – nourishes our capacity ‘to live in this world as citizens of another’ (Levitas, 2013, 220). The recent ‘negative turn’ in queer studies, focused as it is on damage and loss, resists the ludic emphasis proposed above, arguing instead that the ‘utopian desires […] integral to the history of gay and lesbian identity’ risk effacing the ‘dark side’ of queer experience (Love, 2007, 3–4). Such erasure, Heather Love claims, is dangerous, since it ‘makes it harder to see the persistence of the past in the present’ (Love, 2007, 19). But whereas Love reminds us of the importance of ‘feeling backward’ in part because ‘antihomophobic inquiry depends on sustained attention to the intimate effects of homophobia’ (Love, 2007, 12), many of the women examined here emphasise the importance of what we might call a ludic form of ‘feeling forward’ as a critical element of political survival. Surely humour and pleasure recharge lesbian revolutionary vigilance, especially in the face of ongoing or resurgent opposition. Two historical developments nevertheless currently menace the continuance of French lesbian utopian gaiety. The first is the emergence of what Sara Warner dubs ‘homoliberalism’, which she defines as the ‘economic, political, and social enfranchisement of certain normative-leaning, straight-acting homosexuals at the expense of other, inassimilable sexual minorities’ (Warner, 2013, xi). Tethered as they

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are to a nascent politics of homonormativity, homoliberals eschew all ‘acts of gaiety’ that ‘involve a flamboyant and flagrant flaunting’ of nonconforming sexual behaviours and pleasures (Warner, 2013, xiii). The second menace to the continuance of French lesbian utopian gaiety is in some ways more insidious: it comes from that outgrowth of radical lesbian and gay politics known as queer theory. While queer theory, as José Esteban Muñoz has beautifully delineated, can espouse its own pleasurable utopian projects, despite its anti-normative agenda it also risks eliding the analysis of misogyny and masculine privilege that stand at the heart of radical lesbian politics (Muñoz, 2009). In the contemporary moment the question thus arises: is French lesbian utopic gaiety simply an archaic concept whose time has passed?

chapter eight

‘La femme du soldat inconnu’ Feminism and French lieux de mémoire Alison S. Fell Feminism and French

The attempt by a group of feminist activists on 26 August 1970 to lay wreaths on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier at the Arc de Triomphe with the slogan ‘Il y a plus inconnu que le soldat inconnu. Sa femme’ (‘There is something more unknown than the unknown soldier: his wife’) is often cited as a foundational act for French second wave feminism (Zancarini-Fournel, 2005, 82). Widely reported in the press (journalists were informed in advance), this theatrical action was designed, according to one of the participants, ‘to denounce [women’s] oppression in a spectacular and humorous fashion’ (Tristan and de Pisan, 1977, 55). As Claudine Monteil, another participant, records, the public response was predictable: ‘Ex-servicemen were deeply offended, getting angrier by the minute. The police approached the women, grabbed hold of them, pushed them into a police van and held them for several hours. The next day, some newspapers published a photo showing these “hysterical women” who had dared to “desecrate” the most venerated tomb in France’ (Monteil, 1995, 45). Reporters used the term Mouvement de libération des femmes (MLF) to describe the group of women, thereby aligning them with the American ‘Women’s Liberation Movement’. This was in part because the French action coincided with the ‘Women’s Strike for Equality’ that took place in the United States on the same day, commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the passing of the Nineteenth Amendment, which effectively gave white American women the right to vote (CullenDupont, 2000, 281). Thus, rather than remembering the national fiftieth anniversary of the 1920 French ceremony that had aimed to bring the nation together in a collective act of mass mourning for the dead – and

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particularly for the missing – of the First World War, the women on 26 August 1970 marked a transnational feminist day of remembrance, aping the commemorative gestures of the powerful French veteran community in order to draw attention to the continuing lack of equality for women. This radical feminist act at the beginning of what was to be a pivotal decade in the development of the French women’s movement illustrates the extent to which national lieux de mémoire such as the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, as theorised in the 1980s by Pierre Nora and Antoine Prost, are always contested spaces (Prost, 1984). Memorials become palimpsests as their meanings and uses evolve over time. Thus, the set of meanings with which the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was originally invested in its unveiling for a nationalist ‘imagined community’ (Anderson, 1991) were subverted and overlaid with new meanings by and for an alternative ‘imagined community’, that of the nascent feminist movement. This explains why what was seen by many as the desecration of the national shrine to the dead of the First World War simultaneously functioned as a recruitment tool, with feminists interviewed years later citing the wreath-laying as the catalyst for their activism. Liliane Kandel, for example, commented: I opened the paper and I saw a photo captioned ‘The feminist protestors at the Place de l’Étoile were not able to lay their wreath “To the unknown wife of the soldier”’ which made me laugh out loud. And I decided straight away that I had had enough of hanging around at home. I got up and left to make my life in the big city. So that was the first effect, in August 1970, of the MLF, both liberating and therapeutic. (Maruani and Mosconi, 2010, 9)

In recent decades, various groups and initiatives have attempted to continue the defiant gesture of the MLF protestors either by exposing the extent to which national monuments, buildings and other sites of memory exclude women or are gendered masculine while masquerading as ‘universal’ or by inaugurating alternative feminist lieux de mémoire. In the birthplace of First World War French Resistance heroine Louise de Bettignies, Saint-Amand-les-Eaux, for example, there is an ongoing campaign to convert her family home into a cultural and heritage centre for ‘women’s history, memory and culture’ and, more particularly, the history of résistantes from both world wars.1 The group Mnemosyne, 1 See http://www.saint-amand-les-eaux.fr/UserFiles/File/Actualites/Cartesoutien. pdf

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founded in 2000 at a general meeting of the journal Clio, states that its primary aim is ‘the development of women’s and gender history in France in universities and in all other institutional, organisational and cultural spaces’. 2 In a similar vein, the Archives du féminisme in Angers, also founded in 2000 by leading French feminist historian Christine Bard, aim to preserve and disseminate the histories of French feminisms. 3 All of these examples can be seen as attempts to create feminist lieux de mémoire, either in historical sites or online, with the specific aim of challenging popular memory, educational syllabuses and historians who have tended to exclude women’s and gender history. Perhaps the most striking example of feminist historical revisionism in relation to French cultural memory took place on 26 August 2015, when the group Osez le féminisme! paid homage to the women who laid the wreath to the wife of the Unknown Soldier through their ‘FémiCité’ campaign. This involved replacing the men’s names in Parisian street names and metro stops with those of female scientists, artists, politicians and feminist activists (Osez le féminisme!, 2015). Noting in the statement that appeared on their website that 45 years after the founding of the MLF only 2.6 per cent of streets in Paris were named after women, the group created a series of temporary names, maps and art works in order to ‘feminise’ the city. Their alternative map of central Paris included the names of both French and American women, such as the ‘Quai Marguerite Durand’, ‘Quai Nina Simone’ and ‘Rue Barbara McClintock’. Like the 1970 wreath-laying, then, the members of Osez le féminisme! attempted to construct a transnational (and, in particular, a Franco-American) feminist memory culture rather than a specifically French one. Historians of women’s and gender history have supported these recent examples of French feminist interventions by arguing that the national lieux de mémoire that formed the core of Pierre Nora’s project, like the Tomb to the Unknown Soldier, expressed a fundamentally patriarchal vision of French Republican identity, either excluding women’s identities and experiences completely or calcifying them, Goddess-like, into abstract universalist embodiments of nations (long their traditional role) or of essentialist ‘feminine’ qualities. Maria Grever (1997, 362) claims, for example, that:

2 http://www.mnemosyne.asso.fr/mnemosyne/ 3 http://www.archivesdufeminisme.fr/

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[Nora’s] lieux of the nation represent and continue national memories that are implicitly based on specific images and notions of gender, class and ethnicity, exemplifying the centrality of white men. For instance, in national histories, women have mainly functioned as white supporting symbols: the Republican supporting mother in France, the responsible Queen in the UK.

This tension between a feminised (rather than feminist) version of French national memory, on the one hand, and a transnational feminist memory that implicitly critiques nationalism as anti-feminist, on the other, is at the heart of many of the attempts to create feminist archives and heritage sites. This chapter will consider some further examples of historical revisionism in order to discuss the extent to which feminism has debated and shaped the inclusion and/or exclusion of women in French national monuments and other sites of memory. It will consider in particular three examples of lieux de mémoire that have been inaugurated since the early days of the MLF: the recasting of the statue of nineteenth-century feminist Marie Deraismes in 1983; the transferral of Marie Curie’s remains to the Pantheon in 1995; and the construction of the ‘Passerelle Simone de Beauvoir’ in Paris, which opened in 2006. Many of the attempts to rewrite French women into public memory by building monuments, renaming public spaces, including more women in school history text books and preserving feminist historical archives stem from the key aim of second wave feminism to combat what has been theorised as the ‘silence of history’ in relation to women (Perrot, 1998). However, it is not true to say that women were completely excluded from French lieux de mémoire before the 1970s. Christel Sniter explores the way in which women were (and were not) incorporated into the ‘statuomanie’ (‘statue-obsession’) of the Third Republic (Sniter, 2012). She identifies 34 projects to build statues of women in Paris during this period, 20 of which were successful and 14 of which were unsuccessful. Yet it is important to state that the majority of these statues were not conceived of as memorials to women who were active in women’s rights, or who were pioneers in their fields and could be seen as role models for others, which were the criteria used in 2015 by Osez le féminisme! Rather, under the Third Republic statues featuring women tended to crystallise certain visions of womanhood that held sway in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Women in these statues appear predominantly not as individualised subjects but as embodiments of abstract concepts, such as Peace, or the Republic, or Maternity. This reluctance to individualise women

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– unlike the ‘great men’ who are commemorated in other statues – resulted in several monuments to groups of women, rather than to individuals. The Monument aux mères françaises, inaugurated in 1938, serves as an illustrative example of this tendency. In the memorialisation of the 1.3 million deaths in the First World War that dominated sculpture in the interwar years the sacrifice of ‘ordinary’ citizens took precedence over the ‘Great Men’ of the previous 40 years. Women generally appeared in allegorical form, symbolising ‘Peace’ or ‘Victory’, or as bereaved wives or mothers. However, there were some examples of the memorialisation of the sacrifice of citoyennes, such as the monuments erected to commemorate war nurses (Fell, 2013). The Monument aux mères françaises was dedicated to all mothers, but more specifically to First World War widows who raised their children alone. It was unveiled 20 years after the Armistice by President LeBrun, under the Popular Front government. During and after the war, women’s maternal function was often presented as the equivalence of men’s military service and bereaved mothers’ losses as a female version of sacrifice for the patrie. This is a monument in which generations of women are presented to be in mourning, rather than merely a triumphant glorification of motherhood. A newspaper article published in September 1935 compared the memorial project directly to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, stating: ‘Those who are being honoured are above all the humble, silent and unknown mothers’ (Anon., 1935). After the Second World War, this original meaning of the monument continued to predominate; during a 1946 ceremony, respect was paid to ‘women who gave their sons to the Free French army, and to the Resistance’ (Sniter, 2012, 462). In this sense, the monument can be can be seen as memorialising and publicly recognising women as part of France’s national story in a way that the MLF activists were calling for in 1970. However, from a feminist perspective, the Monument aux mères françaises is as much a monument to the dominance of interwar pronatalist beliefs as it is to the travails of First World War widows. Pronatalism was high on political agendas on both sides of the political spectrum throughout the 1920s and 1930s, and reached its apogee under the Vichy regime, when abortionists were punished with the death penalty. The sanctified and self-abnegating female figures in the Monument aux mères françaises gave spectators a reassuring, idealised and eternalised vision of womanhood that belied the notion of social change – and one which foreshadowed the ‘éternel féminin’ of the Vichy period as analysed by Francine Muel-Dreyfus (1996). This

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iconography of womanhood hardly resonated with 1970s feminist campaigns for legalised contraception and abortion, and it is therefore unsurprising that the monument was not taken up as an alternative lieu de mémoire to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier by the MLF. Quite the opposite: in 1971, the MLF organised a counter-demonstration to the traditional mother’s day ceremony that took place each year in front of the monument. This consisted of a procession of 300 activists bearing placards with slogans such as: ‘Tu n’es pas mère, tu l’es devenue’ (‘You are not a mother, you have become one’), using Simone de Beauvoir’s powerful analysis of the female condition to attack the essentialising of woman-as-mother inherent in the monument. Its association with traditional gender roles meant that there was no possibility of ‘reclaiming’ this monument, of adding another, feminist layer of meaning to that with which it was originally imbued. It was therefore attacked using the same methods of scorn and playful irony used by the MLF in relation to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Activists during the second wave of feminism rejected outright role models that echoed patriarchal understandings of gender norms, such as the familiar depictions of Republican Motherhood that are central to the Monument aux mères françaises (Rendall, 1985). During the 1980s there were calls for alternative, feminist role models to be remembered and recognised. These were usually more ‘active’ women, women who campaigned for women’s rights or who worked in fields traditionally dominated by men, and who were exceptional in the way that they defied the antifeminism of their eras. In this sense, historians and activists, in seeking to promote feminist heroines who could inspire others, were following the model of the ‘Great Men’ that dominated the statues inaugurated in the early decades of the Third Republic. The only statue of a feminist that exists today in Paris is to Maria Deraismes, in the Square des Épinettes, which was reinaugurated on 14 June 1984. The statue of Deraismes was first erected in 1898, four years after her death in 1894. For several reasons this statue to an individual woman was exceptional in its time: it was granted permission, where many such projects were not; it was made out of bronze, an expensive material that allowed for the greater individualisation of subjects; and the female figure is sculpted in the active pose of an orator, rather than in a more traditional passive, feminine pose (Sniter, 2015). These aspects of Deraismes’ statue reveal the extent of her political and social influence, her importance in the powerful fin-de-siècle networks (such as Republican freemasonry as well as feminism) in which she moved.

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Her moderate suffragism also rendered her a less divisive and ultimately less threatening figure than other leaders of the women’s movement. It is notable, for example, that a project to inaugurate a statue to communarde Louise Michel in 1906 failed. In the early decades of the twentieth century Deraismes’ statue became a meeting place for feminist marches and demonstrations; in this sense, her statue was claimed by newer generations of feminists as a site of pilgrimage, radicalising its public message. For example, after the law proposing female suffrage was passed to the Senate on 23 May 1919, 1,500 feminist activists held a rally that ended at the statue. In 1942, and along with several others, the statue was destroyed by the German occupying forces. This was partly for the value of its metal and partly because of its political message, having been ‘selected’ for melting down by the Ministry of Education. The 1980s, however – a decade in which several statues and ‘great men’ projects were initiated, as well as a decade in which some second wave feminist goals were reached – provided a context in which it was possible to recast and reinaugurate the statue. François Mitterrand appointed Yvette Roudy as the first minister for women’s rights, and she launched a number of initiatives to rectify what she recognised as the absence of women from French national memory (Bard, 2005). In 1982, 60 giant portraits of women who had played a role in the history of feminism were installed at St Lazare station and a series of feminist stamps was issued, including nineteenth-century feminist Flora Tristan in 1984. Roudy was also the first, from 1982 onwards, to begin to give 8 March official recognition as International Women’s Day. It was in this broader political context that a successful campaign was launched, supported by the Ville de Paris and the freemasonry association Droit Humain, to recast Desraimes’ statue. Her active pose and feminist credentials meant she could be recast figuratively as well as literally as a revived role model of the 1980s and as a modern ‘feminist heroine’, in keeping with the other women being publicly celebrated during the Mitterrand presidency, despite the nineteenth-century aesthetics of her statue. Ten years later, Marie Curie’s remains were transferred to the Pantheon. The symbolic value of including women in the secular temple of the French Republic can be seen in the challenge of such a move to the inscription above the building’s entrance: ‘Aux grands Hommes la patrie reconnaissante’ (To great men from a grateful nation). In his speech given to mark the occasion, François Mitterrand positioned Curie simultaneously as both a feminist and a ‘resistance’ heroine:

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From childhood, Marie Sklodoviska resisted: against the humiliations of a foreign power […] against the fate of the female condition, against all kinds of dogmas that attempted to imprison her. She wanted to be in charge of her life and make her own destiny. She had all the qualities that were necessary to make that happen. (Mitterrand, 1995)

It is interesting that the emphasis is placed here on Curie as a ‘resistant’ woman: one who resisted foreign rule in Poland and who resisted the prejudices of patriarchy in pursuit of scientific knowledge. The other anonymised group of women commemorated in the Pantheon, alongside their male comrades, are the Résistantes of the Second World War, described in the inscription as: ‘men and women, of all origins and social backgrounds, who saved Jews from anti-semitic persecution and death camps’. In the 1990s, then, admission to the Pantheon for women appears to be based on the notion of Resistance and of exceptionality, and in both cases they are honoured alongside men (one other woman’s remains are interred in the Pantheon, those of Sophie Berthelot, who was buried there in order not to separate her from her husband, the chemist Marcellin Berthelot). The campaign to have a woman interred in the Pantheon had begun earlier, however. Following the bicentenary of the French Revolution, historian Catherine Marand-Fouquet campaigned for Olympe de Gouges to be admitted. Letters were sent to Mitterrand, and women demonstrated in front of the Pantheon (Bard, 2005). In a 1996 article, historian Catherine Marand-Fouquet reflected on the history of feminist campaigns, including her own, to pantheonise women. For MarandFouquet, the inclusion of women in the Pantheon, from which they were previously excluded, was an important goal in late 1980s France, in order ‘to render justice to women, and to aid women’s progress on a symbolic level in the national conscience by inscribing them into the urban landscape’ (Marand-Fouquet, 1996). The 1990s saw these feminist concerns becoming more mainstream, as evidenced by the successful admission of Marie Curie. It is no coincidence that the same decade saw the publication of the Histoire des femmes en Occident, edited by Georges Duby and Michelle Perrot, as well as the publication of countless biographies and popular studies of women in French culture. More recently, the campaign to pantheonise additional women has been taken up again. In March 2002 (timed to coincide with International Women’s Day) an exhibition on the façade of the building exposed the continuing paucity of women. The campaign was supported by Marie-Jo Zimmermann, member of the French parliament for the Moselle region,

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who asked the National Assembly on 21 October 2002 why more women had not been pantheonised, arguing that: ‘This flagrant lack of equality is all the more unacceptable in that certain women have marked the history of the country by their strong personalities. Several of them are eminently qualified, and deserve at least to be considered as possible entrants to the Pantheon’ (Zimmermann, 2002). In this sense the more recent campaigns can be linked to the calls for political and institutional equality (‘la parité’) that were a feature of the 1990s and 2000s. The Ville de Paris in March 2008 once again posted nine women’s faces on the façade of the building, including Olympe de Gouges and Simone de Beauvoir. These campaigns have borne fruit, in that two further women were admitted to the Pantheon in 2015: resistance heroines Geneviève de Gaulle-Anthonioz and Germaine Tillon, making a total of four women out of a total of 76 (Thébaud, 2015). For the last 20 years or so, then, the exclusion of women from the ultimate Republican lieu de mémoire has exercised feminist activists, public figures and historians. What is interesting about the more recent attempts to include women such as Simone de Beauvoir or Olympe de Gouges is that they are both pivotal figures in the history of French feminism. A ‘gender blind’ approach to scientists or French Resistance fighters has not been seen as enough for many to redress the gender imbalance, and there has been a call instead for ‘feminist heroines’. The argument is not only that these women deserve to be included in terms of their achievements, but that a figurehead embodying the French feminist struggle is needed. However, as historian Françoise Thébaud remarks, it seems as if this is a step too far for the French authorities: ‘French society isn’t yet ready to pantheonise women who fought for the feminist cause. The label ‘feminist’ doesn’t go down well’ (Thébaud, 2015). This explains the decision in 2015 to stick to the ‘safe’ choice of female members of the Resistance movement. However, the 2000s did see the inclusion of some of the leading names of the French feminist movement in the urban landscape of Paris. In 2006 a footbridge was named the ‘Passerelle Simone de Beauvoir’. As the architects Dietmar Feichtinger, who won the commission to build it, claim: ‘The bridges of Paris are the stuff of legends. They tell in their own way the history of the transformation of the capital. The passerelle Simone de Beauvoir will take its place in this mythology’ (Dietmar Feichtinger, 2006). The renaming of the footbridge from its original name of Bercy-Tolbiac was originally proposed by mayor of Paris, Bertrand Delanoë, in March 2005. As Bronywn Winter notes,

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this was part of a raft of place-name changes under the socialist mayor in the 2000s, including the ‘Place Olympe de Gouges’ and ‘Place Renée Vivien’ (Winter, 2008, 79). In an interview in 2006 after the inauguration ceremony of the pedestrian bridge, in which she participated, Sylvie Le Bon de Beauvoir aligned the initiative with other ways in which Simone de Beauvoir’s legacy was being memorialised: I delight in everything that is undertaken in her name. Did you know that a ‘Simone de Beauvoir footbridge’ has just been unveiled in Paris? This 37 th bridge over the Seine is the only one named after a woman. A ‘Simone de Beauvoir prize for Women’s Freedom’ was founded in 2008 on the occasion of the centenary of her birth. On 9 January 2013, the prize was awarded to Malala Yousufzaï, a fifteen-year-old Pakistani woman who narrowly avoided being assassinated by the Taliban three months ago because she is demanding girls’ right to education. […] The Second Sex, unfortunately, remains relevant today, women have many battles still to fight, in public and in private, taking inspiration from Simone de Beauvoir’s universal theses. (Guadalupe dos Santos, 2012)

For Sylvie Le Bon de Beauvoir, then, naming the bridge after Beauvoir is a means of showing the continuing relevance of the ‘universal’ theses of The Second Sex, a way of keeping its message alive for current generations, especially in those parts of the world where equal civil rights for women are far from being achieved. Like the other renaming of Parisian streets, the Passerelle Simone de Beauvoir was part of a conscious effort to create feminist lieux de mémoire that had the potential to create transnational ‘imagined communities’ that would find a common identity in the heritage of French feminist thinkers. However, it should be acknowledged that these successful attempts to ‘feminise’ the Parisian urban landscape are ultimately small-scale interventions. French national lieux de mémoire in terms of street names, monuments and buildings continue to reflect the patriarchal context in which they were inaugurated, as revealed by the recent feminist act by the group Osez le féminisme! It continues to be argued by leading French feminist historians that the inclusion of heroines – and more particularly, feminist heroines – in France’s commemorative landscape will help to further the aims of feminism by redressing the gender imbalance in France’s lieux de mémoire (Bard, 2005; Thébaud, 2015). But the brief history of the inclusion of women in Parisian memorials and other public spaces that I have explored here reveals that there are risks in memorialising women. Adding a handful of ‘grandes femmes (féministes)’ to the scores of ‘grands hommes’ heroised in the

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streets of Paris continues to construct such women as exceptional, rather than undermining or exposing the gendered assumptions which underpin French memory culture. The anonymous majority of women remain absent from lieux de mémoire. There is no equivalent valorisation of the everyman embodied in the ‘soldat inconnu’ beneath the Arc de Triomphe. As Joan Scott has pointed out, the ‘universal’ tends to exclude not include women (Scott, 2005). Does that matter? In a recent conference discussing the place of women in the Centenary commemorations of the First World War in Britain, historian Karen Hunt proposed a Centenary memorial to the housewife, remembering her struggle with rising prices, increased household labour, care for wounded combatants, or grief in bereavement. Yet these kinds of gesture risk mimicking the glorification of the domestic, or of the ‘éternel féminin’, that we find, for example, in the Monument aux mères françaises, to which radical feminists objected on its unveiling in 1936 with the placard ‘Hommage aux mères françaises, sublimes mais non électrices’ (Homage to French mothers: sublime but unable to vote). On the other hand, the officially sanctioned ‘heroines’ that are memorialised are usually selected with a political agenda in mind, to appeal to a broad ‘imagined community’ – Mitterrand was therefore more comfortable with Marie Curie than Olympe de Gouges. In 2017 Emmanuel Macron announced shortly after the death of Simone Veil that she would be pantheonised, along with her husband Antoine. Veil’s past, as both Holocaust survivor as well as a politician who brought in the abortion law, made her, at least in some respects, a ‘safe’ candidate who would appeal to a range of constituencies in France. Her remarkable life and political achievements position her squarely within a feminised version of ‘grands hommes’ of the French Republic. Michèle Riot-Sarcey argues that: Feminism and the outward manifestations which have signified its presence for the last 200 years cannot be representative either of a women’s movement or of the female condition in general precisely because they rebel against a practice of domination which is at work everywhere, lodged even in the conceptual language that is supposed to account for humankind in general and whose function in theory is to liberate. As a result, the history of feminism can only be read in the rifts and gaps in the networks and mechanisms of power. (Riot-Sarcey, 1997, 128)

On International Women’s Day in 2015, Chinese radical feminists protested against domestic violence using similar ‘shock’ tactics to the 1970 French activists – this time by marching through tourist areas

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wearing iconoclastic white wedding dresses splashed with blood, and with slogans saying ‘Yes to Love, No to Violence’. This seems closer in spirit and tactics to the 1970 wreath-laying protest, and made headlines around the world. Perhaps it is in the shocking or ludic feminist ‘acts’ of the 1970s and more recently, which challenge existing meanings of national lieux de mémoire, subvert patriarchal stereotypes, expose the gender politics that underlie the construction of ‘universal’ identity symbols and create instead new layers of meaning, that feminism has most effectively found a space and a voice within French lieux de mémoire. Incorporating feminism into the mainstream of French cultural memory plays an important role in providing role models, raising awareness and acknowledging women’s achievements. The pantheonising of Simone Veil reveals that in the twenty-first century a woman can embody the values of the French Republic in a way that was not possible a hundred years earlier. At the same time, however, this ‘mainstreaming’ of second wave feminism distances it from its radical political roots in 1970s activism, often symbolised by the laying of the wreath to the anonymous wife of the Unknown Soldier.

chapter nine

A Mediterranean Bazaar The Bazar du Genre Exhibition at the Musée des Civilisations de l’Europe et de la Méditerranée (MuCEM) in Marseilles, 2013 Bronwyn Winter Exhibition, Marseilles, 2013

In 2013, the new Musée des Civilisations de l’Europe et de la Méditerranée (MuCEM) was opened in Marseilles, which was one of the two European ‘capitals of culture’ for that year – the other one being Kosice (pron. Koshitzé), in Slovakia. The MuCEM was a project that had been some decades in the making, having its genesis in the decline of the Musée national des arts et traditions populaires (MNATP) near the Bois de Boulogne in Paris. One of the inaugural temporary exhibitions at the MuCEM was Au Bazar du Genre: Féminin/Masculin en Méditerranée (7 June 2013–14 January 2014), which was intended as an exploration of the idea of ‘gender’, of women and of second wave feminism in the greater Mediterranean region. The exhibition was curated by ethnologist Denis Chevallier, who was in charge of the team preparing the MuCEM project as a whole, assisted by a team of academics. Its 39-article catalogue is a weighty tome featuring the work of many well-known French academics, with a preface by the doyenne of French feminist history, Michelle Perrot, among other things co-editor of the seminal five-volume Histoire des Femmes en Occident/ History of Women in the West (1991–92). Along with the exhibition’s location and timing, this line-up of academics conferred considerable prestige

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and visibility on it. It certainly contributed – along with the museum’s symbolic location in the Joliette/Fort St Jean former docks area and the innovative architectural design by Rudy Riciott – to putting the MuCEM on the national and international map. The museum clocked up some two million visitors in its first year, of which close to 70,000 visited during its opening weekend. This article considers the Bazar du Genre exhibition – the types of exhibit, the media used, the ways in which the exhibition space was used, the exhibition’s title and iconic poster – within its temporal and physical context. It asks what sense of genre/gender – and feminism – and their histories is being conveyed and what may be at stake in mounting this particular exhibition in this particular time and place. In inscribing second wave feminism and aspects of its material culture within a national ethnographic museumscape, does the exhibition inscribe feminist understandings of gender within a new ‘cultural citizenship’ (Turner, 2001), or does it reduce second wave feminism to a potpourri of cultural artefacts? Does it create a ‘constellation of difference’ (MacDonald, 2016), in which women of the ‘traditional’ cultures of the Mediterranean region are reothered as the same time as their feminist expressions are folded into a modern French ‘us-ness’? Does the exhibition’s mainstreaming of feminism and feminist history enhance or undermine their radical potential? From MNATP to MuCEM via Euroméditerranée I will begin by briefly presenting the context: the background to MuCEM and the significance of its location in Marseilles. The MNATP, the predecessor of the MuCEM, had been founded by Georges Henri Rivière in Paris in 1937 with the ambition of being a research museum: its Centre d’ethnologie française was attached to the French national research institution Centre national de la recherche scientifique. The MNATP’s collections of popular material culture were intended to provide an overview of traditional French life in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. At the time of its founding it was innovative, but a combination of a lack of renewal of its collections and inappropriate housing in a location not particularly accessible for Parisians led to a decline in attendance, with the result that in the 1980s the French government began looking at plans for a relocation and reinvigoration of the museum.

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MuCEM developed as part of a larger government project of urban renewal established in the wake of the 1995 Barcelona Process, which launched the Euro-Mediterranean partnership or Euromed. In 2008 that partnership was to become the Union for the Mediterranean (UfM), and it is now an integral part of the EU’s foreign policy. The UfM includes all 28 EU states and 15 others: Albania, Algeria, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Egypt, Israel, Jordan, Lebanon, Mauritania, Monaco, Montenegro, Morocco, Palestine, Syria (suspended), Tunisia and Turkey, with a sixteenth – Libya – being an observer.1 Following the Barcelona Process, the French government set up Euroméditerranée, a public urban renewal agency with the brief of regenerating Marseilles and its surrounds (Ministère de l’aménagement du territoire, de l’équipement et des transports 1995). It was the largest urban renewal operation in southern Europe, and the Joliette area near the old port, where the MuCEM was built, was scheduled for redevelopment as a commercial and artistic hub. In 2000 Catherine Tasca, then minister of culture and communications with the Jospin socialist government, announced that a new Museum of European and Mediterranean Civilisations would be created in Marseille. The MuCEM’s ethnographic endeavour was to be organised around five major thematic axes: le paradis, l’eau, la cité, le chemin, and masculin et féminin (paradise, water, the city, the road, masculine and feminine; Poulot, 2009). In 2003 MNATP organised the first exhibition of the MuCEM-to-be in the old Fort Saint-Jean, now part of the MuCEM complex: Parlez-moi d’Alger, Marseille-Alger au miroir des mémoires (Tell me about Algiers, Marseilles-Algiers in the mirror of memory) as part of Djazaïr, une année d’Algérie en France (a year of Algeria in France). The following year, Rudy Riccioti won the national architectural competition to design the new museum building, and in 2005 the name MuCEM was officialised by decree, work on the new museum began as a public–private partnership, and the MNATP was definitively closed. Greater Marseilles is France’s third largest city after Paris and Lyon, with a population of some 855,000 in central Marseilles in 2013 and some 1.8 million in the Aix-Marseilles urban area in 2010 (INSEE PACA, 2013). As France’s largest commercial port and one of the major gateways to Europe on the northern shore of the Mediterranean, the city has a long history of trans-Mediterranean migrations, although in 1 UfM website: https://eeas.europa.eu/headquarters/headquarters-homepage/ 329/union-for-the-mediterranean-ufm_en, accessed 14 December 2016.

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more recent years people have been leaving Marseilles to head elsewhere in France, notably Paris. Slightly over 10 per cent of its population are non-EU immigrants, primarily from the Maghreb (North Africa). It has a reputation as a tough city, not only because of the macho aspects of its meridional culture but also because it is one of the most inegalitarian cities in France: in 2012–13, over 25 per cent of the population lived below the poverty line; this rises to 51–55 per cent in its third arrondissement and 43–44 per cent in the neighbouring first and second, around the old port, where many pleasure yachts of richer citizens are nonetheless docked (Ettouati, 2016; Maurin and Mazery, 2014). At the top end of the scale, in 2015 Marseilles featured among the top ten urban areas for number of residents paying wealth tax, which kicks in at a level of taxable worth of over 1.3 million euros per year. In 2015 some 3,680 Marseillais paid this tax, which is down on the total of a few years previously but nonetheless points to the severity of the city’s income disparity. Urban renewal, then, was seen as important for this city, which is also part of France’s third poorest region after Corsica and the Nord-Pas de Calais, and the EU decision in 2008 that Marseilles would be one of 2013’s European Capitals of Culture (ECOC) seemed to augur well for the city, both economically and culturally. ECOC, a Greek initiative, developed in the mid-1980s. According to the EU’s website Europa: The initial idea for the ‘European city of culture’ is said to have originated from a chat between the former Greek and French ministers for culture, Merlina Mercouri and Jack Lang, while they were waiting for a flight at Athens airport in January 1985. Ms Mercouri followed the idea up and, in June 1985, the European City of Culture project was launched – by Resolution of the EU culture ministers – with the aim of helping to bring the people of Europe closer together. 2

The idea has since developed all the associated policies, bureaucracy and funding channels one might expect of an EU institution, and since 2011 there have been two capitals of culture, typically one in Western Europe and one in Eastern Europe: the choice of countries rotates and is planned several years in advance. The stated aims of ECOC, also published on the Europa website, are to ‘highlight the richness and diversity of European cities’ ‘and promote intra-European intercultural understanding’, while 2 http://ec.europa.eu/culture/our-programmes-and-actions/capitals/history-ofthe-capitals_en.htm, accessed 31 October 2013.

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at the same time celebrating European cultural ties and fostering ‘a feeling of European citizenship’. In addition, ECOC proclaims itself as an opportunity for urban regeneration and renewed cultural vitality and pride, lifting cities’ international profile and boosting tourism. 3 This brief was certainly in the foreground during Marseilles’ year of being an ECOC, and the opening of the MuCEM on 7 June 2013 was the centrepiece of the year’s cultural activities. The museum combines the architecturally impressive modern building with the Fort St-Jean, which was built by Louis XIV in 1660 and with which the new building is linked by a high footbridge across the water. The MuCEM, and its permanent and temporary exhibitions, immediately reflected a distinctly French idea of the Mediterranean as a sort of cultural melting pot that includes all 23 countries with a coastline on the Mediterranean basin. These countries – which extend from Spain and British possession Gibraltar in the west, past Bosnia-Herzegovina and Albania to Turkey, Syria, Palestine, Israel and Lebanon in the east and to the countries of North Africa in the south – are imagined as linked by their Mediterraneanness, creating a cultural distinctiveness that cuts across their great diversity. That diversity is always, however, imagined from a French core, and this imagining of the Mediterranean has been much criticised (see, for example, the collection of essays France and the Mediterranean [Godin and Vince, 2012]). Overview of the Bazar du Genre Exhibition Au Bazar du Genre was one of two inaugural temporary exhibitions at the MuCEM within the masculin et féminin theme; the other, Le Noir et le Bleu: un rêve méditerranéen, corresponded to the eau theme, exploring artistic and other representations of the Mediterranean in what has both built its dream and denied it (through conflicts, for example) since the Enlightenment. This latter exhibition occupied significantly more space on the floor devoted to temporary exhibitions, while Au Bazar du Genre was crowded into a much smaller space, which helped to reinforce one of the meanings of the title, creating a bazaar atmosphere as one wandered among the often cluttered multimedia exhibitions. The exhibition is explicitly dedicated to exploring the 3 http://ec.europa.eu/culture/our-programmes-and-actions/capitals/europeancapitals-of-culture_en.htm, accessed 31 October 2013.

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gendered construction of society and the recent history of feminist – and LGBT – individual and collective challenges to that social order. The multimedia exhibition features images of traditional society and of individuals and groups that have challenged it, feminist and gay activist memorabilia, newsreel footage, scenes from classic films, videos of more recent ‘activist’ performance art and various visual artworks. As for the deeper meaning of the exhibition’s title, Perrot offers the following interpretation in her preface to the catalogue: The title of this exhibition reflects an evolution of situations, an explosion of issues, a profusion of representations and images. It highlights the break with what was believed to be a stable structure: the duality and hierarchy of the sexes. What makes the bazar so original – negotiation, trade, exchange – is here applied to sexuality, to the game of sex and to love. … In this profusion, it is vain to seek a fake unity. … This exhibition does not claim to provide an impossible synthesis, but only to open up some avenues, propose some keys, some suggestions, some itineraries. This Bazar is a wager that invites us into the game. (Perrot, 2013, 16 and 17, my translation)

Perrot further suggests, in keeping with the vocation of the MuCEM, that the Mediterranean is in a sense the ‘cradle’ of gender, for it is on its shores, among the Ancient Greeks and Romans, followed by the three monotheistic religions, that the philosophical and cultural differentation of the sexes began. (I suspect, however, that this vision may be contested by historians of ancient China or of the Indian subcontinent, as there is no evidence that the ancient civilisations of East and South Asia were any less misogynist than their West Asian, North African and European counterparts.) To return to the idea of the bazar: the expression is ambiguous in French. On one hand, it calls up, as Perrot suggests, a perhaps somewhat orientalist vision of a mythified popular culture of the Mediterranean and its modes of exchange at the same time as it refers, in familiar parlance, to a mess or an assemblage of paraphernalia. This double entendre is surely deliberate, as ‘messing with gender’ is an explicit brief of the exhibition. At the same time, the choice of title leaves the curators of the exhibition open to a critique of incoherence or a piecemeal approach, which the content of the exhibition, and its arrangement in its relatively small space, tends to support. There is no specified itinerary: one can visit the exhibition as one might indeed visit a bazar: clockwise or anticlockwise or in zigzag fashion, crisscrossing the different stages of the exhibition. I, as most visitors,

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took the counterclockwise path with the occasional zigzag. I do not have the space here to describe the exhibits in detail, but the anticlockwise itinerary began with an immersion in the heyday of 1970s feminism (and some 1980s exhibits). The campaign for abortion was front and centre, as it was a particularly hard battle in the Catholic countries of the north of the Mediterranean at that time. There were also news photographs and images related to the feminist press of the time, such as the French publication Le Torchon brûle. If in the south the abortion campaign was harder to articulate at the time, there were nonetheless exhibits that testify to the activism of women in Arab countries around birth control, as shown by an Egyptian family planning poster from 1989. More radical (and playful) aspects of the women’s movement also had their moment, as evidenced by an Italian poster advertising lesbian comics from 1985 – around the same time as Alison Bechdel was starting up her celebrated series Dykes to Watch Out For across the Atlantic. The narrative of the exhibition was thus immediately framed as a celebration of second wave feminism in the Mediterranean region, with an accent on women’s sexuality and feminist publishing and graphics. This ‘activist’ frame was reiterated at various stages of the exhibition with images from both earlier and later moments in feminism, including battles for women’s suffrage, representations of traditional marriageand-maternity roles for women, and protest against these. At the same time, much of the imagery simply showed elements of dominant rural and urban narratives concerning women’s sexuality, with little comment. In one panel captioned ‘Les dessous du bazar’, traditional marriage belts, symbolising intact virginity and the loss of it that was symbolised by the opening of the belt in the marital chamber (the exhibition featured one from twentieth-century Greece), were shown alongside the frilly underwear of the ‘modern’ woman that can be found for sale in markets in present-day Beirut. The ‘dessous’ of the ‘bazar’ can thus be taken both literally – as in undergarments on show at the bazar (market) – and metaphorically, as in the unchallenged ‘underbelly’ of the ‘gender mess’. Other exhibits featured French campaigns against sexist toys, images of women in non-traditional occupations, violence against women (including in the context of the so-called ‘Arab Spring’) and campaigns against it. In keeping with the multimedia character of the exhibition, one of the exhibits on violence against women was audio only. One entered a circular space separated from the rest of the ‘bazar’ by plastic strips of the sort commonly used as a fly-screen; once inside the circle,

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a series of relatively soft – even whispered – women’s voices, broadcast through several speakers, narrated (in French) their experiences of male violence. As for the ‘Arab spring’ section of the exhibition, featuring both photographic and social-media materials, Tunisian-born and France-based researcher Sophie Bessis comments in the catalogue that, ‘contrary to the usual Western perception, the Arab world has been recurrently debating women’s situation for over a century’ (Bessis, 2013, 82), but within the context of the current Arab revolutions women are facing ‘a redoutable challenge’ (2013, 86), confronted on one hand by authoritarian regimes and on the other by an Islamist wave that had come to power via democratic means. Within that wave, radical hardliners were ‘far from being marginal’. Bessis, among many other feminist observers, feared that the Arab-world transitions would be accompanied by a ‘regressive turn of which women will bear the cost’ (86). Subsequent events in Egypt, and to an extent in Tunisia, have since lent poignant weight to her words (see for example Winter, 2016, 2017). The ‘Arab/Muslim world’ exhibits also included a number of exhibits on veiling – which is unsurprising in France, where the topic has rarely been absent from national and feminist debates on gender, ethnicity, religion and citizenship since the 1989 Affaire du Foulard (Winter, 2008). A series of photographs by Boushra Almutawakel represented the photographer’s search to understand why Yemeni women have, in recent years, taken to veiling themselves more and more. The addition of this series of photographs, although thematically in keeping with this aspect of the exhibition, sat oddly in terms of its regional focus, as Yemen is not part of the ‘Mediterranean’ group. The veiling focus also included provocative images such as a 1961 photograph from Hassan Hajjaj’s series ‘Kesh Angels’, showing a group of Marrakesh women standing astride motor bikes and wearing gaily coloured djellabahs, hijabs (headscarves), black niqabs (face veils), and colourfully rimmed sunglasses. The women in the series are part of a recognised female biker culture in the city. Other exhibits in the ‘hijab’ rubric included the often-used imagery of headscarved girls playing sport, such as a 2010 photograph of the Safi women’s soccer team from Morocco. A less hackneyed representation of veiling and its political significance for women came via a video performance by Turkish woman Nilbar Güres, Soyumma (undressing). Güres, like a series of nested Russian Matryoshka dolls, successively removes layers of veils, each named for an older female member of her extended family (grandmothers, mother, aunts), symbolising both the weight (literal and figurative) of traditional

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clothing prescriptions and the process of ‘undressing’ from them leading to emancipation. The exhibition then turns towards both transgressive sexualities and gender-bending. These exhibits include predictable images of drag, marriage and women embracing, and gender-bending images such as a ‘pregnant’ man and a female bodybuilder, alongside testimonies of oppression of homosexuals, notably gay men. The imagery of gender deviance also included more traditionally acceptable forms, such as Italian femminielli and Albanian ‘sworn virgins’. These groups do not identify as transsexuals or transgender, and may or may not be in homosexual relationships. They are, however, choosing the only means available to them to reject gender norms and the rigid hierarchies associated with them. Their doing so, however, results in a paradox, as Gilles de Rapper observes, with relation to the ‘sworn virgins’. Rapper suggests three ‘paradigms’ for interpreting the social situation of sworn virgins: the ‘survival’ paradigm, in which the sworn virgins represent a surviving trace of a defunct matriarchal order; the ‘family line’ paradigm, which requires a male heir such that, in a family without sons, a daughter assumes this male role; and the ‘gender’ paradigm, which foregrounds the paradox. In a context of marked and rigid social inequality between men and women, ‘the only means for a woman to escape male domination is, in a way, to exercise it herself by becoming a man’ (Rapper, 2013, 189). The oddest framing narrative in this exhibition is that of ‘love’. Situated between panels on gay rights and gay imagery and the genderbending series is a small viewing room where one could watch various and quite traditional cinematic representations of heterosexual ‘love’ from films such as Vittorio de Sica’s 1963 comedy triptych Ieri, Oggi, Domani (Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow). A sequence from this work features Sophia Loren, playing a prostitute and performing a striptease for Marcello Mastroianni. This and all the other excerpts are strictly heterosexual and conform to masculinist and indeed traditionalist views of ‘love’. The sequences are shown without comment. As one walks on from this viewing room, before arriving at the gender-bending section, one discovers other cultural representations of ‘love’ – again, strictly heterosexual and fantasised: Egyptian cinema posters. These last are nonetheless contrasted in the exhibition catalogue (but not the exhibition itself) with a screenshot from Mohamed Diab’s 2010 film The Women of Bus 678, which focused on the sexual harassment of women on Egyptian public transport and the women’s struggle to fight back against it.

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C’est le bazar! (du genre) Comments I read in the visitor’s book (which went from ‘bravo’ to railing against the exhibition’s ‘political correctness’) at the time of my visit in September 2013 and observations of the reactions of the visiting public in the wake of the national polemic around the teaching of ‘gender theory’ in French schools (a proposal launched in 2011 by then education minister Najat Belkacem), demonstrate that reactions to Au Bazar du Genre were as polarised as that national debate. The polarising effect was no doubt deliberate: as Denis Chevallier told Radio France Internationale in an interview the day after the MuCEM’s opening, gender ‘can never leave one indifferent’ (Chevallier, 2013). In that interview, he described the exhibition as a ‘type of manifesto’ to illustrate the sorts of contemporary social issues a museum can (and by implication, should) show its public. Beyond the immediate reactions to the exhibition, however, the Marseillais have shown themselves to be underwhelmed by the state’s attempts to encourage a modern museum culture in the city, including through the ECOC initiatives, which left many indifferent – especially socioeconomically and culturally marginalised groups, who preferred to create their own ‘non-ECOC’ or even ‘anti-ECOC’ performances and exhibitions (Giovanangeli, 2015). Although the PACA (Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur) region now has one of the highest numbers of museums in France, the Marseillais – in particular the young and the poor – do not necessarily visit their own museums as much as tourists from elsewhere in France and Europe, sociocultural and economic exclusion and lack of public transport infrastructure being two oft-cited reasons (Collado, 2015). The ECOC moment – and within that, the MuCEM – thus had mixed impacts on the city for which it promised so much. There are, nonetheless, compelling reasons to be favourably disposed towards Au Bazar du Genre, beyond its supposedly provocative intent. Held three years after a number of events in 2010 marking the fortieth anniversary of second wave feminism in France, the exhibition inscribes the polysemic idea of ‘gender’, and the ‘intangible heritage’ of feminism, within the national ethnography and national memory. ‘Intangible heritage’ is the subject of a 2003 UNESCO convention, which France signed in 2006. UNESCO defines this concept as including, beyond material culture, ‘traditions or living expressions inherited from our ancestors and passed on to our descendants, such as oral traditions, performing arts, social practices, rituals, festive events, knowledge and practices concerning nature and the universe or the knowledge and skills to produce traditional crafts’

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(UNESCO website; see also Poulot, 2009).4 The MuCEM in general and Au Bazar du Genre in particular respond both to this new understanding of patrimoine and to the ‘memorialising’ turn in the (re)construction of history, including through testimony in what Annette Wieviorka has called ‘l’ère du témoin’ (‘the age of the witness’; 2013 [1998]). The violence against women audio exhibit fulfils this testimonial brief, as does a series by French photographer Philippe Castelbon. Castelbon sought out, on gay dating sites, men from countries where homosexuality is illegal and then photographed them; each photograph is accompanied by a statement by the man photographed and the text of the law prohibiting homosexuality. The series, dated 2010, is called ‘Les condamnés: Dans mon pays, l’homosexualité est un crime’ (The sentenced: In my country homosexuality is a crime). The photographs shown at the exhibition are from Tunisia, Morocco, Syria and Algeria. These images are contrasted with neighbouring and mostly playful exhibits of (mostly male) homosexuality in France, which is filtered through drag, gender bending, Gay Pride and gay marriage – this last linked in the catalogue article by Eric Fassin (2013) to the idea of ‘sexual democratisation’ – as if the question of homosexuality were now more or less ‘sorted’ in France (and as if gay marriage constituted evidence that this was the case). Fassin’s article does, however, reject the idea that the liberalisation of laws on homosexuality is necessarily culture-bound in a ‘West vs non-West’ polarisation, or that linear progress is the norm. He wrote these words in the midst of a very heated debate in France over the ‘mariage pour tous’. Another variant on the ‘testimony’ theme is a film exhibit, shown within another demarcated space, featuring four young Israeli military conscripts (three men and a woman) on four separate panels donning their uniforms in differentiated filmed sequences, then staring blankly at the camera, before the film recommences. This ‘visual testimony’ on militarisation is offered without further commentary, and one is left wondering what we are meant to take away from this particular exhibit on the subject either of militarisation or of gender. The testimony of women – and some men – through voice, visual and video material, press, posters and social media, is a definite strength of the exhibition, even if that testimony ends up, unfortunately, being diluted and to some extent undermined by the grab-bag of themes and countries featured. That said, this ‘constellation of difference’ is in fact dominated by French and Maghrebian voices and images: the French Mediterranean, in short. 4 http://www.unesco.org/culture/ich/en/what-is-intangible-heritage-00003, accessed 7 January 2017.

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On one level, museums can be seen as ‘agents of identity [and] empowerment’ for feminists, as Carol Malt has suggested with relation to feminism and the museum in the Middle East and North Africa (her 2006 article focused in particular on Morocco and Jordan). Being inscribed within the grand-public museumscape, and particularly within a museumscape of the material and symbolic importance of the MuCEM, enhances the impact of the 40th anniversary events by inserting feminist material and intangible culture, and by association, feminist memory, within the French mainstream. In addition, the multimedia character of the exhibition and the use of spatial demarcations (within the already relatively small exhibition space) and lighting effects leave one with a sense of interaction – even though there are no actual interactive exhibits. In exploring the idea of ‘gender’ – and indeed of feminism – through an almost bewildering array of countries and themes, the audiovisual and spatial experience of the ‘bazar’ was largely successful, particularly in realising the brief outlined by Chevallier. On other levels, however, the exhibition Au Bazar du Genre, as a memorialisation of second wave feminism and an interrogation of the idea of ‘gender’, leaves one feeling uneasy. The exhibition shared four common elements outlined by Hilary Robinson in her 2016 analysis of the mainstreaming of feminist art since circa 2005. First, it was a ‘survey’ exhibition, ‘as distinct from the many themed feminist exhibitions’. Second, feminist thought was part of the ‘stated curatorial impulse for the exhibition’, and feminism and the history of second wave feminism were both integral to many, even most, of the exhibits and discussed in the catalogue. Third, the exhibition occurred ‘at the time when the lived experience of the women’s movement is turning into the subject of History, and its impulses are being disciplined, defined, written, and [even] canonized’. Finally, the exhibition took place in a major national museum whose opening occurred with much fanfare during the ECOC year in Marseilles (all cited passages from Robinson, 2016). These factors combine to portray ‘feminism’ within an institutional and ultimately non-feminist frame, such that the institution ends up redefining ‘feminism’ as ‘gender’ (a practice that is already well entrenched within our universities). Indeed, the different media and genres, and different ‘gender’ frames, used in the exhibition play on the ambiguity of the word genre in French, which has now taken on the same range of meanings – and the same semantic and political slippages – as in the English speaking world. Not only does the term connote the range of media and genres used in

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Figure 1. Pilar Albarracín, Sans titre (Torera), 2009. Photograph used for the poster of the Au Bazar du Genre exhibition, MuCEM 2013 (chromogenic proof laminated on Dibond, 200 × 125 cm) Courtesy of the Galerie GP & N Vallois, Paris.

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the exhibition, it also shifts from denoting ‘gendered social relations’ to ‘male oppression of women’ to ‘women’ to ‘homosexuals’ to the latest connotation of the individual(istical)ly chosen ‘gender identity’ of individuals. Even if the information panel that greeted visitors on arrival at the exhibition began with the original feminist understanding of the term as an ordering of social relations in the interests of male domination, it concluded on the idea of ‘genre’ as a individual choice. This unease is exacerbated by the juxtaposition of serious debates about rights and space for women and the issue of male domination (including the criminalisation of homosexuality and the marginalisation of lesbians) with often trivial material on ‘love’ (presumed to correspond to a relatively narrow heterosexual paradigm), and material on gender bending as either a somewhat voluntarist performative choice in a Butlerian sense (1990) or as artistic play in a Bakhtinian carnavalesque sense (1941). This material may have been artistically interesting but it was politically questionable, including in its paradoxical remarginalisation, through fetishisation, of already marginalised populations such as lesbians. As Natacha Chetcuti writes in the exhibition’s catalogue, the history of lesbianism remains ‘conditioned by a normative order’ and continues to be bound to a matrix of heterosexuality (Chetcuti, 2013, 165). Only rarely did one glimpse some of the more serious questions underpinning gender ambiguity. Even the exhibition’s signature image, a 2009 self-portrait by photographer Pilar Albarracín, appeared to make light of the question of ‘gender’ by reducing it to a question of clothing and props. The photograph, which was displayed on the glass front of the square MuCEM building along with the exhibition’s title, shows Albarracín dressed in an ornate toreador’s costume, with two modifications: she is wearing red high heels and red lipstick. She looks sternly at the camera. Her right hand rests on a sword, its point standing on the ground in front of her right foot, and her left arm cradles a pressure cooker. Supposedly a radical gender-blending image, the photograph attracts primarily through its juxtaposition of traditional macho and feminine imagery, and the unsmiling gaze of Albarracín. An arresting marketing image, no doubt, but it unfortunately reduces the content of the exhibition to a superficial question of gender-code mixing and effaces any feminist content. In seeking to speak to its public in several registers – politics, art, play, love, sexuality and gender as both structuring of society and ambiguous – the exhibition ended up being clear in none. As an institutionalisation of (some aspects of) feminist memory, Au Bazar du Genre was thus simultaneously welcome and worrying.

part 3

Now: Reappraisals and New Agendas

chapter ten

Time to Laugh or to Cry? ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ after 40 Years Mairéad Hanrahan ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ after 40 Years

Hélène Cixous’s 1975 ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ (‘The Laugh of the Medusa’) represented a defining moment both for feminism and for literary criticism and theory. The idea that writing could be analysed in terms of cultural sexual difference, as distinct from the biological sex of its author, immediately won it a place as essential reading for anyone interested in questions of gender. In fact, Cixous’s text played a major role in displacing the debate from feminism to gender. Her conception of sexual difference not as an effect of biology but as a matter of libidinal economy, and specifically a question of different practices of the relationship between self and other, was an important factor in the shift of emphasis from ‘women’s studies’ to ‘gender studies’ that took place in the late 1970s and early 1980s. For Cixous, far from being associated with lack (of the various attributes associated with masculinity: power, authority, reason, etc.), femininity was rather defined by a generous, open attitude towards alterity. As a structure rather than an essence it was not exclusive to women, even if women’s historical exclusion from power made it more likely for women to be structured in this way; being relatively less invested than men in the status quo, they generally had less to lose and were more likely to know from experience that powerlessness is not the same as death. ‘Le Rire’ thus broke new ground both in valorising femininity and in proposing that it was not the exclusive property of females. In its wake, work on sexual politics could no longer be unproblematically predicated on assumptions of sexual identity; it needed henceforward to take account of cultural

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constructions of sexual difference: what today we call ‘gender’.1 In specifically literary critical terms, it was no longer sufficient to focus on the politics of the signature and the representation of women within a text; considerations of gender could no longer be considered confined to the level of content or theme. Cixous’s imaginative leap was to suggest that gender differences could be identified in what a text did (especially in the generosity it practised) as much as in what it said or who had written it. The complex identifications people make with power, with the law, with the body, produced effects in writing, sexually different effects that called for analysis. ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ thus launched the debate about how different practices of writing might be said to be gendered and, as its repeated anthologisation shows, became a landmark reference. One common translation of ‘landmark reference’ into French is a reference that ‘a fait date’, marked its time; French uses a temporal rather than a spatial expression. It is, moreover, the expression Cixous herself uses in ‘Un effet d’épine rose’ (‘A Pink-thorn effect’), the preface she wrote for the 2010 Le Rire de la Méduse et autres ironies (The Laugh of the Medusa and Other Ironies), a volume in which she agreed for the first time to republish the original French text of both ‘Le Rire’ and ‘Sorties’, the section of La Jeune Née (The Newly Born Woman) from which ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ is an outgrowth. Looking back 35 years, she explains: ‘J’ai crié. Allons. Une bonne fois. J’ai fait date.’ (‘I screamed. OK. Once, one good time. It marked the time’ (Cixous, 2010, 28). 2 I will come back later to the ‘cri’; for the moment, let me develop the implications of the expression ‘j’ai fait date’. It establishes a clear rupture between ‘Le Rire’ and the time preceding it, as analysed above. But what about the time that followed? The use of the perfect or passé composé, a tense that simultaneously locates the action in the past and (through the auxiliary) relates it to the present, suggests both a discontinuity and a continuity between 1975 and the time decades later 1 For an excellent recent account of the relationship between feminism and gender studies, see Berger, 2014. 2 ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ was first published in a Special Number of L’Arc devoted to Simone de Beauvoir (Cixous 1975a); ‘Sorties’ first appeared in Catherine Clément and Hélène Cixous, La Jeune Née (Cixous 1975b). These original publications were quickly followed by English translations: ‘The Laugh of the Medusa’ by Keith Cohen (Cixous, 1976); and ‘Sorties’ by Betsy Wing (Cixous, 1986). Translations of ‘Un effet d’épine rose’ are my own.

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when Cixous was writing ‘Un effet’. This chapter seeks to explore these temporal differences opened up by ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ and ‘Sorties’. Both texts exhort their readers above all to pay attention to differences: ‘Aux commencements sont nos différences’ (‘At the beginning are our differences’) (Cixous, 2010, 67 and 140). I will investigate the difference time has made, according to Cixous’s own reflections in ‘Un effet d’épine rose’. How does she feel ‘Le Rire’ has aged? Where lies the appeal today of a text that could arguably be expected to seem dated, out of date, because of its historical specificity? *** ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ in effect foregrounds the question of time from the outset: Je parlerai de l’écriture féminine: de ce qu’elle fera. Il faut que la femme s’écrive : que la femme écrive de la femme et fasse venir les femmes à l’écriture, dont elles ont été éloignées aussi violemment qu’elles l’ont été de leurs corps ; pour les mêmes raisons, par la même loi, dans le même but mortel. Il faut que la femme se mette au texte – comme au monde, et à l’histoire –, de son propre mouvement. Il ne faut plus que le passé fasse l’avenir. Je ne nie pas que les effets du passé sont encore là. Mais je me refuse à les consolider en les répétant ; à leur prêter une inamovabilité équivalente à un destin ; à confondre le biologique et le culturel. Il est urgent d’anticiper. Ces réflexions, parce qu’elles s’avancent dans une région sur le point de se découvrir, portent nécessairement la marque de l’entretemps que nous vivons, celui où le nouveau se dégage de l’ancien, et plus exactement la nouvelle de l’ancien. C’est pourquoi, comme il n’y a pas de lieu d’où poser un discours, mais un sol millénaire et aride à fendre, ce que je dis a au moins deux faces et deux visées : détruire, casser ; prévoir l’imprévu, projeter. (Cixous, 2010, 37) [I shall speak about women’s writing: about what it will do. Woman must write her self: must write about women and bring women to writing, from which they have been driven away as violently as from their bodies – for the same reasons, by the same law, with the same fatal goal. Woman must put herself into the text – as into the world and history – by her own movement. The future must no longer be determined by the past. I do not deny that the effects of the past are still with us. But I refuse to strengthen them by repeating them, to confer upon them an irremovability the equivalent

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of destiny, to confuse the biological and the cultural. Anticipation is imperative. Since these reflections are taking shape in an area just on the point of being discovered, they necessarily bear the mark of our time – during which the new breaks away from the old, and, more precisely, the (feminine) new from the old. Thus, as there are no grounds for establishing a discourse, but rather an arid millennial ground to break, what I say has at least two sides and two aims: to break up, to destroy; and to foresee the unforeseeable, to project.] (Cixous, 1976, 875)

Thematically, time is at issue from the very beginning, with the need for a future different from the past. ‘Il est urgent d’anticiper’ (‘Anticipation is imperative’): now is the time when the past must give way to the future; the present is the ‘entretemps’ or between-time ‘où le nouveau se dégage de l’ancien, et plus exactement la nouvelle de l’ancien’ (‘during which the new breaks away from the old, and, more precisely, the [feminine] new from the old’). ‘Now’ is the time when a future that can be distinguished from the past instead of merely repeating it is already being forged. In other words, ‘now’ is the time of the future. This is reflected at the level of the writing itself. Significantly, the past tense is nearly entirely absent from these initial three paragraphs, featuring only once in a subordinate clause. Although the passage is about what must happen in the present (Cixous speaks confidently and forcefully: the imperative ‘il faut’ (must) repeatedly punctuates these opening paragraphs) and the vast majority of its verbs are in the present tense, the text begins not only with but in the future: ‘Je parlerai de l’écriture féminine: de ce qu’elle fera.’ (‘I shall speak about women’s writing: about what it will do’). Not ‘I speak’ but ‘I shall speak’. Cixous already anticipates: the future is already there at the beginning. That is, already in the present the future is effective, the future ‘takes effect’; ‘anticipate’ derives from the latin ante, before, and capere, to take, which interestingly is also the root of capable. Anticipating is effective, it is powerful; it has the power to make the future present. In ‘Sorties’, Cixous quotes William Blake (following Parmenides) to the effect that ‘ce qui est pensable est réel’ (‘what is thinkable is real’) (Cixous, 2010, 99). It seems, similarly, that anticipating a different future serves already to realise it. At its opening, ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ thus posits a ‘now’ in which a different future is not only announced but brought forward and actualised. The future is ‘actuel’ in both senses of the word in French: realised but also current, of interest in the present. This sense of nowness is made explicit later in the text:

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Il est temps que la femme marque ses coups dans la langue écrite et orale. (Cixous, 2010, 46) (It is time for women to start scoring their feats in written and oral language.) (Cixous, 1976, 880) Si la femme a toujours fonctionné ‘dans’ le discours de l’homme, […] il est temps qu’elle disloque ce ‘dans’, qu’elle l’explose, le retourne et s’en saisisse, qu’elle le fasse sien, le comprenant, le prenant dans sa bouche à elle, que de ses dents à elle elle lui morde la langue, qu’elle s’invente une langue pour lui rentrer dedans. (Cixous, 2010, 57–8) (If woman has always functioned ‘within’ the discourse of man, […] it is time for her to dislocate this ‘within,’ to explode it, turn it around, and seize it; to make it hers, containing it, taking it in her own mouth, biting that tongue with her very own teeth, to invent for herself a language to get inside of.) (Cixous, 1976, 887)

It is asserted even more emphatically in ‘Sorties’: ‘Je dirai: aujourd’hui l’écriture est aux femmes’ (Cixous, 2010, 114) (‘I will say: today, writing is woman’s’) (Cixous, 1986, 85). But how are we to interpret this focus on the present of ‘aujourd’hui’, today? As a deictic, its meaning is dependent on the scene of enunciation. It is not incidental, moreover, that Cixous wrote ‘Le Rire’ at a time when the question of what ‘now’ might mean was particularly alive. I have shown elsewhere how her text Souffles, written at the same time as ‘Le Rire’ and working over many of the same questions, although in a completely different tone, is profoundly in dialogue with Jacques Derrida’s Glas, published in 1974 (Hanrahan, 2014, 107–12). The incipit of Glas foregrounds the topicality not just of Hegel but specifically of Hegel’s thinking about the here and now: quoi du reste aujourd’hui, pour nous, ici, maintenant, d’un Hegel? Pour nous, ici, maintenant: voilà ce qu’on n’aura pu désormais penser sans lui. Pour nous, ici, maintenant: ces mots sont des citations, déjà, toujours, nous l’aurons appris de lui. (Derrida, 1981, 1a) (what remains today, for us, here, now, of Hegel? For us, here, now: that is what we can’t in future think without him. For us, here, now: these words are quotations, already, always, we will have learned that from him.)

Cixous’s uncharacteristic foray into polemics was thus informed and nourished by contemporary reflection on the referential specificity of the terms ‘now’ and ‘today’, and on the uncertainty of the relationship

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between the time of the énonciation (or enunciation) and that of the énoncé (utterance). ‘Je dirai: aujourd’hui l’écriture est aux femmes’ (‘I will say, today, writing is woman’s’). How, then, is the reference to ‘aujourd’hui’ to be read? Taken as an indication of the time when the text was written, how narrow a dating does it entail? It certainly bears reading specifically in relation to 1975, the threshold of the period that this collection of essays studies, and indubitably a year of particular historical importance. That year was indeed a ‘key moment in the history of feminism and women’s writing’, a ‘remarkable year for social, political and creative analysis’, as outlined in the Introduction to this volume. Cixous’s texts are a product of this singular historical juncture in two relevant respects. Feminism was in full swing in the mid-1970s, generating a heady intoxication that a brave new world in terms of women’s rights was in the process of being forged. But the 1970s were also a time of dizzying change in thinking about texts, as deconstruction and developments in narratology and more generally in poetics combined to theorise approaches to writing in radically new ways. The ‘aujourd’hui’ therefore invites reading in the first place as a temporally circumscribed reference to the mid-1970s. As such, the ‘today’ it refers to is different from today’s ‘today’. Yet in some ways the second decade of the twenty-first century may remain uncomfortably similar to the ‘today’ of 1975. This volume of essays in effect focuses attention on the difference that time has made since then. Has time made a difference? How and to what extent have things changed? Cixous’s 2010 text paints a mixed picture. In response to the question ‘où en sont les femmes aujourd’hui ?’ (‘what is the position of women today?’), its final paragraph registers the new resonance ‘Le Rire’ is finding in the twenty-first century in Latin America and in Asia. Medusa prosopopoeiacally states: ‘En 2003, je suis née et j’ai vécu en Corée, on arrivait en 1970 […] C’est l’Heure de la Méduse entre les Amériques’ (‘In 2003, I was born and I lived in Korea, we were coming up to 1970 […] It is the Hour of Medusa between the Americas’) (Cixous, 2010, 33). Time is indeed out of joint; 2003 in some parts of the world is the same as 1970 in others. But when Medusa turns the question back to ask about France, the author’s answer – and the text’s final sentence – strikes a gloomy note: ‘Je crains qu’il faille que tu reviennes voler devant ma fenêtre, dis-je. Ces temps-ci l’air est plein d’algues, on étouffe et on ne rit pas beaucoup’ (‘I am afraid you will have to come back to fly before my window, I said. These days the air is

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full of seaweed, we are stifling and we are not laughing much’) (Cixous, 2010, 33). For Cixous in 2010, contrary to her hopes at the original time of writing, Medusa is – disappointingly – still timely in France after all those years. Unlike the progress made in places such as Korea or Latin America, the imaginative breakthrough that Medusa’s laugh represented is as much needed in France in ‘ces temps-ci’ as ever before. The future announced back in 1975 remains virtual; indeed, things may even have regressed, in that France may have slipped back to join Korea in ‘1970’; in France, 2010 may be earlier than 1975. ‘Je crains qu’il ne faille que tu reviennes voler …’ (‘I am afraid you will have to come back to fly …’): contrast this fearful statement with the self-assured imperatives that launched ‘Le Rire’. Medusa’s flight is not only as necessary (and lacking) as it was decades previously; it remains emphatically virtual, as highlighted by the sequence of subjunctives, the mode of expression par excellence of the potential as distinct from the actual. In other respects, too, ‘Un effet d’épine rose’ sounds a more subdued, sombre tone than the heady optimism of the earlier texts. Cixous explains the reasons why it took her such a long time to give permission for the original French text to ‘fly’ again. ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ had proven a defining moment not only for feminism and for literary studies but for Cixous herself. She states her irritation that ‘Le Rire’ had gained a much wider reception than her other texts: La Méduse est allée beaucoup plus vite, plus loin, plus fort que mes textes de fiction et plus tard mon théâtre. Franchement, j’eus un agacement. Cette fille couronnée de langues – et d’anglaises (comme on disait quand j’étais petite) – m’a doublée pendant des décennies. Elle m’a joué un sacré tour: moi qui croyais l’avoir inventée, délivrée du mythe, voilà qu’elle m’avait prise dans ses lacs: je devins l’auteur du Rire de la Méduse, dans l’univers, autrement dit son père, ou sa servante! (Cixous, 2010, 29) (Medusa travelled much quicker, much further, more powerfully than my fictional texts and later my theatre. Frankly, I felt annoyed. That girl crowned with languages – and with ringlets (as we said when I was little) – shadowed me for decades. She played quite a trick on me: I thought I had invented her, freed her from the myth, and it turned out she had taken me in her net: I became the author of The Laugh of the Medusa, in the world, that is her father, or her servant!)

Note the filial metaphors here: in a typically Cixousian reversal of roles, the child defines the parent. The author becomes the creature of her creation, the creation the author of her author. One negative effect of the

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Medusa’s success was that Cixous became known worldwide not for her creative writing (her ‘textes de fiction’ and theatre) but for this highly unrepresentative text – a text, moreover, known above all through its English translation. The play on ‘anglaises’ here is overdetermined: ‘anglaises’ is the French for ringlets, the specificity of the Medusa’s hair (composed of snakes, hence shaped like curls) is entirely lost in translation. But, even more than the translation into English, there is an additional translation. The parent the daughter creates is a father, not a mother. A father, or a ‘servante’, a female servant. Instead of producing the new feminine figures her text called for, Cixous’s view appears to be that it may have helped to consolidate the gender paradigm that she had hoped it would revolutionise; the two roles it constructed for her were that of feminine subordinate or masculine figure of authority. The most obvious implication of this metaphorical fatherhood is that ‘Le Rire’ had transformed Cixous by translating her into someone known primarily as a theorist – that is, into someone who practises language as a master, with a primarily referential discourse. 3 Following ‘Le Rire’, Cixous in effect found herself caught up in a debate about the (sexual) politics of theory. To summarise the debate as concisely as possible: the idea that ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ was a ‘theoretical’ text whose value depended on the strength of the logical arguments that it made received its most forceful elaboration in Toril Moi’s Sexual/ Textual Politics. Moi subordinated Cixous’s lyrical, ‘utopian’ text to Kristeva’s work because of what she saw as a lack of theoretical rigour in Cixous’s writing that in her (Moi’s) opinion did not sufficiently clearly serve the feminist project of advancing the condition of women. Peggy 3 In terms of the ‘servante’, when developing the importance of women exploring their desire, Cixous had written in ‘Le Rire’: ‘Une femme sans corps, une muette, une aveugle, ne peut pas être une bonne combattante. Elle est réduite à être la servante du militant, son ombre’ (Cixous, 2010, 46) (‘A woman without a body, dumb, blind, can’t possibly be a good fighter. She is reduced to being the servant of the militant male, his shadow’) (‘The Laugh’, 880). Her reprise of the metaphor of the (feminine) servant in ‘Un effet’ thus suggests that the corollary of her translation into a ‘feminist theorist’ was the failure of her body to be heard. Ironically, she would thus herself have fallen victim to the pattern she had recognised in the earlier text, lamenting the fact that even if a woman does transgress convention and express herself, ‘sa parole choit presque toujours dans la sourde oreille masculine, qui n’entend dans la langue que ce qui parle au masculin’ (Cixous, 2010, 46) (‘her words fall almost always upon the deaf male ear, which hears in language only that which speaks masculine’) (‘The Laugh’, 880).

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Kamuf subsequently developed the limitations of Moi’s conception of the political, demonstrating that her argument rested implicitly on a hierarchical opposition between a politics and a poetics that privileged the general (or the translatable) over the singular, and structurally involved a repression of otherness similar to that which had produced the injustice that feminism sought to redress. However, although subsequent scholarship has followed Kamuf in rejecting the opposition between the political and the poetic, the label of ‘feminist theorist’ stuck to Cixous and to a large extent still today determines how her writing is received. Cixous’s unease with the ‘theoretical’ figure into which the extraordinary success of ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ transformed her – in spite of herself, in spite of everything she believed she was saying – appears in effect to have dented her earlier confidence that a double-pronged approach is optimal, as expressed at the end of the earlier-quoted opening paragraphs of the text: ‘ce que je dis a au moins deux faces et deux visées: détruire, casser; prévoir l’imprévu, projeter’ (‘what I say has at least two sides and two aims: to break up, to destroy; and to foresee the unforeseeable, to project’). The fact that she was not tempted to engage further in this kind of debate, and that subsequently she overwhelmingly devoted her energies to poetic rather than theoretical (or ‘semi-theoretical’) writing, may indicate a shift away from the belief that engaging with the enemy on its own terms – détruire, casser – would complement the project of imagining a new future into existence. In other words, although she had hoped precisely to avoid repeating the past by this double approach of destruction and creation/creativity, ‘Un effet’ appears to suggest that she has come to feel that one of these fronts dominated the other and that her attempt to fight both simultaneously ultimately may have helped to consolidate the system she wanted to overthrow. The pessimism of ‘Un effet d’épine rose’ relative to the texts it introduces is particularly obvious in the shift in the quotation given earlier from ‘le rire’ (laughter) to ‘le cri’ (screaming/shouting/crying). Much of the euphoric, dynamic impression created by ‘Le Rire’ relates to the joyful, iconoclastic image of its eponymous laughing Medusa: ‘Il suffit qu’on regarde la Méduse en face pour la voir: et elle n’est pas mortelle. Elle est belle et elle rit’ (Cixous, 2010, 54) (‘You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she’s not deadly. She’s beautiful and she’s laughing’) (Cixous, 1976, 885). For Cixous in 1975, a feminine practice of writing was strongly associated with laughing. As

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she recalls (untranslatably) in ‘Un effet’: ‘Je disais aux amies: à nous de rire. À nous d’éc-rire’ (‘I said to my friends: it is up to us to laugh. Up to us to bring laughter into writing’) (Cixous, 2010, 25). Furthermore, her recollection of the friendships and alliances forged at the time of ‘Le Rire’ remains a very joyful association for her: ‘Tout cela est du présent. La note musicale et rieuse résonne toujours’ (‘All of that is still present. The musical, laughing note still echoes’) (Cixous, 2010, 27). However, the emphasis has shifted significantly in ‘Un effet d’épine rose’. Not only is there a bittersweet tinge to her recollection of the events that led to the publication of ‘Le Rire’: ‘Drôle d’histoire de publication qui reste à écrire. C’est-à-dire, “drôle” et pas drôle. Drôleries, tours de destin’ (‘A funny publishing history still to be written. That is, “funny” and not funny. Unpredictable twists of fate’) (Cixous, 2010, 27). This story is ‘funny’ not as the expression of a joyful emotion but as an irony, presumably one of the justifications for the title chosen for the volume as a whole: Le Rire de la Méduse et autres ironies. More importantly, the ‘cri’ within ‘écrire’ now sounds louder than the ‘rire’. Cixous associates the two together insofar as both are expressions of affect; both are sounds through which the body can be heard: ‘quand on est au bord d’une femme qui accouche, on vient à naître avec elle, c’est une joie recommencée. C’est beau, fort, joyeux, et à la minute de la naissance cris et rires font musique’ (‘when you are beside a woman giving birth, you come alive with her, the joy renews itself. It is beautiful, powerful, joyous, and at the moment of birth screams and laughter make music’) (Cixous, 2010, 25). But one of the most intriguing passages in ‘Un effet’, which includes the earlier quotation to the effect that ‘Le Rire’ had proven epochal, retranslates the earlier exultation in a markedly more sombre vein. Retrospectively, the production of the laughter is presented as a ‘cri’, a scream: Revenons à l’esprit du Rire de la Méduse. Il ne se cache pas, ce rire. Il dit l’amusement aux multiples nuances, foison d’ironies, d’hilarités, de colères, de moqueries de moi-même et de toi, l’irruption, la sortie, l’excès, j’en ai par-dessus la tête, j’ai des langues par-dessus la tête. J’en ai plein la poche. Et je ne mets pas ma main devant ma bouche pour cacher mon éclat. Assez ! J’ai crié. On crie une fois. J’avais déjà beaucoup écrit. Des textes libres, au-delà, audacieux, sans date. Il m’arrive encore de crier, mais pas en littérature. On ne crie qu’une

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fois en littérature. J’ai crié. Allons. Une bonne fois. J’ai fait date. Une fois. L’ai-je calculé? Non. C’était l’heure. Une urgence. Une dislocation. Un cri qui jaillit à l’articulation des temps. Il faut le crier par écrit. Imprimer le rire. (Cixous, 2010, 27–8) (Let us come back to the spirit of the Laugh of the Medusa. That laugh doesn’t hide itself away. It tells of amusement with multiple subtleties, a wealth of irony, hilarity, fury, mockery both of myself and of you, irruptions, exits, excesses, I’m up to here with it, I’m up to my ears in tongues. I’m overflowing with them. And I don’t put my hand in front of my mouth to hide my glorious outburst. Enough! I screamed. You scream once. I had already written a lot. Free texts, out there, daring, dateless. It still happens that I scream, but not in literature. You only scream once in literature. I screamed. I marked the time. Once. Did I calculate it? No. It was time. An emergency. A dislocation. A scream that spurted out at that juncture in time. You have to scream in writing. Print the laugh.)

Here again, the play of tense calls for analysis. The laughter of ‘Le Rire’ is strikingly recalled in a series of presents, blurring the difference between the earlier time of writing and the moment at which she recalls it. This use of the present functions as both a historic and an eternal present. It gives immediacy to the past that it describes, vividly evoking the exuberant lack of restraint and disregard for convention that characterised it. This makes the abrupt shift to the passé composé of ‘J’ai crié’ all the more brutal, as though suddenly awakening from a dream: the pleasure turns out not only to be associated with pain but also to belong to the past. At the same time, however, the past in question retains a connection to the present (unlike the past historic), and the sudden shift serves to highlight all the more effectively that the laughter remains present as present. The reading of the series of presents in the first paragraph also as an eternal present finds support in the final paragraph in the characterisation of the kind of free, excessive texts Cixous had more usually written as ‘sans date’ or ‘dateless’. The suggestion here is that while the protesting dimension of the text dates it – that is, situates it historically – the bodily inscription that makes ‘Le Rire’ a literary text makes it impossible to circumscribe temporally.4 4 Cixous also develops the different ways these texts were received geographically: ‘En France Le Rire et La Jeune Née furent des livres. Partout ailleurs dans le

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This conjunction of the historic and the timeless intersects with another disconcerting aspect of this last quotation. Cixous moves paradoxically from emphasising that ‘Le Rire’ was a once-off in her corpus to the assertion that this unique, singular experience is of general validity: ‘On crie une fois. […] Il m’arrive encore de crier, mais pas en littérature. On ne crie qu’une fois en littérature’ (‘You scream once. […] It still happens that I scream, but not in literature. You only scream once in literature’). This maxim is completely axiomatic, presented as a self-evident truth, as an eternal truth: the present reads as an eternal present. How is this strange law to be interpreted? How does the generality or universality of the law that Cixous proposes derive from her unique experience? As the passage later goes on to explain, she ‘screamed’ only once in literature because she was disillusioned by how the experience was received, or non-received: Le Rire, et autres sorties, est un appel. Un coup de téléphone au monde. On a dit : un manifeste. Un Appel ? C’est que je devais penser que je serais entendue ? Ou au contraire, je doutais et j’aurais poussé un cri rilkéen, qui ne serait même pas entendu parmi les anges ? Je crois que je croyais que je serais entendue. (Cixous, 2010, 28) (The Laugh, and the other sorties, is a call. A phonecall to the world. They said: a manifesto. A Call? So I must have thought I would be heard? Or on the contrary, I was doubtful and I screamed a Rilkean scream, that would not be heard even by the angels? I think that I thought that I would be heard.)

It is in retrospect, when it fell on deaf ears, that her ‘laugh’ turned out to be a Rilkean scream. Yet, as outlined previously, ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ is Cixous’s most widely received text by a very considerable margin. What is at issue here is not whether the text was heard but which elements of it were heard. Ironically, although this text calling for women to write texts expressing a feminine sexuality won a vast readership, the very aspects of it that, for Cixous, exemplified its femininity – its attentiveness, its enjoyment of linguistic materiality, its multiplicity of discourses and so on – were those most overlooked and indeed discarded in translation. In other words, the textual irreducibility of ‘Le Rire’ monde ce sont des actes’ (‘In France The Laugh and The Newly Born Woman were books. Everywhere else in the world they are acts’) (Cixous, 2010, 29).

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was what had disappeared in its translation into a ‘manifesto’. Hence perhaps the link between her singular experience and that of writing universally. 5 The lesson that Cixous draws from the unexpected fortunes of her text precisely concerns the way that ‘literature’ makes itself heard. It ‘appeals’: but to hear its appeal, more than reason is needed. Cixous’s case is translatable to other writers (‘on’) because it exemplifies the fact that literature always calls for translation. By definition, a literary text does not have a transparent, transferable meaning: insofar as it ‘screams’, its scream is not repeatable. ‘On ne crie qu’une fois en littérature’ (‘You only scream once in literature’). What, then, today, of ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’? Cixous is manifestly disappointed with the lack of progress made (in France) since its first publication towards realising the future that she had so passionately heralded. Yet ‘Un effet d’épine rose’ also indicates a renewed conviction that harnessing women’s imagination is crucial, indeed indispensable, to the transformative struggle. ‘Le Rire’ had stressed the powerful political resource constituted by ‘l’imaginaire des femmes’ (‘women’s imaginary’), and how vitally crucial it was that political transformation should involve ‘une production de formes’, ‘une véritable activité esthétique, chaque temps de jouissance inscrivant une vision sonore, une composition, une chose belle’ (Cixous, 2010, 38) (‘a production of forms’, ‘a veritable aesthetic activity, each stage of rapture inscribing a resonant vision, a composition, something beautiful’) (Cixous, 1976, 876). Far from displaying a disenchantment that the poetic (or the aesthetic) distracted from the political, the later text confirms the earlier one’s message that more, not less, attention to specific forms is necessary. Theoretical abstraction risks reproducing the past, whereas ‘l’écriture est la possibilité même du changement’ (Cixous, 2010, 43) (‘writing is precisely the very possibility of change’) (Cixous, 1976, 879). While the intervening period may have weakened Cixous’s faith that a better future awaits, it has not changed her mind that art, as the concretisation of the possible, holds the greatest promise of making a difference. At one level, ‘Un effet’ thus accepts that the future promised in ‘Le Rire’ has not been realised. Yet the promise itself remains. To conclude 5 Moreover, from a Derridean perspective, as Cixous knew well, the tension between the singular and the universal is constitutive of literature: ‘il n’y a pas de littérature sans œuvre, sans une performance absolument singulière’ (‘there is no literature without the work, without an absolutely singular performance’) (Derrida, 1985, 131); it is via its singularity that the work gives access to the universal.

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on a brighter note, the corollary of this position is that, once concretised, the virtual exists. Persists. ‘C’était l’heure. Une urgence. […] Il faut le crier par écrit’ (‘It was time. An emergency. […] You have to scream in writing). Once ‘écrit’, the ‘cri’ remains always present. This is the point Cixous makes when she stresses that the ‘musical, laughing note’ of the experiences shared in the 1970s is ‘still present’, ‘still echoes’ (Cixous, 2010, 27) decades later; this is the effect produced by her deployment of the eternal present: ‘Il ne se cache pas, ce rire’ (‘That laugh doesn’t hide itself away’). Cixous’s regret that more has not changed since 1975 is tempered by the conviction that, once given form, the work of the imagination does not age. In other words, creativity never dates. This is exemplified in the fortunes of ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’ itself, and explains why the text exceeds the moment of its historic production. The parts of it that were most received at the time were the parts that have most dated. But what remains is what always remains in art: a form in which a particular joins with a universal.

chapter eleven

‘Les hommes et les femmes, c’est vraiment pas pareil’ (‘Men and women just aren’t the same’) Nancy Huston’s Passions d’Annie Leclerc Diana Holmes Nancy Huston’s

Nancy Huston’s 2007 Passions d’Annie Leclerc1 represents an unusual literary project and – like Hélène Cixous’ 2010 return to her groundbreaking 1975 ‘Laugh of the Medusa’ (Chapter 10) or Catel Muller’s twenty-first-century take on Benoîte Groult (Chapter 12) – an interesting case of women writing across the ‘waves’ of feminism. Written soon after the death of Huston’s friend, the philosopher and feminist Annie Leclerc (1940–2006), it is at once a tribute, a literary biography, a meditation on friendship and an affirmation of the ideas that the two writers shared. Leclerc was an important and controversial voice within second wave French feminism, initially a member of Beauvoir’s circle and a contributor to Les Temps modernes but (as Huston puts it) ‘violently ejected from the Beauvoir set’ (2007, 156) after the 1974 publication of her essay Parole de femme. Huston – 13 years younger, but also active in 1970s feminism – is a novelist and essayist who remains an eloquent contributor to ongoing debates on gender and has also provoked controversy within the feminist movement, particularly with her 2012 essay Reflets dans un œil d’homme, in which she defends the notion of an ‘innate, inalienable, timeless’ and biologically based difference between the sexes (Huston, 1 Henceforth Passions d’Annie Leclerc will be referenced as PAL.

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2012, 57–8), albeit while also fully acknowledging the crucial effects of culture. Passions d’Annie Leclerc thus arches across the agenda of our book. In this chapter I want to ask what Huston’s project is in Passions, and how the book’s unusual form works to articulate the model of feminism that underpins the affinity between these two women writers. A second question also runs through this analysis: what is the value of Leclerc and Huston’s particular philosophy of feminism, as the feminist movement reaches what is variously defined as its third or fourth wave? What Huston’s book celebrates in Leclerc can be indicated by the term ‘difference feminism’, and it was Leclerc’s passionate assertion of women’s salutary difference from men in Parole de femme that caused the rift between herself and Beauvoir. According to Beauvoir’s well-known opening chapters to Le Deuxième Sexe (1949), female reproductive biology led to women’s confinement in the ‘natural’ sphere of reproduction, child-rearing and domesticity, while men were able from early in human history to appropriate for themselves the cultural spheres of political organisation, science, technology and artistic expression, thus realising their own freedom and positioning the ‘second’ sex as ‘other’ to the male subject. It is by transcending mere biology, thanks to contraception and increased participation in the workforce, that women can assert their own capacity to function in domains characterised as masculine and claim their own full status as subjects, their freedom and autonomy. For Leclerc, though, and for Huston, the point is not so much ‘how did men manage to appropriate for themselves all the best parts of being human?’ but rather ‘how did they manage to define all the activities allocated to their own sex as “superior”?’ ‘How did it come about that men’s share of life became the best, and women’s the worst?’ (Leclerc, 1974, 128; 2 PAL, 54). ‘A scandalous question’ comments Huston, especially as Leclerc then went on to ‘reattribute value to everything that biology or tradition allocate to women’ (PAL, 54), from menstruation to female sexuality to childbirth, maternity, housekeeping and cooking, all of which Leclerc recast as potential sources of knowledge and jouissance. 3 According to this model of feminist thinking, the problem is not just that women have been confined to the sphere of reproduction and excluded from the rest, 2 Henceforth Parole de femme will be referenced as PS. 3 The French term ‘jouissance’ is notoriously hard to translate. It means pleasure, but of an intense or ecstatic kind, including but not limited to sexual orgasm.

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but rather that this sphere itself has been devalued as menial, repetitive, belonging to nature rather than culture. Yet, Leclerc argues, through their closer association with these essential and nurturing activities women have gained different kinds of knowledge, have become more alive to what matters – human wellbeing and the survival of the planet – and less likely than men to take refuge in an alienated, often destructive sense of their own supremacy.4 Whereas in the Beauvoirian model women can escape their socially constructed ‘femininity’ to achieve that freer, transcendent agency so far available only to the ‘first’ sex, the Leclerc model proposes that nothing could be worse for the collective well-being of humanity than women becoming more like men. The reverse phenomenon – men sharing in what have been restricted to ‘feminine’ activities and attributes – would be far more productive. Parole de femme was the subject of a devastating critique by the materialist feminist Christine Delphy in the Temps modernes of May 1975. Delphy’s critical essay, ‘Proto-féminisme et anti-féminisme’, dissects Leclerc’s text to demonstrate what, for her, is its philosophical ineptness and political treachery. For Delphy, Leclerc is an idealist, who situates women’s oppression not in material relations of power but in the realm of ideas: ‘her concern is not to change the reality of women’s lives, but the subjective evaluation (‘l’appréciation subjective’) of that reality’ (Delphy, 1975, 1473). The meanings of menstruation, childbirth, domestic labour – Delphy objects – are not determined by subjective interpretation, but rather by the material conditions through which they are experienced: to see these phenomena as the source of a peculiarly feminine wisdom is both to confine women within their ‘procreative functions’ and to employ the same rhetorical sleight of hand that disguises ideology as ‘nature’ to justify patriarchal power. Delphy utterly refuses the ascription to bodily experience of any meaning other than that conferred by social relations of power: if women’s reproductive and domestic roles are devalued as ‘merely’ natural, this cannot be understood at a purely ideological level but is determined by 4 Despite the apparent opposition between Leclerc and Beauvoir, in some passages of The Second Sex Beauvoir too acknowledges that women’s historical situation may predispose them to certain positive attributes: a lack of self-importance and pomposity, an ability to ‘experience (their reality) more passionately, more movingly’, a disinclination to be ‘fooled by man’s mystifications’ (Beauvoir, 1972 [1953], 637).

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the fact that capitalism grants them no economic value. Leclerc stands accused of a reactionary and politically dangerous tendency to detach ideological superstructure from material base and, moreover, to ‘move seamlessly from the physical difference between the sexes (“la sexuation physique”) to the groundless hypothesis of a psychological difference’ (Delphy, 1975, 1479). Even if (Delphy admits) it is fun and satisfying to turn men’s arguments against them by ascribing to them a peculiarly ‘phallic’ mode of thought and to women a richer, truer apprehension of the world, this is nonetheless to accept the dangerous hypothesis of a ‘natural’ relation of causality between body and cognition. Cogent, combative and derisive, Delphy’s article consigned Leclerc (along with Psych et Po and the section of Les Femmes s’entêtent that deals with motherhood) to the realm of ‘anti-feminism disguised as pseudofeminism’ (1496). In Passions d’Annie Leclerc Huston defends the value of acknowledging and re-evaluating the difference between men and women. She does so explicitly, but also implicitly through the form of a book that enacts a dialogical, collaborative mode of writing opposed to what both Leclerc and Huston define as a masculine emphasis on singularity and autonomy. Writing as an act of mourning for a friend has its literary antecedents, including (most famously) Montaigne’s essay on ‘l’amitié’, written in memory of his friend La Boétie, 5 and Colette’s many texts commemorating (mainly) female friends, such as Marguerite Moreno and Germaine Beaumont.6 Such writing is at once an expression of grieving for someone loved and lost, an affirmation of the unique specificity of their existence and a performative assertion of their continuing presence in the world: their particularity remains as part of the writer’s own vision of life (‘without her thinking and her friendship, I wouldn’t have written my books’, writes Huston, ‘it would have been a different me (‘un autre je’), and different books’ [PAL, 19]), and is conserved and disseminated through the text itself. The sense of each individual life as woven into the collective is central to the philosophy that Huston shares with Leclerc: it constitutes a refutation of the tragic model of existence as solitary and absurd that 5 Montaigne, 2007 (1595). 6 Especially in her late work, Colette evokes the unique presence – appearance, bodily style, voice, attitude to the world – of beloved friends who are now dead, such as the actress Marguerite Moreno in Le Fanal Bleu and the writers Hélène Picard and Germaine Beaumont in L’Étoile Vesper.

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both writers characterise as primarily masculine, and that Huston attributes elsewhere to authors she calls the Professeurs de désespoir. In that powerful current of Western philosophy represented by, for example, Schopenhauer, Bataille, Cioran, Sartre, Beckett, Kundera and Houellebecq, the individual lives and dies alone in a world rendered meaningless and absurd by mortality, and death represents the total erasure of each life. Passions will demonstrate that Leclerc’s life has not been simply ‘reduced to ashes’, as Samuel Beckett commented bitterly on the death of his friend Con Leventhal (PAL, 11–12), nor evaporated into nothingness ‘as if she had never existed’, as Emil Cioran wrote on the death of his mother (PAL, 12). Rather, because she lived, as human beings do, ‘right to the end in a state of transformation, becoming and exchange’ (15), Leclerc is meshed into the future. The form of the book in itself counters the view of human existence as tragic and absurd, and argues for a different vision of human life grounded – not uniquely, but at this point in history predominantly – in female experience of the self as permeable, constantly shaped and reshaped through interchange with others, and also as braided into the chain of generations. Three elements run through Passions d’Annie Leclerc, connecting the philosophies and styles of the two writers at the levels of both theme and form. First, the text could be described as bivocal, a duet rather than a solo, and feminism’s enduring emphasis on the collective rather than the singular voice is central to Huston’s project. Second, this is a book firmly grounded in physical as well as cerebral experience: it insists that thought is always embodied. And third, it is a book that values laughter and, despite (even because of) its function as a work of mourning, it stresses the importance to feminism of humour. Bivocalism Passions d’Annie Leclerc is composed of 30 short chapters, each of their titles evoking one of Leclerc’s ‘passions’: an activity (Lire [reading], Jouir [taking pleasure in things], Penser [thinking], Nourrir [feeding others], Nager [swimming], Fumer [smoking], and so on); a significant facet of her identity (Prénoms [ḟorenames], Lieux [ ṗlaces], Mères [ṁothers], for example); or a figure, real or fictional, who played an important role in her thinking (Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Penelope the wife of Odysseus, Simone de Beauvoir). Throughout, Huston’s voice is interwoven with Leclerc’s own through extensive quotation from Leclerc’s own writing,

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both published and drawn from personal correspondence, and through the evocation of remembered conversations where direct speech brings the tone of Leclerc’s interventions back to life, in, for example, her wry optimism in the face of the critical opposition or neglect that much of her work encountered: ‘History is a long process. And it’s only just begun …’ (162). The bivocal nature of the text, Huston’s voice interleaved with Leclerc’s, suggests a model of thinking through exchange with others that is very different from the singular voice of the lone individual, recalling rather the anonymous multi-vocalism of second wave feminist texts such as Les Femmes s’entêtent. Parole de femme attributes masculine culture’s emphasis on heroic individualism to ‘man’s lively resentment of woman, the story of revenge successfully exacted’ (PF, 138). Like Beauvoir in the first section of Le Deuxième Sexe, Leclerc hypothesises a prehistory of humanity that lays the basis for men’s assumption of supremacy.7 In her version, the power to procreate initially makes women the primary sex, whom men are happy to serve, but womb envy sets in as men begin to ask ‘Why her and not me?’ (133). A masculine culture is founded on the jealous devaluation and repression of all that is feminine, of the women’s sphere (reproduction, childcare), reduced to the semi-animal status of ‘nature’ against which the male subject defines his transcendence. Hence, Leclerc suggests, the ubiquitous model of the male hero, both in culture and internalised in the individual, who founds his being and his value on self-assertion and possession: ‘The hero is me-I (“Le héros, c’est moi–je”) and for as long as possible. My mark, my control, my eternal possession’ (42, original emphasis). Hence, too, the oculocentrism of masculine culture: sight, as opposed to the other senses, can be perceived as a mode of domination, of appropriating the world beyond the self: ‘Between the world I see and my gaze there is an unproblematic relationship of domination: I am its master’ (174–5). Sexual relations, too, are cast as domination (by the man) and self-abandonment (by the woman), as the vocabulary of ‘taking’ or ‘having’ a woman, of ‘giving oneself’ to a man confirms (85). Leclerc cites Sartre’s definition of human freedom – ‘Man is primarily 7 Delphy (1975) is scathing about Leclerc’s ‘mythical reconstruction’ (1488) of pre-history, but Leclerc herself is careful to present her account of the undocumented past as an explanatory parable rather than as fact: ‘I planted a story in the dark loam of my questions. (“J’ai semé une histoire dans le terreau obscur de mes questions.”). Not a thesis, or a hypothesis, no – a story, like the stories we tell children…’ (PF, 130).

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a project who lives his life subjectively, unlike foam, decaying matter or a cauliflower’ (from L’Existentialisme est un humanisme, PF, 161) – to illustrate how the human ‘project’ is defined as a removal of the singular heroic subject from the mass of mere immanent being, the latter implicitly defined as feminine (‘if anyone dares to claim that foam, decay or cauliflower’ (each of these a feminine noun in French) ‘do not refer simply to woman, then men’s moral dishonesty [“mauvaise foi”] is even more entrenched than I thought’, she comments). For Huston, too, a powerful current in masculine culture pits the transcendent individual against the ‘homogenous, gregarious, conformist, stupid masses’ (PD, 21) who simply accept, or fail to see the true horror of, the human condition – and who are characterised as feminine. The nihilism and solipsism of the ‘professeur de désespoir’ is grounded in an intense ‘disgust for all that is female’ (21). Against this investment in the tragic yet glorious singularity of the subject, the ‘moi–je’, Passions d’Annie Leclerc pits the pleasure, one could say, of the ‘moi–nous’ (me–us). The juxtaposition of passages from Leclerc’s Parole de femme and Huston’s Professeurs de désespoir demonstrates and welcomes the shaping presence of Leclerc’s thinking within Huston’s, and the similarities in their philosophy and style: ‘Certain pages could come equally well from one book or the other’ (PAL, 112). Just four years after Parole de femme, two feminist critics (working in tandem) would revise Harold Bloom’s renowned 1973 thesis of the ‘anxiety of influence’ (Bloom, 1973) according to which male writers must wage an Oedipal struggle against the legacy of forefathers in order to assert their own creativity, with their own theory of women writers’ ‘anxiety of authorship’. For Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar, it was precisely the lack of foremothers that rendered authorship so difficult for women: a sense of influence, of preceding models of thought and style becomes an enabling force, its absence a serious impediment to women’s belief in their own right to write (Gubar and Gilbert, 1979). Huston’s book rejoices in its dialogue with Leclerc’s own work, and in the older woman’s enabling influence. Apart from a brief epilogue on Leclerc’s funeral written in a third female voice, that of Leclerc and Huston’s friend philosopher Sévérine Auffret, the book concludes with Leclerc’s own, unmediated words in the form of seven short texts, some previously published and some not. The final sentence of Huston’s text belongs to Leclerc: ‘Make way for the philosophy of women. That is what we have missed the most’ (“C’est cela qui nous a le plus manqué”)’ (PAL, 347).

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Embodiment The titles couched as verbs announce Leclerc’s characteristic embrace of the corporeal as part of the cerebral: ‘lire’, ‘jouir’ and ‘penser’ are interspersed with ‘nourrir’, ‘nager’ and ‘rire’. In Annie Leclerc’s writing, in a way that Huston captures in her attention to the material forms and experiences of her friend’s life, cognition and hence philosophy are profoundly embodied: ‘thought always has its origins in a body’ (PAL, 110). Swimming, for example, which Leclerc adopted as a regular practice late in her life, necessitates a letting go, an abandonment to the water that corresponds in physical terms to a philosophical stance not of intention and agency but rather of lucid acquiescence. And so it is up to the body to teach the mind (‘l’esprit’). For isn’t it the body that by letting go (‘se délestant lui-même’) teaches me what it means to accept death into life (‘vivre-mourir’), to pass over, to accomplish and celebrate this passage to the point of wholly accepting failure ? (‘jusqu’à sa défaillance consentie?’) [...] Through swimming I learn things I did not know before. (from Éloge de la nage, 2002, PAL, 276)

As Huston puts it, ‘swimming was an opportunity to learn: happiness, letting go, the erasure of the will … and accepting one’s own end (“sa propre disparition”)’ (279). Once the body is seen not as a separate, sometimes inconvenient, entity, but as itself a shaping factor in cognition and reflexion, bodily difference – including sexual difference – becomes worthy of attention. Both writers explore the ways in which living in a male or a female body may inflect perception and thought. Huston echoes Leclerc in pointing out how the particular, intensely non-solitary experience of pregnancy is virtually absent from philosophical consideration of the human condition: not all women experience pregnancy, but only women do and, since writing has largely been the work of men (and, moreover, men without close experience of gestation, birth and childcare) ‘it is as if that experience took place outside language, simply in the realm of nature’ (PAL, 129). But if pregnancy, or even close everyday contact with infants, teaches us anything, it is that interaction with others is the very foundation of selfhood and of language: ‘the “I” only emerges thanks to others, through and with others and in no other way’ (130). Philosophers, notably Sartre (says Huston), may reach this truth ‘that any mother knows immediately’, but only through ‘frantic mental convolutions’, whereas surely it is ‘the very basis of being human’ (‘le b a-ba de l’humain’) (130). Bodily experience founds

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thought; hence, the exclusion of women from philosophy distorts what is held to be ‘truth’. What touches Huston in Leclerc’s thinking is her refutation of the mind/body dualism that characterises much of Western philosophy, and her illumination of the extent to which this is caused by the overwhelming dominance of male voices. Her tribute to Leclerc thus insists on the embodied nature of thought and emotion, staging not just the intellectual affinities that connected them but their appearance, the food they cooked and ate together, Leclerc’s diminished body as her cancer recurred. This is a book about ideas that often takes place in very precisely described domestic and quotidian spaces: in the changing rooms at the local swimming pool, on the bus (where these two eminent feminist thinkers look to the other passengers like any pair of ‘little old ladies’ (‘petites vieilles’) [121]), in the ‘mitan du lit’ (middle of the bed), a valued space in Leclerc’s writing that evokes childhood memories of being held safely between the warm sleeping bodies of parents, or in Leclerc’s kitchen as she feeds her two-year-old grandson or cooks for friends. Food – the traditionally feminine activity of preparing and offering food to restore the body and please the senses – is a recurring theme in Passions. Swapping memories of the 1970s women’s movement, Leclerc ‘close to me in the kitchen where I was preparing some dish or other for the evening meal’ (106), the two chance upon the shared memory of an issue of the feminist review Sorcières (1976–81) devoted to food. Marguerite Duras, they recall, laughing, had contributed a recipe for leek soup which could be, she wrote, on certain days, the only protection against the death wish. Subsequently Leclerc unearths the original text which confirms the memory. ‘One can feel like doing nothing’ concluded Duras, ‘and then there’s that, that soup in particular (“cette soupe-là”): between those two desires the margin is very narrow, and it is always the same margin: suicide’ (106). Women’s caring roles, which include, in most societies, domestic maintenance and the preparation of food, are socially rather than biologically determined, but they have consequences for most women’s sense of themselves and their relation to others: ‘in other words women know’, comments Huston, ‘perhaps more securely than men do, that they live with others and that those others matter to them. So they tend – more than men – to fail to kill themselves’ (‘rater leur suicide’) (108). The practical necessity of considering human beings as bodies as well as minds produces a recognition of human interdependency, and even a sensorial conviction of one’s own belonging in the material world.

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Laughter The leek soup memory makes them both laugh – after all, what could be further from the serious matter of philosophy and the death wish than leek soup? The book is laced through with humour, though its functions vary. The chapter headed ‘Rire’ highlights Leclerc’s own arguments on laughter as a philosophical stance that welcomes rather than deplores the gratuitous nature of life: You say life is absurd and that makes you moan and lament. I also find life absurd, seen in the light of your reasoning: but it makes me laugh and rejoice in the vast gratuitousness of this miraculous chance that is life, without cause, without goal, without end. (from Parole de femme, quoted PAL, 219)

A world without ultimate meaning, in which the random and the contingent constantly undermine any attempt at a coherent, totalised worldview, can be a cause of despair but equally of joy and humour. Huston insists too on the sense of humour that characterised Leclerc in life as well as in her writing, and meant that she laughed a lot, including at herself, and made others laugh. Here, too, laughter is an expression of joie-de-vivre, by its nature infectious and thus shared. But laughter is also a strategy of subversion: women’s laughing at men sustains female resistance to the dominance of the ‘first sex’ and the survival of alternative values: ‘deflate his values by puncturing them with ridicule’, as Leclerc both recommends and puts into practice in Parole de femme (28). Laughter can express not only joy but also anger, as when Huston lines up and responds to the critics who ridiculed Professeurs de désespoir as a defence of ‘literature about pretty little birds and flowers’, to cite Charlie Hebdo’s formulation in their mocking review of Professeurs de désespoir (Polac, 2004). Critics of Huston’s text employed much the same strategies as many reviewers of Leclerc’s work: to reject the literature of despair was to indulge in naive feminine sentimentality. Huston’s counter-attack thus works as a defence of both. She counters mockery with the humour of hyperbole, spelling out the subtext of her critics’ belittling discourse: The novel of today must deal with HUGE themes. DEATH, for instance. AUSCHWITZ, HORROR, MEANINGLESSNESS. MY DICK (‘MA BITE’). CRUELTY. But it goes without saying that BIG things detest little ones. HORROR can’t stand daisies and hummingbirds. MEANINGLESSNESS abhors sunflowers and buzzards. Out of the way,

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wimps and small fry, or you’ll have to deal with MY DICK ! What we’re doing here is SERIOUS STUFF! (251, emphasis in the original)

Humour reveals the misogyny of a certain stance of existential despair that takes itself very seriously. The parodic version of a discourse that aligns literary value with dark pessimism, and despair with courageous virility, is funny (the disparity between the vulgarity of ‘MA BITE’ and the dignity of the abstract nouns, the shouting capitals) and biting in its characterisation of a recognisable type of phallocentric criticism. Humour articulates feminist anger. If the pomposity of ‘professors of despair’ is to be avoided, though, it is vital to be able to recognise the ridiculous in oneself. A capacity for self-mockery is also central to Huston’s feminism, and to her reading of Leclerc’s. The portrayal of their friendship includes wryly amused consideration of their often conflicting roles as intellectuals, mothers, friends, lovers and increasingly, seen from outside, as two ‘petites vieilles’ (little old ladies). Huston acknowledges and laughs at her own contradictions, on the one hand passionate in her defence of feminine traits such as pleasure in the ordinary and an everyday willingness to converse with others, on the other irritated by the gossipiness and banality of the ‘women on the bus’. But her laughter (she writes) sours as she recognises that, to their fellow passengers, she and Leclerc, deep in their profound conversations, look exactly like those ‘little-old-ladies-on-the-bus that we used to regard with such disdain’ (120). Moreover, for at least some of the time they probably are talking about their children and grandchildren, convinced just like the others that ‘it’s not the same! No! Because our children, our grandchildren are a serious matter that engages us body and soul’ (121). It is vital to maintain, through humour, a sense of detachment from those readymade feminine roles that may merit revalorisation but are never the whole woman, and ‘It’s vital to impress upon young mothers that they must be able to laugh at themselves, and they must do their best to see themselves as others see them’ (223). Conclusion Huston and Leclerc defend the existence of a fundamental, biologically determined difference between the sexes, albeit one that is shaped and given value through culture. As feminists we have good reason to be wary of any assertion of intrinsic difference: because this has always

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been used to justify inequality; because, as Delphy argues, in human society biology can never have inherent meaning separable from its linguistic, cultural and political mediation; because a binary model of sexual difference threatens to overplay the common identity of each sex at the expense of the other factors that determine identity and relative degrees of privilege – race, class and sexuality among them. But Huston’s celebration of her friend’s life and thought illuminates what is valuable in the current of feminism (and not, as Delphy would have it, anti-feminism) that revalorises women’s difference. Passions d’Annie Leclerc speaks about and exemplifies a model of thought as a collective activity developed through encounters, exchange and influence, as a process that transcends individual success or failure and even mortality. An ethic of collaboration, a downplaying of the lone ego that Leclerc memorably imagined as a ‘lighthouse erect against the dark ocean of night’ (‘phare dressé sur la nuit océan’) (PF, 25), was central to second wave feminism and continues to inform feminist practice now: this is a book that engagingly puts that ethic into practice. Secondly, through the book’s formal and thematic emphasis on embodiment, Huston underlines and develops Leclerc’s insistence on the situated nature of thought, which in turn enables a salutary reclaiming of female bodily and social experience as an occluded dimension of culture. Neither writer denies the distinction between sex and gender (‘one is indeed born a girl or a boy but after that … it’s work in progress!’ [‘… ça se travaille!’] as Huston would put it later in Reflets dans un œil d’homme [293]), but both maintain the importance of a positive symbolisation of what, for reasons that are both biological and cultural, is women’s different experience of life. Parole de femme laid the polemical foundations for a surge of art and literature representing women’s perspective on the world. Thirdly, there is laughter. If difference-feminism runs the risk of falling into a quasi-mystical idealisation of woman as earth-mother, Huston’s emphasis on and practice of humour refuses this. Laughter affirms the value and pleasure of life, but it can also puncture phallocentric certainties and insert a salutary distance between sex and the social performance of gender.

chapter twelve

Across the Waves Benoîte Groult, Catel Muller and bande dessinée Imogen Long Across the Waves: Benoîte Groult, Catel Muller and

This chapter looks at how bande dessinée (BD) has become an important tool to communicate a feminist message, one which is increasingly used in the twenty-first century to pass on the ‘herstory’ of feminism and of the second wave women’s movement in particular. The transmission and reception of women’s stories between generations is itself part of a feminist campaign of consciousness raising and this chapter argues that the pedagogic mission of some works by bande dessinée authors has an important role to play in this process in contemporary France. After a brief contextualisation, this chapter will focus on the 2013 graphic novel Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult by Catel Muller (writing as Catel),1 which brings to life the personal trajectory of the public feminist figure Benoîte Groult and also depicts the friendship which developed between Groult and Catel during the production of the book. In addition to published 1 Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult marked a new departure for Catel as a sole author whose earlier work had encompassed illustrating bande dessinée for children and collaborations. She has worked with a number of writers and artists such as Emmanuelle Polack and Clare Bouilhac on a BD telling the story of the résistante Rose Valland (2009). She has worked extensively with José-Louis Bocquet, on Edith Piaf (2005) and then on a BD relaying the life of 1920s painter and free spirit Alice Prin, also known as Kiki de Montparnasse (2011). The partnership continued with an album that told the story of revolutionary feminist heroine Olympe de Gouges (2013) and in 2016 they turned their focus to Josephine Baker.

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sources, this chapter draws on an interview conducted with Catel in Paris in September 2016. 2 The death of Benoîte Groult in June 2016 at the age of 96, some three years after the publication of Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult, meant that French feminism lost one of its important figures, one whose life and work spanned several generations and many of the conflicts and crises of the twentieth century. In many ways, Groult was an unusual feminist, espousing views too moderate for the most radical tendencies of French feminism and thus often depicted as an ‘equality’ or ‘unaggressive feminist’ (Brochier, 1975, 66). Yet Groult was no mild-mannered advocate of women’s rights. Rather, she used humour, especially irony and sarcasm, as a way to critique patriarchal society and call for change. The fact that on her death the contemporary feminist magazine Causette3 paid tribute to Groult as one of their ‘first subscribers’, likening Causette to F Magazine,4 the publication Groult co-founded, is indicative of the cross-generational appeal of this feminist figure. Born in Strasbourg in 1964, Catel is a little older than the core readership targeted by Causette. Catel is instead part of the generation which followed that of the second wave feminists and for whom Groult’s texts served both to explain and educate those too young to have remembered much of the 1970s themselves, an era characterised by its tumultuous but liberating times. Catel underlined how Groult had been an important figure for a generation of women in the 1970s, which included her own mother and also the mother of her husband and artistic collaborator José-Louis Bocquet: What José [Bocquet] and I had in common was the fact that we both had feminist mothers who were keen Benoîte Groult readers. Our mothers gave us her books to read which had a big impact on us and that is the story I tell in the bande dessinée. (Catel, 2016)

In this way, Groult was an integral part of the cultural landscape, key to Catel’s formative years and her development of a feminist consciousness, factors which help explain why Catel sought to engage with one of feminism’s iconic protagonists in the ‘bio-graphique’5 Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult. 2 Unpublished interview with Catel Muller, 14 September 2016. 3 See the editorial and letters page of Causette, 69 (July–August 2016). 4 The feminist magazine founded by Benoîte Groult and Claude ServanSchreiber in 1978. See Lévêque (2015). 5 A term used by Catel.

Across the Waves: Benoîte Groult, Catel Muller and bande dessinée

Figure 1. Catel. Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult (Paris: Grasset, 2013), 15 Courtesy of Catel and Grasset.

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Ainsi fut-elle: The Feminism of Benoîte Groult Groult’s comic but caustic essay Ainsi soit-elle was published in 1975, the same year as the innovative feminist anthology Les Femmes s’entêtent, first published in Beauvoir’s Les Temps modernes. In the same way that this collective volume demanded ‘a radical refusal of women’s oppression’ (back cover), so Groult’s text was a call to arms: ‘Women need to shout out. And women – and men – need to listen’ (Groult, 1975, 220). Groult’s writing career took off in partnership with her sister Flora when they published their first collaborative book, a fictionalised war-time diary, Journal à quatre mains, in 1962. Building on this success, a further two collaborative books were written, Le Féminin pluriel (1965) and Il était deux fois (1968), before each began a separate writing career. Benoîte Groult’s La Touche étoile (2006) and her autobiography Mon Evasion (2008) both remained in the bestseller list for a considerable time, testimony to her enduring popularity with the reading public. Groult was no longer the ‘persona non grata’, to use her own words, she once was, a position she attributed in part to her refusal, as she put it, to ‘play ball with the establishment’ (Groult, 2014). Here Groult is making reference to the Académie Française, whose members remained initially unconvinced by the recommendations she made in her capacity as part of the governmental commission for the feminisation of job titles, where she argued for the introduction of feminised endings when these did not already exist. Yet Ainsi soit-elle was one of the best-selling feminist texts of the 1970s and its tone clearly resonated with many women, a phenomenon explored by Christine Bard in ‘Le succès médiatique d’Ainsi soit-elle’ (Bard, 2016b, 79–89). In Ainsi soit-elle Groult moved away from her novels in order to give an intensely personal exploration of the feminist battles crystallised in the women’s movement of the early 1970s. She spoke of its inception as stemming from a desire to write a ‘je ne sais quoi. A potpourri. A book which talks about the sort of women we would nowadays describe as MLF’ (Groult, 1975, 29). In fact, Groult’s text is in sync with many key issues navigated in Les Femmes s’entêtent, such as sexuality, marriage, contraception, abortion and rape, and this focus on women’s issues comes as no surprise to readers of the earlier fiction she had written alone or co-authored with her sister. While clearly very different, both Ainsi soit-elle and Les Femmes s’entêtent left their mark on the French feminist movement, even if some women had reservations about the ‘feminist’ label: ‘I am undertaking a new venture by writing a book

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about something which will get on people’s nerves from the start’ (Groult, 1975, 7), a sentiment echoed by Marie Denis in her article ‘Hors la loi’, which asked wryly: ‘Why do we smile contritely when we declare our feminism? Because most women back away as soon as you mention it; a frosty chill descends and comes between you’ (Bernheim et al., 1975, 251). Both texts speak of the need to articulate feminist concerns, even if doing so arouses little interest or, worse, disdain on the part of the audience. In her characteristically humorous way, Groult likened the overwhelming urge to speak forth to a corporeal necessity: ‘I had two options: write a feminist book or develop eczema’ (Groult, 1975, 23). She nailed her colours firmly to the mast when she declared that even if she was not a formal MLF member […] my heart is with those women and girls without whom no progress would be made. Let’s just take the last battle as an example, do you think the government would have tackled the updating of the 1920 abortion law without Bobigny, without the MLAC, without Choisir? (Groult, 1975, 24)6

Groult’s feminist vision resonated more closely with the MLF of Gisèle Halimi but she was also an ally of the Les Femmes s’entêtent authors, who suggest radically alternative feminist politics as a way forward.7 Yet Groult’s biographies made plain who her heroines were: Olympe de Gouges and Pauline Roland, 8 figures who, for some of the contributors to Les Femmes s’entêtent, are important precursors but not truly revolutionary, as they lacked an overarching rethink of sexual politics: In their day, feminism’s foremothers, Olympe de Gouges, Flora Tristan and Hubertine Auclair sent shockwaves through ancient belief systems but it wasn’t enough to overturn these systems completely. If these women weren’t able to form a revolutionary movement it’s because they hadn’t developed any revolutionary sexual theoretical framework. (Bernheim et al., 1975, 270) 6 The legislation of 1920 prohibited the sale of all forms of birth control and the distribution of promotional literature related to their use. This state of affairs was not officially amended until the Neuwirth law of 1967. See Duchen (1994, 4, 173). 7 Christine Bard discusses the issue of ‘l’héterocentrisme’ of Groult’s Ainsi soit-elle (Bard, 2016b, 87). 8 Not to be confused with Madame Roland, the French revolutionary guillotined in 1793 (see Reynolds, 2012). Pauline Roland was a nineteenth-century feminist socialist deported and exiled to Algeria in 1850 (see Gordon and Cross, 1996).

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Thus Groult’s work, while broadly in tune with the zest and verve of Les Femmes s’entêtent, had a different, what might perhaps be categorised as a more ‘mainstream’, emphasis. For her, the central basis that underpins her feminist narrative was that ‘Feminism is a humanism, a particular form of humanism’ (Long, 2008, 214). In this way she was rather reluctant to separate women’s rights from human rights more generally and it was this inclusivity, combined with the accessibility and humour of her texts, that lent her essay such broad appeal and made her a fitting subject for bande dessinée. French Feminism and bande dessinée Historically French feminism has had something of a difficult relationship with bande dessinée. There have been a host of important and influential women artists, such as Claire Bretécher, whose cartoon strip Les Frustrés was published in Le Nouvel Observateur, and Chantal Montellier, the author of the powerfully feminist Sorcières, mes sœurs (2006), who burst onto the scene in the 1970s with a series of original works. More recently, the success of Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis (2000), which recounts the tale of a young Iranian girl who flees after the Islamic Revolution and emigrates to France, foregrounded once more the contribution of women to the genre. Yet the perception persists that the world of the bande dessinée is ultimately a male-dominated one and this is why in 2008 Chantal Montellier was instrumental in creating the prix Artémisia, as Catel explains: The Artémisa prize was created as a reaction against the Angoulême festival which has always really been conceived for men, by men. I say that because throughout the history of 43 festivals there has only ever been one woman president. Just one woman selected to represent the whole of bande dessinée. Men are always automatically appointed president but women have taken part in the festival for a long time. Even Claire Bretécher has never served as president. She was involved with Angoulême for over ten years and has never once been president. It’s quite unbelievable! (Long, 2016)

The masculine bias behind the Angoulême bande dessinée festival polemically took centre stage in early 2016, when it was revealed that the list of nominations for the main prize (grand prix) did not include a single woman, which prompted the withdrawal of certain artists, a

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hasty reconfiguration of the list and a testy, defensive press release which provocatively claimed ‘The Angoulême festival loves women … but can’t rewrite history’ (http://www.bdangouleme.com/). Catel concedes that she is one of the exceptions, one of the few women to have ‘been lucky because I have been awarded prizes at Angoulême. As it happens, I’ve been one of the few to have made an impression; I haven’t had to struggle like a lot of women.’ Catel’s winning of the Artémisia prize in 2014 for Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult, despite its failure to gain any traction at the Angoulême festival, shows that she too is in the midst of an overwhelmingly masculine world. Just as Benoîte Groult endorsed the right to choose legal abortion in the 1970s and challenged sexist language in the 1980s, Catel faces her own twenty-first-century feminist struggles. These battles coincide tellingly in the representation of Catel’s interaction with Groult, when Catel is questioned for giving voice and visual representation to Groult as an elderly woman: ‘A journalist said to me “It’s a bit of an odd choice to tackle Benoîte Groult after Olympe de Gouges and Kiki de Montparnasse, an old lady like that, it’s hardly sexy”’ (Long, 2016). This anecdote encapsulates the inherent sexist and ageist attitudes at play when it comes to the perception of women figures and may explain some of the issues facing women artists in quest of recognition at cultural institutions such as the Angoulême festival. The exclusion of women in this domain can also be explained on historical grounds: quite simply, there have been far fewer female than male BD artists. However, this does not account for the whole story, as Catel herself noted: Maybe only 20% of the participants are women but they are very impressive artists. And women are not even represented proportionally in any case. As men are on the selection panels, they lean more towards some subjects than others and they also have a tendency to put their friends forward for election. There’s a lot of factors which combine to mean that women aren’t included. (Long, 2016)

In this way both Catel and Groult encounter the particular challenges facing women as artists in the creative industries. The flurry of feminist BDs which have emerged in recent years and are politically committed, both as pedagogy and a call to combat, in the tradition of Groult’s Ainsi soit-elle, have shifted the focus back to women and women’s history and are all, at some level, concerned with educating the current generation, as Le féminisme by Anne-Charlotte Husson and Thomas Mathieu (2016) sets out. Husson and Mathieu’s text recognises Groult’s contribution by way of a full-page spread reproducing her slogan

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‘feminism never killed anyone, machismo kills every day’ as a way to introduce their section on women and violence (Husson and Mathieu, 2016, 71–4). This story of transnational feminism presents an overview of key moments in the development of the women’s movement and a reminder of the road still to travel. Mathieu had already broached the question of sexism in his Crocodiles (2014), a singularly powerful anthology documenting instances of sexism experienced by women at the hands of men, here all symbolically portrayed as crocodiles – a work reminiscent of the spirit behind the ‘Everyday Sexism’ project (Bates, 2015).9 A cultural studies feminist reading is offered in Commando Culotte (2016) by Mirion Malle. Drawing on Beauvoir’s thesis that culture is instrumental in the development of gender, this BD too is a call to action, appealing directly to producers and directors to make women protagonists more active in the plot lines and to increase the visibility of LGBT characters. Catel’s work aims to educate a younger generation, reclaiming iconic figures such as Josephine Baker for women’s history, and this is an important, established facet of feminist BD, one which can be seen in other national contexts. In the US, for example, feminist Gloria Steinem has featured as part of the ‘female force’ BD series (Seymour and Bernuy, 2013), which deals with women in politics and the media. The graphic novel featuring fictional British women’s activist, Sally Heathcote, was rooted in the events experienced by the Pankhurst sisters and retold the suffragette narrative for a contemporary audience (Talbot et al., 2014). Catel’s work fits into this strong feminist BD current of going back to iconic feminist figures to raise awareness and to educate, as she states: ‘BD speaks to a very large audience and each person engages with it in their own way. Perhaps the fact that the BD combines text and image allows people to get to grips with complicated stories and slowly it awakens their consciousness’ (Long, 2016). Yet Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult is made all the more powerful because this exceptional woman who is recovered and immortalised is known personally to the author and so a rich dialogue ensues between Groult and Catel, as we shall now see.10 9 Laura Bates set up a blog to record instances of sexism experienced by women https://everydaysexism.com/ (consulted 7 November 2018). Some of these entries were later edited and published as Everyday Sexism (Bates, 2014). 10 Jarno notes that how this fact represented an enormous difference from Catel’s previous work because her ‘modèle est vivant et a son mot à dire’ (‘her model is alive and has something to say for herself’, 2016).

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Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult There is a strong synergy at a personal level between Benoîte Groult and Catel Muller which goes beyond the immediate collaboration on the BD. For Catel, Groult’s writings were enlightening and a catalyst in her discovery of feminism. As Catel remarks in the pages of Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult, ‘In my pantheon of key feminist figures, you’re a legend. It’s thanks to your writing that I became aware of women’s place in society’ (Catel, 102). On reading Groult’s texts, Catel encountered a world which: I had no idea about because I was brought up in a safe little suburb in Alsace with loving parents – there were three of us children and we had complete freedom and were totally carefree. Then I discovered that life isn’t like that at all. There is a lot of violence and injustice out there and I was outraged. (Long, 2016)

The two women are also connected via a shared appreciation for eighteenth-century French revolutionary Olympe de Gouges. Rekindling interest in forgotten women’s voices was a central dimension in Groult’s panoply of feminist tools, as she explained her decision to take up biography writing: It was easy for us, we took part in big public movements with thousands of others but women in the past were really on their own. So I decided to write a biography of Olympe de Gouges who was sent to the guillotine in 1792. Women still remember her even if she is largely overlooked in French history. I also wrote a biography of Pauline Roland from the nineteenth century, who was deported and died en route to Algeria because she demanded to be treated and judged in the same way as men. (Long, 2008, 218)

Catel, too, has long championed women neglected in contemporary historical and empirical accounts in BD form. These two interests coincided when Catel worked simultaneously on Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult and, with Bocquet, on a BD dealing with Olympe de Gouges. This led to some symbolic moments in Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult where Groult comments on Catel’s drawings of Gouges and Catel attends Groult’s talk at Unesco on Gouges in November 2008 (Catel, 2013, 31–4). Towards the end of the graphic novel, both women make the trip to the newly renamed Olympe de Gouges mediathèque in Strasbourg to promote their respective books on Gouges (Catel, 2013, 297–304). Through a non-linear chronology which encompasses Catel’s exposition of the BD’s genesis as well as Groult’s parcours, Catel puts

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two eras, her own and Groult’s, in conversation, juxtaposing and highlighting the continuities and progress made since Groult’s battles. Catel represents her own situation as a working mother (Catel, 2013, 34), able to assert her independence as a result in part of the legacy of figures such as Gouges and, latterly, Groult, who strove to secure women greater rights and liberties. The reappropriation of the ainsi soit of the title is both a knowing reference to ‘ainsi soit-il’ (amen) at the end of a prayer and an allusion to Groult’s 1975 best-selling essay Ainsi soit-elle, thus conflating Groult’s personal lived experience and her formative Catholic upbringing11 with the later militant feminism outlined in the well-known essay. At the start of the BD, Groult herself perceives the similarities between their feminist missions, though these are seemingly based in two distinct disciplines, and notes how even their material means of production are identical: ‘it’s odd, you draw in the same way as I’ve always written … in a little black Moleskin notebook’ (Catel, 2013, 24). In fact, both forms of expression, literature and art, can be used to articulate dissatisfaction and convey a message, as Catel gently reminds Groult that ‘you see how bande dessinée can express things’ (Catel, 2013, 199) and that the bande dessinée is a medium particularly well suited to a twenty-first-century context. Catel is at home with the term graphic novel and in a bid to enlighten Groult explains that: ‘unlike classic bande dessinée, the graphic novel allows distance in the narration’ (Catel, 2013, 126). This distinction ties in with the work done by Jan Baetens and Hugo Frey, who define the graphic novel by its ‘storytelling’ (Baetens and Frey, 2014, 7), which is more complex than in traditional comics. This complexity can be analysed across four main areas of ‘form, content, publication format and production and distribution aspects’ (Baetens and Frey, 2014, 8). More specifically, they note that in graphic novels ‘the narrator is much present, both verbally and visually’ (10), and that that such productions are ‘disposed towards realism’ (10). They also record how graphic novels are often ‘autobiographical or semiautobiographical’ (12), styling themselves as ‘documentaries, reportage or histories’ (12). Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult certainly fits the criteria for graphic novels as outlined by Baetens and Frey. Drawing on their analytical framework, their discussion can be applied to the study of Catel’s album. Firstly, the structure of Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult is noteworthy in itself. The 11 Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult records how Groult was tempted by the prospect of entering a convent as a way to escape her mother’s influence.

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text is composed of over 320 pages of black and white images which are divided into 20 chapters and are prefaced by an introduction by Benoîte Groult. Of these 20 chapters, most deal with the contemporary interaction between Catel and Groult, except for chapter 6, which relates ‘Benoîte’s youth’, and chapters 9 and 10, which narrate ‘Benoîte’s loves’ and ‘Benoîte’s freedom’ respectively. There are also three chapters which each tell the story of Benoîte’s three daughters, Blandine, Constance and Lison. The chapters concerned with Catel and Groult’s personal interaction are for the main part in chronological order, charting the initial encounter between the two women in May 2008 and the end of the text in June 2013. There are some disruptions to this linear flow, as, for example, when in chapter 18 the narration goes back to 2011 to describe how Groult received a mail shot from a professional escort. The chapters are of unequal length with some flashbacks, and the segments sometimes cover a single day or span several years, suggestive of the subjective experience of time where some events take on a singular importance. This temporal structure, which by and large forges ahead with some detours and reverses, could be likened to the women’s movement, which both Groult and Catel see as making progress, even if its mission is ongoing, facing continued contestation and setbacks; Groult, for example, worries that the controversial feminist activists such as Femen and their high-profile stunts might provoke a backlash against women (303).12 By devoting two large chapters to Benoîte’s formative and then professional years, the work in effect has two narrators, Catel and Benoîte, joined sometimes by Groult’s daughters, voices which are intertwined and in dialogue, much like those of the second wave women’s movement. The difference between the two tales is emphasised by the visual layout, as Catel relays Benoîte’s tales by means of regular panels spread over two or three strips on a page, thus depicting Benoîte’s background story in classic BD format. In this mode, the narrative text is positioned above each panel and sectioned off, suggestive of an order and rigidity facing women in earlier times. 12 See www.femen.org (consulted 14 March 2017). This organisation is active in France and on 23 February 2017 topless Femen protestors disrupted a campaign speech by Marine Le Pen. See ‘Seins nus, une Femen perturbe une conférence de Marine Le Pen’ http://www.lepoint.fr/presidentielle/seins-nus-une-femenperturbe-une-conference-de-marine-le-pen-23– 02–2017–2107060_3121.php (consulted 17 March 2017).

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When the text returns to present day matters the classic BD structure is left behind and the text transitions to contemporary images which are free of grids and are undefined by borders (see, for example, 78–9, when the reader is brought back to the present by means of a phone call which interrupts Groult’s reminiscences, and 205, where Benoîte starts to reflect on the past and the page format returns once more to classic BD mode). Flashbacks are often signalled by the reappearance of the classic code of panels spread over two or three strips per page. An interesting example of this can be found when Groult recounts meeting her third husband Paul Guimard (85–90). This section is introduced by the depiction of a Parisian evening in Groult’s honour arranged by her publisher Olivier Nora at which Nora reads from Groult’s autobiography Mon Evasion to the audience, the text of the extract being then reproduced word for word in the BD. In this way Catel provides the visual accompaniment to a fragment of Groult’s original text, creating an intricate intertextuality. Similarly, Catel includes images from her sketch pad of Benoîte (see, for example, her sketches of Groult’s house in Brittany: 37, 40–4) which draw attention to the relationship between the powerful single image with its multiple messages and signs (Barthes, 1964) and the composition of images and selection of their arrangement in a BD. Catel heightens the realism of the BD by combining these artist sketches (118) with cartoon-like representations of Groult. Catel includes a visual language of different forms such as newspaper covers, fine art paintings (a painting in the style of artist Marie Laurencin, a Groult family friend, 51), the Groult’s parents’ business cards (53), the paperwork related to the BD contract (101), letters and postcards (273). Catel weaves in other classic characters of French BD such as the Tarzan-like Akim, the Breton domestic servant Bécassine, the motley crew of misfits in Les Pieds nickelés and Bretécher’s Agrippine, all drawn in a manner faithful to the original artwork. The contemporary quality of the bande dessinée can perhaps go some way to explaining Groult’s initial reluctance to embrace it, as can be seen on the cover, where she states smilingly ‘I don’t like bande dessinée’ (Catel, 2013, front cover). Similarly, Catel shows Groult to be in need of persuasion to participate in the project at the outset. When Groult enquires as to whether Catel is ‘artist’ or ‘journalist’ (Catel, 2013, 15) she appears taken aback when Catel answers ‘I do bande dessinée’, leading Groult to riposte ‘What! How odd!’ (Catel, 2013, 15). Groult is, then, hardly a fan of BD and her knowledge of canonical BD texts is extremely

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limited, as she is only able to name Les Pieds nickelés and Bécassine. Far from being sympathetic to these stylised creations, Groult is perturbed by the Breton servant in particular, as she often appears drawn without any mouth, a stylised physical trait Groult reads as a symptom of the silencing of women, forced into acquiescence.13 Catel highlights the fact that Groult’s overbearing mother, Nicole, would insult her daughter by likening her to the Breton: ‘What are you playing at, Bécassine!’ (73). We gain a sense that, while for writers such as Groult, bande dessinée lacks validity, echoing its slow journey to what Ann Miller terms ‘cultural legitimacy’ (Miller, 2007, 23), for Catel it offers a way to counter the crisis of reading felt by many to preoccupy contemporary France, as evinced by works such as Daniele Sallenave’s Nous on n’aime pas lire (We don’t like reading, 2008). Groult’s early dismissive attitude towards bande dessinée continues when Catel sketches how Groult disapproved of her daughter Constance’s adolescent fascination with BD such as Akim, featuring the eponymous action hero. In the pages of Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult Constance relates how ‘when my parents saw that they threw it in the bin saying that it was not LITERATURE’ (Catel, 2013, 213, original emphasis). Despite Groult’s condemnation of Akim as ‘a hero for the illiterate’ (Catel, 2013, 213), Catel suggests to the reader the irony of this hardline stance, especially as comics such as these, where dreamlike sequences intertwine human and animal kingdoms, were in part the inspiration for Constance’s career as an artist. Yet Catel exposes the intransigent approach taken by Groult, who declares: ‘I still think that bande dessinée isn’t literature’ (Catel, 2013, 213). Tellingly, Catel counters this outlook through her rejoinder: ‘it doesn’t matter Benoîte, it gets people reading’ (Catel, 2013, 213) and this point is paramount: Catel emphasises the very readability of BD as a way to connect with readers, to enlighten, entertain and, also importantly, educate. Gradually Groult begins to question her own value system as she repeatedly seeks reassurance from others in the field, asking Michel Houellebecq’s agent his opinion of BD (Catel, 2013, 235) and the writer Laurent Seksik, who assures her of its worth by adding ‘I’m turning Zweig into a bande dessinée hero! It’s amazing what a simple drawing can say’ (Catel, 2013, 272). From the affectionate epistolary exchange 13 There has been something of a recuperation of Bécassine. See de Larminat (2014), where it is claimed that ‘Even Simone de Beauvoir was a fan of the intrepid Bretonne’ (p. 14). See also Couderc (2000).

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Figure 2. Catel, Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult, 104 Courtesy of Catel and Grasset.

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also reproduced in the novel (Catel, 2013, 271–80), we can see that Catel aims to convince her of BD’s force and reach. Eventually Groult comes to recognise that ‘literature and bande dessinée have different powers’ (Catel, 2013, 318) as she realises that BD is a tool which, even if in reality far from new, is increasingly allowing writers and artists to interact in the realm of the real, to recover forgotten stories and to wage new campaigns. Ainsi soit Benoite Groult relates Benoîte’s tale but it also constitutes the story of the friendship between Catel and Groult, between cartoonist and subject, as Catel affirms: There were a lot of different sides to her. She could be funny and a bit naughty sometimes, she wasn’t always easy to deal with. But, at the same time, I liked that about her because we had a real relationship; I wasn’t completely in awe of her like I thought I might be at the start. It was really quite natural and sincere on both sides. We were able to talk to each other quite openly. (Long, 2016)

Thanks to this relationship, Groult comes to appreciate BD and writes to Catel in atonement: ‘I’ve slipped up again when it comes to BD! Please forgive me Catel’ (305). The bond between the two women is sealed when Benoîte signs off a letter using the moniker ‘Benoîtine’ bestowed on her by Catel, a clear reference to the Bécassine character once repudiated by Benoîte. Overall, Ainsi soit Benoite Groult follows in the tradition of Ainsi soit-elle and takes up some of the themes explored within, relating to women’s place in society and the rights and opportunities open to them. Yet the primary purpose of the text goes beyond this and its function is twofold: it seeks to pay homage to Groult’s life and contribution to women’s rights and to commit an important, if unconventional, figure of the French feminist movement to BD form. Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult also breathes new life into the message and spirit of the ideas expounded in Groult’s original writings and, in so doing, educates a younger generation. When the audience in Strasbourg asked Groult which texts she would recommend to young women she cited Marie Cardinal’s Les Mots pour le dire (303), now a classic of the second wave women’s movement, a recommendation suggestive of a desire to pass on the ‘herstory’ of the 1970s. Catel, too, aims to hand on a feminist narrative, as she recalled in relation to her BD on Kiki and Olympe, BD which ‘have entered educational establishments at different levels: schools, sixth forms and at university – Olympe de Gouges even made her way into ENA and political circles’ (Long, 2016).

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By creating Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult, Catel presents us, and Benoîte Groult, with Catel’s vision of Benoîte Groult’s emblematic lived experience, to which Groult tellingly responds on its pages: ‘It’s strange to see yourself as a drawing. My family … My loves … It’s YOUR interpretation. Everything’s just as it happened yet it’s all so different’ (Catel, 2013, 318, original emphasis). As Groult notes, ‘it’s as though as I have rediscovered myself’, and she is touched by the process: ‘it’s moving’, she reflects (Catel, 2013, 318). The exercise was a life-changing one for both parties, as Catel explains: We had a strong connection and a real partnership because it turned out to be the last book she did. Her very first book was the diary in duo she worked on with her sister. After that she worked independently for years and then finally her last book was the one she would never have wanted to do: bande dessinée! (Long, 2016)

In conclusion, we have seen how BD forms an important part of the French cultural and intellectual landscape. The lack of women nominees for the 2016 grand prix at the Angoulême festival provoked a strong reaction and this absence seems anachronistic given the strength and depth of the output of women in BD. The twenty-first century has seen the production of practical guides and complex analyses in BD form which highlight everyday sexisms and seek to empower women in overturning these obstacles. Furthermore, the narration of a feminist consciousness has changed in a transnational twenty-first-century context through an increased production of ‘herstories’ of the women’s movement. This looking back to feminist foremothers is exemplified by artists such as Catel, who revisit women figures and their texts, engaging with them afresh. Inter-generational relationships are key and Catel’s work is composed of a complex constellation of women who interact via the pages of her BD: There are always links between my characters, Benoîte has a cameo in Joséphine [Baker], Benoîte and Olympe appear together, there are always sections in my work which show the relationships between important figures from the history of female emancipation. They always turn up in one way or another in my books. (Long, 2016)

Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult is not simply a tale of a woman of exception nor is it a practical guide. It is the story of a friendship between two women artists which through its dialogic narration takes in the key milestones of the women’s movement in twentieth-century France, the

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Figure 3. Catel, Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult, 318 Courtesy of Catel and Grasset.

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right to vote and to access abortion and contraception chief among these. As Catel makes plain, although not an activist, her BD are her contribution to keeping the momentum of women’s rights in motion: I have to admit that I’m not a militant in any traditional feminist sense; I’m not a member of associations like Osez le féminisme! for example. My feminist activism is there in my books, in my own way, I don’t make the word feminism too obvious because unfortunately it still puts people off. (Long, 2016)

In Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult, through a blend of biography, history and storytelling, Catel introduces a present-day audience to the gains made by women following the debates and discussions germane to both Ainsi soit-elle and Les Femmes s’entêtent some 40 years on. More than this, Catel and Groult demonstrate the importance of inter-generational relationships to the feminist cause. As Catel concluded, ‘In the end she embraced it and came to say that it was our book. She even wanted to add in her own sections and when we went to book signings she would put speech bubbles next to my drawings. She totally got BD in the end, no mistake’ (Long, 2016). Just as Simone de Beauvoir opened up the columns of Les Temps modernes to the Les Femmes s’entêtent collective and provided material and moral support to a younger generation whose ideas did not always tally with her own, so too Benoîte Groult, a key figure of the second wave women’s movement, came to embrace BD and its power to speak to a new third and even fourth wave of feminists.14

14 I would like to express my thanks to Catel Muller for her time in September 2016 and for permission to publish excerpts from our interview; I would also like to thank Catel and Christophe Bataille at Grasset for the kind permission to reproduce images from Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult. Thanks go also to my co-editors for their helpful comments and suggestions on this chapter.

chapter thirteen

Voix Blanche? Annie Ernaux, French Feminisms and the Challenge of Intersectionality Lyn Thomas French Feminisms and the Challenge of Intersectionality

In the discussion of the legacies, ruptures and continuities of French feminisms since 1975, the choice of Annie Ernaux as a case study seems both appropriate and strange: appropriate because her writing precisely spans the period in question, with her first book, Les Armoires vides,1 published in 1974, and her most recent, Mémoire de fille, in 2016. Her writing also engages with feminist themes throughout: illegal abortion in the 1960s (Les Armoires vides, 1974; L’Événement, 2000); marriage and motherhood (La Femme gelée, 1981); the mother– daughter relationship (Une femme, 1988; La Honte, 1997; ‘Je ne suis pas sortie de ma nuit’, 1997); and the difficulties for women of expressing their sexuality in heteropatriarchal contexts (La Honte, 1997; Passion simple, 1992; Se perdre (Abandonment), 2001; L’Occupation, 2002; Mémoire de fille, 2016). The choice is nonetheless ‘strange’ because, even though she joined MLAC and Choisir in the 1970s, Ernaux was not a feminist activist at the height of the second wave. She commented in the communist newspaper L’Humanité in 2014 that, as a teacher in a French provincial town, married to a middle-class professional, she had not felt able to sign the Manifeste des 343: ‘In 1971, it was out of the question for me to do this. It was unthinkable. I was a nobody. 1 Translations of Ernaux’s works are listed in the bibliography; where there is no published translation I have translated the titles.

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What’s more I was married to an executive and declaring publicly that I had had an abortion would have had the effect of an exploding bomb’ (Kaci, 2014). Ernaux’s name is not up there in the lights of second wave celebrity, and yet undoubtedly her thinking and writing are profoundly implicated in, and influenced by, second wave and more recent French feminisms. It is perhaps her initial position as an outsider – not in Paris, not operating in the radical chic circles of the 1970s or any decade since –– which makes her a particularly interesting subject for this discussion. Before she became known as a writer Ernaux was on the provincial periphery, separated by geography and culture from the debates and demonstrations happening in Paris and other cities, and yet, like many ordinary women, she was beginning to reflect on her experience as a wife and mother through the prism of feminism. Ernaux’s trajectory thus offers a combination of ‘ordinariness’ and celebrity, of feminist writing from the periphery and from the cultural centre of France. Of course Ernaux is also unusual in that, unlike many betterknown feminists of the second wave, she was always engaging with the experience of social class, and it has often been argued that Ernaux is exceptional, particularly in the French context, in her literary engagement with gender, sexuality and class (Day, 1990). In this chapter, however, I turn to questions which have more rarely been asked in Ernaux criticism to date, and which are highly pertinent to the discussion of the legacy of 1970s French feminisms: to what extent does Ernaux engage with race and ethnicity in her writing? If she is an unusually intersectional French writer in terms of gender, sexuality and class, and in more recent years one might add age and ageing (Jordan, 2011), does this approach and the strong influence of sociology on Ernaux’s writing lead to awareness of dimensions of oppression that she herself as a white French woman has not personally experienced? How does Ernaux write her own whiteness? Is the ‘I’ of Ernaux’s texts, whether fictional or autobiographical, ‘une voix blanche’ (a white voice), adopting the cloak of universal whiteness? In approaching this discussion two elements need to be borne in mind. The first would be to note that I am here subjecting Ernaux to a form of political analysis that many contemporary white women writers, writing in English or French, would find challenging. In the introduction to Displacing Whiteness Ruth Frankenberg remarks that what is at stake is the ‘“revealing” of the unnamed – the exposure of whiteness masquerading as universal’. She argues for the need to ‘recognize how continual processes of slippage, condensation and displacement among the constructs “race”, “nation”, and “culture” continue to unmark white

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people while consistently marking and racializing others’ (Frankenberg, 1997, 3–6). In many fields of feminist writing, and in the sociology of race and ethnicity, the marking of whiteness which is largely absent from ‘mainstream’ discourse has become de rigueur. More broadly, locating oneself historically, geographically and socially has been an important requirement of feminist investigations in Anglophone contexts since at least the 1980s (see, for example, Rich, 1986). As Terese Jonsson (2016) points out, this does not in any way mean that the issue is resolved and that we can now ‘move on’ from the issue of race and racism. On the contrary, it is incumbent on white feminists to continue to identify and interrogate their privileges as white women and their ownership of the narratives of feminist history: ‘To end the narrative reproduction of white feminist racism, white feminists need to stop and give this story their full attention’ (Jonsson, 2016, 64). The accumulation and repetition of qualifications deployed in feminist academic writing which attempts to deconstruct the universal ‘I’ of whiteness may be a necessary step, but it is only a step, as Jonsson suggests. I might, for instance, make it clear that I write as a white English woman in her 60s, originally working-class and from the West Midlands, and now a middle-class intellectual living in the South of England. How could this careful but clunky labelling, this modest attempt at reframing academic discourse, be transferred to literary writing, where style and flow are central concerns? The question of how this necessary work can be achieved in feminist literary writing thus remains open, to be explored. Vron Ware (2013, 248) looks to white women writers in South Africa and the American Deep South to explore how ‘women’s life writing can unlock, challenge and document the ways in which racial difference and racial hierarchy are both lived and resisted in any particular time or place’. The challenge for writers emerging in contexts where racial segregation is not, and has not been, enshrined in law, and where ostensibly at least a democratic social order is in place, may be equally significant. Secondly, we need to take into account the context of French feminisms. Eléonore Lépinard has argued convincingly that, despite the very divergent currents emerging in the second wave, they shared a common tendency to focus on gender to the detriment of consideration of differences between women and, indeed, the need to deconstruct the category ‘women’ itself. Lépinard describes how Psych et Po emphasised the need to bring ‘the feminine’ into existence, by, for example, writing from the experience of the biologically female body. On the other hand, materialist feminists such as Christine Delphy saw gender difference as socially constructed.

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They nonetheless, Lépinard argues, ‘share an overwhelming emphasis on the singular difference of sex that obliterates other differences’ (Lépinard, 2007, 381). Delphy’s early definition of women as an oppressed class led to difficulty in terms of theorising the intersection of gender with other axes of oppression, such as social class, race and ethnicity; her comment, for example, in L’Ennemi principal that women can’t belong to the same class as their husbands because they belong to the class of women in turn masks the fact of differences between women (Delphy, 1970, 2013). The parity movement, drawing on these second wave roots and responding to the political climate of republican universalism which has been increasingly dominant in France since the 1990s, has also strategically emphasised gender difference at the expense of other dimensions of oppression and exclusion: ‘Mirroring the trope of universal rights used to support the French republican doctrine, the philosophical and anthropological narratives mobilized by parity campaigners tended to define sex difference as universal’ (Lépinard, 2007, 391). It is thus unsurprising that significant French feminist voices ranging from Ni Putes ni Soumises to Elisabeth Badinter have spoken in favour of the 2004 law prohibiting Muslim women from wearing the headscarf in public institutions such as schools and continue to argue against recognition of cultural and religious differences (Truong, 2016). Joan Scott (2007, 172) attributes this to the power of the psychology of denial – ‘Entirely forgotten in the glorification of the freedom of French sexual relations was the critique of these same feminists, who for years have decried the limits of their own patriarchal system, with its objectification of women and overemphasis on their sexual attractiveness.’ This denial is accompanied by what Scott describes as ‘racist benevolence’, a desire to ‘save’ their less fortunate Muslim sisters. Materialist feminists such as Christine Delphy have more recently adopted a more intersectional approach, and in response to the headscarf ban controversy Nouvelles Questions Féministes published a double issue in 2006 entitled Sexisme et racisme: le cas français. In the first of these two issues Delphy argues strongly against those feminists who support the headscarf ban on the grounds that by associating themselves with a racist law they are tarnishing the image of French feminism. In Delphy’s view they also undermine the legitimacy of feminist struggles through their suggestion that feminism has achieved its goals in the West, and that the problem of patriarchy is somehow ‘outside’ French/ Western cultures: ‘We particularly need to dislodge and dismantle the premise of western superiority’ (2006, 80). In the summer of 2016, at the

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height of the controversy over the intervention of local mayors and police to prevent Muslim women from wearing the ‘burkini’ and other modes of modest dress on French beaches, we again saw all of these elements in play. The much circulated image of a women on a southern French beach being forced by four armed police officers to remove her tunic while all around her white women display their bodies seems to perfectly illustrate Scott’s and Delphy’s points regarding belief in the superiority of French culture and denial of its inherent gender inequalities and oppressions. Lépinard argues that French feminists who supported the headscarf ban and, one might add, those arguing in 2016 for a law banning the burkini ‘participated in racializing migrant women’s culture as well as perpetuating the colonial stereotypes of Muslim women as victims to be protected from their men’ (2007, 397). Lépinard, Scott and Delphy seem thus to reiterate elements of Chandra Mohanty’s analysis of some Western Anglophone feminist work on women in what was then called the ‘third world’ in her seminal article ‘Under Western Eyes’, published in Feminist Review in 1988 and since repeatedly anthologised: A comparison between western feminist self-presentation and western feminist re-presentation of women in the third world yields significant results. Universal images of ‘the third world woman’ (the veiled woman, chaste virgin etc), images constructed from adding the ‘third-world difference’ to ‘sexual difference’ are predicated on (and hence obviously bring into sharper focus) assumptions about western women as secular, liberated and having control over their own lives. (Mohanty, 1988, 81)

Aïcha Touati’s analysis of feminists in the Maghreb and the Maghrebin diaspora in France similarly argues that the decision to wear the headscarf in these contexts has been misread by French feminists as only ever expressive of patriarchal oppression, whereas it can signify not a return to tradition but an assertion of a specific feminist identity which is resistant to, rather than emergent from, Western feminist models: ‘Through this double refusal – both of an exported feminism and of an imposed religious patriarchal model – a new Islamic feminine subject is emerging, and exploring the pretty much new territory of a feminism that asserts itself through a religious lens’ (Touati, 2006, 115). Lépinard argues that a ‘new generation’ is currently ‘taking the stage’ and ‘redefining, jointly with some feminists from the second wave, the relationship it ought to have with minority women and minority groups in general’ (2007, 396). It is nonetheless significant that the challenge of

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the intersections of race and ethnicity with gender which was so central to Anglophone feminisms in the 1980s and continues to be a crucial area of struggle is taken up by only some French feminists in the first decade of the twenty-first century, and that other ‘feminist’ voices in France continue to speak out against the choices made by women defined as victims of ‘less advanced’ cultures. Against this background of a relatively late and certainly not comprehensive response to the challenge of intersectionality by other French feminists I will now turn to the analysis of Ernaux’s writing of race and ethnicity. Ernaux had, and has, little sympathy with feminists who emphasise feminine difference and the importance of writing the female body, and she rejects any trace of essentialism: Living in the provinces, a long way from Paris, rejecting an essentialist feminist discourse, I kept my distance from groups such as the MLF. I had never recognised myself in Annie Leclerc’s pamphlet Parole de femme, or, more generally in a certain literary lyricism that exalted the feminine and seems to me to be the mirror image of populism celebrating ‘the people’. (Ernaux, 2003, 103–4)2

Delphy’s materialist, social constructionist approach is much closer to Ernaux’s thinking on gender, and both share an allegiance to Beauvoir. To what extent, then, does Ernaux’s trajectory in relation to race and ethnicity mirror that of Delphy? And, more broadly, how can literary writing be informed by the complex theoretical framework of intersectionality? Ernaux grew up in a world she herself has described as a ‘completely white environment’, where ‘“Arabs” and “enemies” were for many years synonymous because of the war in Algeria’. 3 For this reason, she declares in the same email: ‘I myself have never explored this terrain of my relationship with race.’ In fact, I would suggest that her arrival in the new town of Cergy-Pontoise, north-west of Paris, in 1975 transformed her consciousness in this regard. More recently, in an interview with Pierre-Louis Fort (2015, 201), Ernaux has confirmed that arriving in Cergy was transformative: ‘As soon as I arrived in Cergy the new town violently forced me out of my private world. It was a change brought about by chance, and it gradually modified my way of seeing the world and of writing.’ The new town inspired a new kind of writing – the diary 2 All translations of Ernaux are by the author of this chapter. 3 Email to the author, 20 September 2011.

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of the outside or journal extime – and after collecting notes over several years Ernaux published two books in this genre: Journal du dehors in 1993 and La Vie extérieure in 2000. Writing in Gender Studies in 2006 I analysed her accounts of encounters with ethnic others in these two works, concluding that: whilst Ernaux’s writing can be said to analyse in depth the intersections of class, gender and sexuality, in relation to “race” and ethnicity, the treatment is slighter, more suggested than developed. Inevitably her focus on her own experience excludes ethnically other subjectivities. However, in the two urban diaries, there are the beginnings of recognition of the ways in which the urban space is traversed by policing, white gazes, and of the different oppressions they contribute to. The resulting confrontation with her own whiteness results in a further splitting of the self. (Thomas, 2006, 166)

In arriving at this conclusion one of the passages I analysed is the following, from Journal du Dehors: In the chic boutique area of the new town, a black woman wearing a boubou enters the Hédiard shop. Immediately the manageress of the shop turns her gaze on her, like a knife, subjecting her to a relentless surveillance that expresses, what’s more, a general suspicion (qu’on soupçonne en plus) that this customer has come into the shop by mistake, and does not realize that she is out of place (pas à sa place). (Ernaux, 1993, 75)4

One of the most striking aspects of this passage is the phrase ‘pas à sa place’, which connects the experience of the black woman in traditional dress to that of Ernaux’s father, and her own in La Place: the sense of being out of place, not belonging. For Ernaux and her father this could be in the library, the private school or a first-class train compartment rather than a posh shop, but Ernaux here seems to be linking the experience of oppression on grounds of class with the experience of racism. She draws attention to the white gaze to which this woman is subjected and identifies with her as its object rather than with the manager of the shop, her former class enemy – Ernaux is here, as ever, on the side of the dominated. But the passage does not go further than this; Ernaux’s own implication in the white gaze as a now middle-class white woman is not examined, the use of ‘on’ in ‘qu’on soupçonne’ contributes to this ambiguity since it can mean both ‘people in general’ and ‘we’. The 4 Page references are to the original French text.

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outsider position offered by the neutral descriptive tone allows Ernaux, or at least her narrator, to remain an unmarked white voice, while the object of the gaze is marked by the colour of her skin and her dress. In 2014 Ernaux published a third journal extime, Regarde les lumières mon amour (Look at the pretty lights darling), a diary of her visits to her local hypermarket, Auchan. In contrast, here we find Ernaux grappling with the issue of race: ‘In the deserted car accessories section, a little black boy was playing with a large box that was lying in the middle of the aisle. I felt a desire to photograph him. Then I wondered whether there was some kind of desire for the picturesque colonial subject in this’ (Ernaux, 2014, 42). On this occasion Ernaux takes responsibility for her implication in the white gaze, marking her own whiteness in terms of the dangers of complicity with colonial histories. While in the Journal du Dehors passage Ernaux/the narrator is an unseen observer, here she places herself in the scene, holding a camera, alongside the object of her gaze, the black boy. Similarly, earlier in the text Ernaux foregrounds her own writerly presence and process through one of the metatextual interventions which have characterised her writing since La Place. 5 Here, however, she discusses the dilemmas of writing race rather than class: [Dilemma: am I going to write ‘a black woman’, ‘an African woman’ – when I’m not certain she is African – or just ‘a woman’? I face a choice which especially nowadays will inflect the way this journal is read. If I write ‘a woman’ I am erasing an aspect of this woman’s physical appearance that I can’t possibly not have noticed immediately. It would in the end be to implicitly ‘whiten’ this woman since out of habit the white reader will imagine a white woman. It is to refuse an aspect of her being, and not the least important, her skin. To refuse her textual visibility. Exactly the opposite of what I am trying to do, of my commitment as a writer here: to give people the same space and the same presence in this journal as they occupy in the life of the hypermarket. Not to write a manifesto in favour of ethnic diversity, but just to give those who haunt this same space alongside me the existence and the visibility they are entitled to. So I will write ‘a black woman’, ‘an Asian man’, ‘some Arab adolescents’, when I feel inclined to do so] (Ernaux, 2014, 21–2)

In this deliberation within brackets Ernaux shows awareness of her responsibilities in representing race and ethnicity, and of the universal assumption of whiteness that her white readers are likely to make. However, her strategy seems partial, as, with one exception, in the 5 Translated as A Man’s Place by Tanya Leslie for Seven Stories Press.

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description of a mixed group – ‘une flopée de filles blanches et noires’ (a bunch of white and black girls)’ (2014, 24) – whiteness is not marked in the text, whereas the adjective ‘noir’ is deployed several times, perhaps five or six, to describe people she encounters in the hypermarket. In this sense Regarde les lumières mon amour replicates dominant discourse and the hyper-visibility of the racial and ethnic others on which the constitution of whiteness depends. However, unlike the dominant discourse the process here is rendered transparent in the passage quoted, where Ernaux declares her dilemma, identifying the problematic of invisibilisation versus hypervisibility of difference and her strategy of choosing visibility, thus emphasising racial and ethnic differences in the text. Isabelle Rousset-Gillet (2015, 138–9) comments favourably on this approach, noting that saying or writing ‘une femme noire’ is not the same as saying or writing ‘une noire’. She then argues that Ernaux avoids ‘la sur-identification exacerbée’ (exaggerated accumulation of identity markers) which would fix and reify identity rather than recognising it to be fluid process. Thus she finds it appropriate that Ernaux does not write ‘a white man’ or ‘a white woman’, as it is not ‘natural’ to name one’s own group. Effectively Rousset-Gillet finds that the process we observe in Ernaux’s text of following the norm, with whiteness unmarked and racial and ethnic others marked, is the right approach. The reader, this reader in any case, is left wondering whether literary writing can or could operate to challenge such norms. Would the insertion of the words blanc/h/e/s to refer to the white customers and employees Ernaux describes really become a ‘sur-identification exacerbée’? In her 2015 interview with Pierre-Louis Fort Ernaux picks up on Rousset-Gillet’s observation that she never uses the word ‘immigré’ (immigrant), claiming that this absence in her writing might educate others to interrogate dominant discourse. Perhaps the marking of whiteness in a literary text might interrupt the flow in a similarly positive and thought-provoking way: ‘At the self check-out I wait behind a [white] chap with a pony tail, a long black leather coat, Doc-Martens’ (Ernaux, 2014, 23; my insertion italicised in square brackets). A further level of engagement with differences other than class and gender in Regarde les lumières mon amour relates to Ernaux’s representation of Muslim women: As usual I notice that the evening clientèle is younger and more ethnically diverse than the daytime customers. […] Between 8 and 10pm, there are students, and, seen much more rarely at any other time of day, women in long dresses and ample veils, always accompanied by a man. Do these

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couples choose the evening for convenience or because they feel people stare at them less (parce qu’ils se sentent moins dévisagés) at this late hour, when the hypermarket is less busy? (Ernaux, 2014, 37–8)

The word dévisagés (stared at) is italicised, and again it connects the experience of racism and in this case Islamophobia with class oppression, since many scenes in Ernaux’s writing describe instances of being stared at by a judgemental middle-class gaze. Perhaps most notable of these is the moment in La Honte when her mother, wearing a stained nightdress, comes to open the door to her daughter returning from a school coach trip and thus encounters the judging gaze of the private school (Ernaux, 1997a, 110). Unlike many French feminists, Ernaux makes no negative comment on the ‘robes longues et voiles amples (long dresses and ample veils)’ worn by the women she observes, or on the fact that they are always accompanied by a man. Instead she asks herself whether the white gaze is in effect limiting their access to the hypermarket. Later she describes a woman slowly placing ten baguettes and several packets of pasta onto the conveyor belt, her face turned towards the cashier so that only ‘her veil, adorned with green and silver’ is visible. The paragraph ends with the reflection: ‘I thought about the ordeal that it must be for her to come to Auchan alone, and that all her veils could never be enough to help her bear it’ (Ernaux, 2014, 53). Again Ernaux seems here to be empathising with this woman, perhaps in part because she recognises the signs of poverty in the cheap basic food she is buying. The woman’s anxiety seems to be expressed in the laboriousness of her gestures – ‘her gestures are not slow but almost imperceptibly delayed, hesitant’ – her silence and her difficulty in giving the cashier the right money, coin by coin, the latter also suggesting a lack of familiarity with the coins and thus perhaps recent arrival in France. The ‘veil’ here is represented as a necessary protection against the hostile gaze, and the narrator seems to slip behind it herself, sensing the woman’s fears and anxieties in the strange territory of the hypermarket. This interpretation is supported by Ernaux’s comment in a radio interview with Pascale Clark on France Inter shortly after publication: Sometimes people stare at women wearing the veil […] it is something I find terribly shocking. I think, I don’t know anything about it, well, I think all the same that there are stares. I look to my own feelings for this. One day I asked myself – supposing I wore a veil to the hypermarket one day, just to see? […] How would people look at me? – And from the feeling and the fear I experience as I think that, I realise

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that it must indeed be difficult to be stared at because you are wearing a veil. (Clark, 2014)

In this interview, as in the book, Ernaux not only empathises with women who may be the object of suspicion and even hatred because of their mode of modest dress but imagines herself in their place, while at the same time, through the hesitations and qualifications that interrupt her speech, recognising that she knows nothing about their experience: ‘Je n’en sais rien’ (‘I know nothing about it’). Living in Cergy has allowed Ernaux herself to think and write beyond the universal whiteness which surrounded her growing up in a small town in Normandy. In Regarde les lumières mon amour (2014, 38) she remarks: ‘For the past fifteen years, it has not been the presence of “visible minorities” that I notice in a place, but their absence.’ Ernaux is a long way from those French feminists who would impose their own norms of conduct and dress on those minorities, and she consistently defends Cergy as a relatively successful multi-ethnic and multicultural town against the critiques of Parisian journalists who describe it as a non-place, the much denigrated banlieue (suburbs). In Regarde les lumières mon amour and elsewhere she is increasingly engaged with oppression on grounds of race, ethnicity and religion, and its intersection with gender and class. In 2012 this engagement took the very public form of an intervention in Le Monde in response to Richard Millet’s pamphlet arguing that European cultures and literatures are threatened by migrants from other cultures and continents. Here Ernaux strongly repudiates any construction of her work as a writer as being connected to an exclusive white French ethnicity and demonstrates her awareness of the need to problematise the notion of ‘voix blanche’: I have been writing for forty years. No more now than previously do I feel threatened in my daily life in a distant suburb of Paris by the presence of others who do not share my skin colour, nor in my use of my language by those who are not ‘French by blood’, who speak with an accent, read the Koran, but go to schools where as I did once, they learn to read and write French. And above all I will never accept that my work as a writer is connected to a racial and national identity that defines me against others, and I will struggle against those who want to divide up humanity in this way. (Ernaux, 2012)

As we have seen, she returns to this theme in the 2015 interview with Pierre-Louis Fort, commenting that writing Les Années caused her

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to become conscious of the recent shift to a more nationalistic and monocultural political and social climate in France, and the need, as a writer, to resist these tendencies: I think we are entering a period of fearful retreat to the fantasy of ‘white France’, and that it will go on for years. One of the speakers at this conference noted that I never use the word ‘immigrant’. I had not noticed. This word does not come to me because I don’t think in those terms. One of the reasons I write is so that people will do the same, will not think of others as ‘immigrants’. Literature has this capacity: to immerse people in a vision that’s different to the dominant one. (Ernaux, 2015, 206–7)

Ernaux’s awareness of these issues is rooted in her daily life in multicultural Cergy, her resistance to white metropolitan elitism and her analysis of the new expressions of Islamophobia and racism current in contemporary France. She sees it as incumbent on her as a writer to encourage people to think differently, not just about the post-colonial present but also about the recent colonial past. In Les Années she reflects for the first time in her published work on the white world of her childhood and its colonial backdrop, highlighting the indifference of the white French population to the suffering of the Algerian population and their complicity with the French government’s suppression of the facts of its bloody war in Algeria and the massacre by police of peaceful FLN demonstrators in Paris. She makes the connection between this complicity with the violence of the Algerian war and the racism and exploitation that awaited Algerians who migrated to France after the Second World War: Their desire for happiness and tranquillity coincided with the establishment of a principle of justice, a decolonisation that would have been unthinkable in earlier times. […] And yet, they still manifested the same fears, at best indifference towards ‘Arabs’. […] And when the immigrant worker encountered French people, he understood – more clearly and quickly than they did – that he bore the face of the enemy. It seemed to be in the natural order of things that they lived in shanty towns, slaved on conveyor belts or at the bottom of a hole, that their October demonstration should be forbidden, and then repressed with extreme violence, and even perhaps, if it had come to one’s notice, that some of them should be killed and thrown into the Seine. (Ernaux, 2008, 79–80)

Francine Best comments how this passage demonstrates in two paragraphs the weight of silence and ideologically enforced forgetting carried by

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a whole generation. Ernaux’s lines allow Best to carry out her own memory work in relation to her posting to Algeria as a teacher in 1959. She rediscovers the anger she felt when faced with French indifference to the Algerian question on a visit home in 1961, and is particularly enraged by the audience’s superficial, bourgeois pleasures during a concert in Caen: ‘In the interval I wanted to harangue all of them, to tell them about our collective responsibility for this never-ending war without name’ (Best, 2014, 183). Ernaux, on the contrary, places herself within the silence and forgetting. October 1961 for her is a memory of fine Autumn days, the excitement of the start of the university term; she does not remember the demonstration, the bodies thrown into the Seine. Even though she recognises the responsibility of the state and the press in this ignorance, she carries and expresses the guilt of her generation, which cannot be effaced: ‘as if we can never make up for our silence, our forgetting’ (Ernaux, 2008, 80). Since Les Années it seems there is no turning back in this respect. In Mémoire de fille (2016) the violence of Algeria is the backdrop for the sexual violence experienced by the young woman Ernaux depicts, her 18-year-old self, Annie Duchesne. The experiential gulf separating young men and women is exacerbated by the experience of war. On their return the young soldiers are ‘disorientated, mute’, they do not know whether what they have done was good or evil, whether they should be ashamed or proud (Ernaux, 2016, 14–15). For young women, such as the 18-year-old Annie, the war is unreal, something that belongs to another world. Mémoire thus brings an intersectional dimension to the analysis of the Algerian war of Les Années by gendering the reactions of indifference and ignorance, on the one hand, and the overwhelming need to forget the trauma, on the other. Ernaux’s reflections on the French population’s complicity in the horrors of colonialism and its aftermath complicate and interrogate the ‘voix blanche’; silence is replaced by words that cut through it ‘like a knife’ (Ernaux, 2003); forgetting by uneasy remembering. Like Delphy, Ernaux’s trajectory as a white woman writer has increasingly involved awareness of differences of race and ethnicity and their impact on women’s lives. Having occupied an ‘outsider’ position in relation to French feminisms and dominant culture as a whole because of her class background, Ernaux now writes with the authority of celebrity and literary consecration. Nonetheless, she has experienced gendered and classed critical opprobrium at several points in her career, particularly on the publication of Passion Simple, which was compared

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pejoratively to romantic fiction: ‘The reader wonders whether a Mills and Boon novel (un texte de la collection Harlequin) hasn’t lost its way and turned up under the sober white cover of Gallimard’s NRF series’ (Neuhoff, 1992). Ernaux has claimed that this was a turning point in her approach to feminism, the moment when she realised the centrality of gender as well as class oppression.6 These intersecting experiences of oppression complicate and render fragile Ernaux’s status as a writer; it is perhaps from this place that she imagines a Muslim woman’s experience of the critical white gaze in the hypermarket, and that, like some other contemporary white French feminists, she has begun to interrogate her own implication in that gaze.

6 Unpublished interview with the author, 1997.

chapter fourteen

Third Wave Collective Manifestos What Do Feminists Still Want? Michèle A. Schaal Third Wave Collective Manifestos

Thirty-seven years after Les Femmes s’entêtent (1975), ‘les Féministes en mouvement,’ a collective comprised of 45 French feminist organisations, published Mais qu’est-ce qu’elles veulent encore! (but now what do they want!), a manifesto whose title reprises yet also expands the secondary title of the original anthology (2012, 9). Published shortly before the 2012 French presidential election, Mais qu’est-ce qu’elles veulent encore! meticulously charts contemporary gender-based discriminations in France and proposes a series of 30 measures to be implemented by the next French president. This book actually illustrates how, since the 1990s, a third wave of French feminism has emerged (Bessin and Dorlin, 2005, 11–12). Since that decade, several organisations have been created, from les Sciences Potiches se Rebellent (1995)1 to the (in)famous Ni Putes Ni Soumises (2003), 2 to the more recent Collectif 8 Mars pour tout.e.s (2012)3 or Georgette Sand (2014).4 1 This student organisation, now defunct, aimed at fighting sexism in the university system. 2 The organisation focuses particularly on the experiences of French women of Maghrebi descent and/or who live in the French banlieues. 3 The collective aims at making French feminism more inclusive, thus focusing on the intersectionality of gender with a variety of other discriminations based on, but not limited to, race, sexual orientation or religion. 4 This group aims at empowering women so that they are no longer systematically reduced to their gender or see their professional competence questioned.

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French third wave feminists, whether belonging to specific organisations or not, have, however, been active not just in the streets. As Clémentine Autain – a self-identified third wave feminist and co-founder of the organisation Mix-Cité (1997) – explains, ‘ever since the 1990s, French feminism has gotten back its colours. It expresses itself, it petitions, it fights back’ (2013, 16). 5 Indeed, and similarly to their foremothers who contributed to Les Femmes s’entêtent, younger feminists have also released a number of personal and political publications. These appeared as manifestos, opinion pieces, petitions in newspapers, blogs or websites, such as ‘Sexisme: ils se lâchent, les femmes trinquent’ (Sexism: [men] snap, women take the rap) (Le Monde.fr, 2011), a petition by a collective of feminist organisations against the misogyny displayed by the supporters of Dominique Strauss-Kahn in the media; 6 ‘Femmes Interdites de Bande Dessinée’ (Graphic Novels: No Woman’s Land) by the Collectif des créatrices de bande dessinée contre le sexisme (the Graphic Novel Creative Women’s Collective against sexism), which decries the lack of women artists featured at the Festival International de la Bande Dessinée in Angoulême (Collectif Des Créatrices De Bande Dessinée Contre Le Sexisme, 2016); ‘Le Manifeste des 313’ (under the initiative of Autain), designed to raise awareness about rape (2012); or the 343 Fraudeuses’s (343 Smugglers) ‘Nous réclamons l’ouverture de la PMA [Procréation Médicalement Assistée] à toutes les femmes, sans discrimination’ (We demand a non-discriminative access to ART [Assisted Reproductive Technology] for all women) (2014), championing equal family rights and the legalisation of reproductive technology for LGBTIQA+7 couples. The latter two manifestos openly reference the iconic ‘Notre 5 All translations are my own, except for Beauvoir’s quotation from Monteil. 6 On 14 May 2011 the Director of the International Monetary Fund, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, was arrested in New York for sexual assault against Nafissatou Diallo, a maid at the hotel where he was staying. Many of his prominent friends, including journalist Jean-François Kahn, expressed their outrage in the media, often using misogynist language. For feminist reactions regarding ‘l’Affaire DSK’ see Christine Delphy’s anthology Un Troussage de domestique (2012). The title is a direct quotation from Jean-François Kahn and refers to the historical sexual entitlement masters had over female servants. The book features many contributions by third and even fourth wave feminists such as Autain or Les TumulTueuses. 7 Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Intersex, Queer/Questioning and Allied.

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ventre nous appartient’ (Our womb is ours) (1971) or ‘Manifeste des 343’ published in Le Nouvel Observateur. In it, feminists and other women publicly declared they had undergone an illegal abortion. Publications by third wavers have also appeared in book form, ranging from Isabelle Alonso’s Pourquoi je suis chienne de garde (Why I am a female watchdog)8 (2001) through Fadela Amara’s Ni Putes Ni Soumises (Neither Prostitute nor Submissive) (2003, co-written with journalist Sylvia Zappi) and Valérie Toranian’s Pour en finir avec la femme (To put an end to woman) (2004) to Virginie Despentes’s King Kong théorie (King Kong theory) (2006). The longer format has allowed for a greater development of the authors’ feminist politics or visions for a truly egalitarian society. In 1975 Les Femmes s’entêtent offered a political, sociological and personal portrait of the issues encountered by women within French society, but also proposed how a second wave of feminism could address them. The book was divided into three sections: ‘encirclement’, ‘breaking the circle’ and ‘desire-delirium’ (désirs-délires). When reading third wave manifestos, one may ask: By what do young feminists feel ‘encircled’ nowadays? What solutions do third wavers offer to break those cycles? What do they aspire to? All feminist manifestos published since the 1990s may not be covered within the scope of this chapter. Therefore, this section focuses on how four collective manifestos answer the questions already asked in Les Femmes s’entêtent. These manifestos include Mais qu’est-ce qu’elles veulent encore! but also 14 femmes pour un féminisme pragmatique (14 women for a pragmatic feminism) (2007) by Gaëlle Bantegnie, Yamina Benahmed Daho, Joy Sorman and Stéphanie Vincent.9 Under consideration too in this chapter is ‘L’Égalité maintenant!’ (Equality now!), released in 2011 by Osez le féminisme!, an organisation established in 2009 and after the protests in favour of le Planning Familial – whose budget was to be diminished drastically by the government of President Nicolas Sarkozy. Osez le féminisme! currently addresses gender-based issues in France. La Barbe! Cinq ans d’activisme féministe (La Barbe!10 Five years of feminist activism) (2014) will also be discussed. La Barbe was originally a response to the sexist treatment of Ségolène Royal 8 The French title plays on the word ‘bitch’ (chienne). 9 The four authors speak in their names and not for a feminist organisation (Bantegnie et al., 2007, 9). 10 ‘La barbe’ is a pun: the word means both facial hair (a beard) and to be fed up with something.

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in the media during the 2007 presidential campaign, but they have since targeted a variety of public or private institutions they believe perpetuate the sexist exclusion of women (2014, 26). Contemporary and Enduring Issues A pervasive myth has emerged in France and in Western countries that have known what is now called a second wave of feminism (1960s– 1980s). The myth implies that contemporary democracies are fully egalitarian: feminism as a movement is, consequently, no longer needed if not altogether passé (Bantegnie et al., 2007, 12; Fougeyrollas-Schwebel and Varikas, 2006, 14). Those who still identify as such are deemed obsolete or anti-feminist and lesbophobic clichés are summoned to invalidate them. This may explain why the authors of 14 femmes open their book by claiming, then denying, and finally reclaiming the label: ‘We are feminists. We do not hold any feminist discourse. This book is a feminist one’ (Bantegnie et al., 2007, 9, italics in original). However, if feminism has undeniably changed society, many issues remain unaddressed or persist within contemporary France. Nearly all manifestos considered here acknowledge the victories achieved by feminists and how younger women have benefited tremendously from them (Bantegnie et al., 2007, 11–12; Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 9–10, 15, 69; Osez le féminisme!, 2011, 1). Nevertheless, this recognition is systematically followed by a bitter observation, if not an exhaustive report, about unresolved and even emerging issues – problems oddly and frighteningly similar to the ‘encirclement’ already decried in Les Femmes s’entêtent: inequalities within the workplace, women reduced to their sex (literally, their genitals) and sexually objectified, an essentialist vision of gender, a problematic access to abortion or birth control, a still inadequate level of political representation, maternity as destiny yet a serious lack of infrastructure or governmental support for working mothers, rampant lesbophobia, the still unequal sharing of domestic work, French arts, language and culture as still predominantly masculine, sexual and domestic violence as still endemic and too often trivialised.11 All these areas remain contested terrains or 11 See Bantegnie et al., 2007, 10–16, 21–72; La Barbe, 2014, 19–25, 29–49, 51–67, 122–39, 157; Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 10, 13–14, 16, 18–64, 75; Osez le féminisme!, 2011, 1.

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have even witnessed a regression, thus demonstrating that, for these young feminists, French society as a whole has remained profoundly androcentric and patriarchal (La Barbe, 2014, 159; Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 17, 27, 36, 39, 49, 62, 74–5). As a result, for Osez le féminisme! in ‘L’Égalité maintenant’, ‘just as in 1971, because we were born women, we remain assigned to our sex, kept in subaltern positions our entire lives. We sometimes have the odd feeling we have woken up with a hangover’ (2011, 1). ‘1971’ and the manifesto’s subtitle ‘343 femmes s’engagent’ (343 women make a commitment) is a reference to the iconic second wave pro-abortion ‘Manifeste des 343’ (2011, 1). However, Osez le féminisme! underlines that, since that era, little has changed and women remain second-class citizens. Although phrased differently in all four texts discussed, this political hangover and the necessity to pursue the feminist fight is stressed.12 Indeed, for the authors of 14 femmes: Sooner or later, every woman discovers the strengths, the weaknesses, the dead-ends, the possibilities tied [or] anchored to her sex … . On those thresholds, within these life experiences that escape any kind of jurisdiction, spontaneous hierarchies between men and women had not disappeared. We are this generation made of contradictions … . We have equal rights but are we truly emancipated? (2007, 10–12, italics in original)

Discriminations and gender-based inequalities remain at all levels, including in the private sphere and in spite of changes, thus prompting the authors to wonder if French women have been truly liberated from patriarchal rule. This question is further justified as, in 2012, the National Institute for Statistics and Economic Studies (INSEE) released a report entitled ‘Femmes et Hommes – Regards sur la parité’ (Women and men: Looking at parity). This report shows that, from the 1970s on, countless laws or measures on wage equality, work discrimination, political parity and sexual violence have been passed (INSEE, 2012, 174–80). Yet they have not necessarily been implemented or succeeded in changing mentalities – including women’s own perception of their selves and roles within French society (Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 15, 16, 21–4, 31, 37, 47, 58, 63, 73, 74). Whether regarding the workplace, pensions or domestic chores, women’s situation has 12 See Bantegnie et al., 2007, 9, 10, 17; La Barbe, 2014, 159; Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 10–11, 14–17, 20, 67, 73–78; Osez le féminisme!, 2011, 1.

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improved but a number of significant inequalities persist (INSEE, 2012, 19–26, 39–51, 67–80). Furthermore, La Barbe’s modus operandi13 and the establishment of a well-documented flyer on the institution or issue targeted demonstrate that, despite legal equality (2014, 18, 19), In all areas, the great alpha males still believe that women can neither vote nor be elected; without ever noticing it, they exclude women from spheres of power, from meetings, from public platforms, and yet women surround them: as their spouses, their mistresses, their daughters, their assistants, their students, their work partners, their escorts … . (2014, 17)

As for the authors of 14 femmes, for La Barbe, the more French society changes, the more patriarchy lingers on. Women are still excluded from positions of power and confined to the private sphere, if not reduced to their bodies and sex. The contemporary ‘encirclement’ feminists and women face are, therefore, the same as the old ones: gender still grants a number of privileges to men while women are still marginalised. However, because of the ‘fausses évidences’ (‘fallacies’) about women’s equality that the Féministes en mouvement chart in their manifesto, this reality is rendered invisible, if not altogether denied (2012, 21–72).14 Breaking the Cycles How may the cycles of oppression or circles of patriarchal power be broken? As all the specificities of French third wave feminism cannot be covered, this chapter examines three key notions or actions that transpire in all four manifestos:15 the use of ‘genre’ (gender) as a political tool and category of analysis (although it is sometimes still used interchangeably with ‘sexe’); the deployment of performance politics; and the redefinition of what Marc Bessin and Elsa Dorlin call ‘the political subject 13 La Barbe members attend conferences or meetings opened to the public where it is exclusively or primarily men who speak. Wearing fake beards, they interrupt the speakers, address the participants by their first names and congratulate the institutions for remaining exclusively male. They also distribute flyers with statistics regarding the targeted institutions or gender-based discriminations (2014, 16–18, 24). 14 See also La Barbe, 2014, 156–7. 15 For some of the specificities of French third-wave feminism, see Bessin and Dorlin, 2005, 11–27; Schaal, 2012, 102–24.

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of feminism’ (2005, 20). For many researchers, if this subject used to be ‘Woman’ or women exclusively for the second wave, today this is no longer the case.16 Drawing on Anglophone gender and queer theory, plurality and intersectionality are key to French third wavers (Bessin and Dorlin, 2005, 11, 18, 21, 23, 25; Schaal, 2012, 102, 111, 112, 114, 117). Mais qu’est-ce qu’elles veulent encore! is articulated around how politics and policies need to take gender into consideration so as to properly address women’s needs and ongoing or emerging issues. Already in the introduction to the book, the Féministes en mouvement state that ‘the only viable strategy to transition towards a sustainable future is to consider a gender-based analysis and to set equality between men and women as a goal’ (2012, 18). The last ‘fausse évidence’, entitled ‘Equality is for free’, even champions the creation of a Ministry of Women’s Rights (Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 68). Endowed with a significant budget, it could effectively address gender issues when implementing public policies (Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 69).17 For the Féministes en mouvement, the terms ‘sexe’ and ‘genre’, however, seem interchangeable as, throughout the book, they remain undefined. The authors do not articulate a distinction between society and biology as the terminology usually implies or requires. However, in this and other passages, gender, and especially a gender-based lens, is still posited as crucial to breaking the cycle of discriminations and implementing equal rights for good (Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 59, 73–4). This notion is not solely relevant to the legal or political spheres. In the seventh ‘fausse evidence’, the Féministes en mouvement also stress the importance of implementing a ‘training of teachers and educators regarding the history and construction of gender’, as the gender role socialisation of girls and boys, especially at school, ultimately contributes to the perpetuation of social inequality at large (2012, 54). 16 See Bessin and Dorlin, 2005, 20–6; Bourcier, 2011a, 219; Debenest et al., 2010, 8; Dorlin, 2005, 83, 94, 99; Dorlin, 2009, 10–11; Lépinard, 2005, 124, 127–30; Palomares and Testenoire, 2010, 21–2. 17 This demand was fulfilled as French president François Hollande created a Ministry of Women’s Rights in 2012. However, in 2014 it became a Secretariat of State for Women’s Rights within the Ministry of Social Affairs. In 2016 its inclusion within the Ministry of the Family, Childhood and Rights of Women outraged feminists, who perceived this regrouping as essentialist (Dupont, 2016, 11). Since the election of Emmanuel Macron as president in May 2017, it has remained a Secretariat of State now ‘having responsibility for equality between men and women’. It depends directly on the prime minister and Marlène Schiappa is at its head.

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La Barbe too, through its actions, wants to underline the pervasive and long-term consequences of this very gender socialisation. It not only casts women and men into specific identity and gender roles but also excludes the former from positions of power: just as we target inequalities between men and women, we enjoy causing gender trouble [that questions] the sexual identity myth and its dualistic ‘nature.’ […] La Barbe takes possession of the supposed attributes of masculinity precisely because they are also those of power. […] La Barbe unveils masculine domination. […] Men constitute a comfortable social grouping that is never questioned [and that] excludes 50% of society. Repetitions, redundancy, mirror effects, superimpositions in our performances are ideas dear to La Barbe. (2014, 24–5)

Here, La Barbe articulates more clearly the difference between sex and gender and denounces how biology is still perceived as destiny or an essence that justifies gender-based discriminations.18 Yet, the organisation also draws on Judith Butler’s notion of ironic performance: a repetition and proliferation of gender that, in the end, will reveal its very performative nature (Butler 1999, 41, 175–6, 180, 189). La Barbe believes that by fighting patriarchy with its own symbolic tools – a beard and power – they expose how gender matters and generates inequalities when a social hierarchy is based upon it (2014, 24–5, 157). Eventually, revealing this (denied) reality can lead to both public awareness and change within the targeted institutions (La Barbe, 2014, 22, 26). It would be a mistake though to believe that third wavers blindly embrace performative or gender-based identity politics; their limitations are also underlined, especially in 14 femmes. The authors explain how they have all attempted to incarnate a ‘New Girl’ (English in original) based on feminist principles: ‘This made-up woman was transgender,19 combining the strengths of both women and men. […] We had abolished genders? So what? In subway stations, in movie theatres, in maternity wards, at supermarkets, in the office, we remained women’ (Bantegnie et al., 2007, 14–15, italics in original). If gender performance or gender-b(l)ending is a powerful, revolutionary tool, political action remains a necessity as one is always brought back to one’s gender in spite of legal, political and cultural changes. As the authors underline, 18 Simone de Beauvoir posited the notion of a ‘biological destiny’, namely maternity, that women had been historically confined to in The Second Sex (2011, 73). 19 Here the authors use the term ‘transgender’ in lieu of gender neutral or in the sense of ‘beyond gender dualisms’.

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within society and its public or private spheres women remain reduced to their gender, if not sex. Hence, merely playing the role of an emancipated ‘new girl’ can never suffice to change society or eradicate systemic misogyny. Of particular significance is the use of plural – women – in all four texts. French third wavers have criticised how second wave feminism could be exclusive and only concern Western, white, privileged, heterosexual, women. 20 Consequently, they have stressed the importance of acknowledging the plurality of women’s experiences and the intersectionality of differences: for some women, gender-, colour-, class- or age-based discriminations are inherently interlocked. 21 If intersectionality represents a term specific to French third wave feminism, borrowed from American theorist Kimberlé Williams Crenshaw, the plurality of women’s experiences was already stressed by second wavers, whether from the materialist or differentialist branches. Danièle Kergoat coined the term ‘consubstantialité’ to underline the impact of gender, class and colour on one’s social experience (Testenoire, 2010, 36–9). Hélène Cixous, in ‘Le Rire de la Méduse’, stressed women’s plurality as well (1975, 39, 44, 47–8). Les Femmes s’entêtent itself opens with Simone de Beauvoir’s declaring ‘feminist thought is by far not monolithic, each fighting woman has her own motivations, her perspectives, her unique experience’ (1975, 11, italics in original). However, and as it is constantly emphasised and claimed, the necessity to be inclusive and plural, and to let everyone provide their perspectives, constitutes one of the specificities of French third wave feminism. 22 For instance, the authors of 14 femmes reject the notion of ‘Woman’ as the subject of feminism since it does not illustrate how their ‘lives had become multiple-choice assessment forms’ after the feminist revolution (2007, 13, italics in original). This 20 See Bessin and Dorlin, 2005, 21, 23; Bourcier, 2005, 29; Bourcier, 2011b, 94, 138; Bourcier, 2011a, 63–83; Debenest et al., 2010, 12; Dorlin, 2009, 10–11; Taraud, 2005, 41, 45–6, 65, 87, 129–30. 21 See Bantegnie et al., 2007; 12–15, Bessin and Dorlin, 2005, 11, 18, 19, 21, 23, 25; Bourcier, 2005, 86, 90, 121, 194; Bourcier, 2011b, 151; Bourcier, 2011a, 22, 43, 116–18; Debenest et al., 2010, 7, 9, 10; Dorlin, 2005, 83, 88, 91–101; Dorlin, 2009, 5–7, 11–14; Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 56–68; Lépinard, 2005, 107–36; Palomares and Testenoire, 2010, 15–26; Schaal, 2012, 102, 111, 112, 114, 117; Taraud, 2005, 10, 36–9, 56, 58, 87–8, 97–8, 141–2. 22 See Bantegnie et al., 2007, 15; Bourcier, 2005, 94, 104–12; Bourcier, 2011a, 100–3, 134, 166–7; Debenest et al., 2010, 7, 12–13; Taraud, 2005, 14, 41, 44, 56, 58, 80–1, 88.

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is why their book provides the portraits of 14 women who embody, in their view, inclusive, plural and anti-hierarchal role models, an aspect essential to a twenty-first-century ‘pragmatic and democratic feminism’ (Bantegnie et al., 2007, 11, 15, 16, italics in original). If 14 femmes offers an individualistic approach to feminism, the Féministes en mouvement, on the other hand, propose a more political vision of this plurality. For them, intersectionality is key to implementing equal rights for all and taking into account the specificities of the most vulnerable groups or individuals in society – that is to say, women: ‘French authorities must take into account gender (“the belonging to a particular social group”) and the interlocking of gender with other forms of oppression (or how these gender-based persecutions also stem from political, religious, etc. motives)’ (Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 59). Gender, consequently, constitutes only one of the intersections that generate discriminations. Some women face several forms of oppression simultaneously and this is why ‘Woman’ cannot become the political subject of feminism either. Instead, feminism must ‘[be] brok[en] down into multiple actions against specific forms of oppression and discrimination’ (Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 17). In the eighth and ninth ‘fausses évidences,’ the Féministes en mouvement underline the intersection of social class, legal status and sexual orientation. Ironically, though, by setting them apart, they are still then cast as a singularity (2012, 56–64). Third wavers also explain how intersections may, in some instances, grant privileges: for La Barbe, France is a ‘society where positions of power, in all areas, are primarily held by white middle-aged men with a similar social and cultural capital’ (2014, 25). Once again, La Barbe stresses how a patriarchal, straight and ethnocentric structure still shapes French society and who controls it. Nonetheless, not all men benefit equally from such a system. This is why the political subject of feminism must also include men or at least have men as allies in the feminist struggle (La Barbe, 2014, 26; Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 15, 73). However, this inclusiveness is not unproblematic, namely because of the privileges still granted by masculinity. In her introduction to her collection of feminist writings titled Les Insoumises (The insubordinate women) Christine Bard ponders the question of mixity within feminism. While not impossible and even desirable in some instances, Bard explains that, ‘at its core, feminism is based upon the conflict between men and women’, and this foundational element will necessarily create tensions and frustrations (2013b, 8). Breaking the cycles remains,

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therefore, an uneasy task, but all four manifestos attempt to provide solutions to new and old gender-based issues. Aspirations In Gaga Feminism, J. Jack Halberstam claims that ‘the manifesto, from Karl Marx to Valerie Solanas, has played with utopian possibility while also proposing a plan of action’ (2012, 131). Autain, in the introduction to her collection of feminist writings, Ne me libère pas, je m’en charge (Do not liberate me, I’m doing this myself), defines third wavers’ main ‘désirsdélires’ best: ‘the stakes are high: we now need to go from a formal, legal equality, to a real one, an equality put into practice in real life’ (2013, 8). Autain too shares the political hangover mentioned by Osez le féminisme! (2013, 7–8). Nearly all the texts studied in this chapter expose how legal equality does not necessarily trigger egalitarian practices in either the public or the private sphere.23 This feeling is further reinforced by women’s rights – especially if economic crises occur – still being perceived as secondary or as a form of luxury: ‘it’s never the right time, there’s always a more pressing issue’ is an excuse often heard and decried by the Féministes en mouvement (2012, 10). The notion of women’s rights as irrelevant also appears in some of the reactions La Barbe face: denial, anger, bargaining or appropriation (2014, 19–22). In particular, the recurring accusation of having targeted the wrong institution or the hostile reactions from non-profit organisations – agencies that, ironically, fight for human and equal rights – testify to this trivialisation (La Barbe, 2014, 19–21). Yet, if one also considers La Barbe’s stance on who still holds power in contemporary France, another explanation for this marginalisation emerges: ‘the white straight able-bodied middle-aged man is thought of as the norm, the neutral’ (2014, 25). For third wavers at large, and just as Les Femmes s’entêtent denounced, the French universalism at the core of society and its laws remains exclusive and predominantly gendered in the masculine.24 In such a context, it is unsurprising that women’s rights are seen as secondary. 23 See Bantegnie et al., 2007, 10; La Barbe, 2014, 29–155; Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 11, 13–16, 47, 73; Osez le féminisme!, 2011, 1. 24 See Autain, 2013, 17; Bourcier, 2005, 10, 26, 29, 35–82, 131, 116, 148, 246–7; Bourcier, 2011b, 148; Bourcier, 2011a, 40–1, 90, 112, 115–16, 118, 226, 295; Debenest et al., 2010, 12; Lépinard, 2005, 128; Taraud, 2005, 108, 125, 128.

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Nonetheless, third wavers remain hopeful and articulate a utopian vision in their manifestos, even if sometimes an already disillusioned one. The utopia particularly at stake in the writings examined in this chapter is equality (La Barbe, 2014, 159; Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 13, 16; Osez le féminisme!, 2011, 1). For the Féministes en mouvement this is: a crucial stake, both the sign of and condition for a fair democracy and republic. The demands we have resonate with the aspiration for emancipation rising in society. […] We want equality now. For, without equality, there is no liberty. Without equality, there is no dignity. Without equality, there is no emancipation. Without equality, there is no democracy. (2012, 11)

Women’s rights cannot be cast as a particularism. Instead, they fully belong to a greater political system that ensures the well-being of all its citizens. Equality thus remains key to women’s social success and to making contemporary democracies truly inclusive. The plan of action varies and depends on how these authors or organisations define themselves. For the authors of 14 femmes, emancipation occurs first on an individual level, even if theory, activism and politics still matter (2007, 9, 14–16). Osez le féminisme! and Féministes en mouvement, as liberal feminists, wish to take direct political action so as to have women integrated within the existing social system. This transpires in the 30 measures proposed in Mais qu’est-ce qu’elles veulent encore! and the request to implement equality now (Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 79–84; Osez le féminisme!, 2011, 1). For La Barbe, it is trickier to establish. Their denunciation of patriarchy and their direct actions affiliate them with radical feminism, yet they do not wish to put an end to French society altogether either; instead, ‘through magnifying a disappearance, we allow for a reemergence. Through our actions, language, or writing, we grant women a long-deserved visibility’ (2014, 157). As for the other authors, La Barbe wishes to see gender equality realised once and for all. For nearly all the authors here, though, the ultimate plan of action is having young women’s and young feminists’ voices matter (La Barbe, 2014, 26, 157, 159; Les Féministes en mouvement, 2012, 77–8; Osez le féminisme!, 2011, 1): they are here to stay and fight because, after all, demanding equality in the twenty-first century is not asking for the impossible (Osez le féminisme!, 2011, 1). If one compares Les Femmes s’entêtent to the four manifestos examined here, one may be tempted to ask: have things changed at all

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for women, as the issues at stake strangely echo the ones already raised in the 1975 anthology? The persistence of many inequalities can lead to a pessimistic interpretation of the emergence of a third wave of French feminism. However, one may also consider contemporary feminist manifestos and activism through the words of Beauvoir. In The Beauvoir Sisters, Claudine Monteil recalls the French feminist and philosopher’s warning to younger generations: the few women’s rights that we have managed to extract by struggling long and hard these past few years are fragile. Very fragile. All it takes is another economic, political, or religious crisis for them to be challenged. All of you, […] as long as you live you will have to watch that society and the politicians don’t cunningly nibble away at these rights. You’ll have to be on your guard, don’t ever forget that. (Monteil, 2006, 141–2)

For the Féministes en mouvement, financial crises and the rise of fundamentalisms or far-right politics have, indeed, contributed to the feminisation of poverty and the regression of equal rights (2012, 10, 17–20, 65, 67, 31, 75). Consequently, French third wave feminists do not merely address ongoing issues but also fulfill Beauvoir’s wish: they are on their guard, as they protect acquired rights and want to see more implemented. For that purpose, they continue to produce manifestos, to stage protests and to champion equality. Yet, they also use new tools – such as performance, gender-sensitive politics and intersectionality – to both understand and eradicate all discriminations once and for all.

Conclusion Margaret Atack, Alison S. Fell, Diana Holmes, Imogen Long Conclusion

Successive waves of feminism have produced significant gains for women, in France as elsewhere. Even though progress stalls and is reversed, even though the same battles have to be fought over and over again, it would be unduly pessimistic to deny that the daughters and granddaughters of mid-1970s activists live in a society that offers more life chances to women. The metaphor of waves is a rich one: waves gather, crash and fall, are sucked back into the ocean by the gravitational pull of moon and sun, but they are also powerful in their effects, their swash1 and energy moulding the landscape through erosion and abrasion, and through the sedimentation that creates new land. In the past half-century women have won much greater control over their own reproductive capacity, have occupied and appropriated public spaces, both literal and metaphorical, in myriad ways, have established in collective consciousness the existence of a force called ‘sexism’, and the fact that it is wrong. Emmanuel Macron, elected president of France in May 2017, made the very public gesture of appointing a cabinet equally composed of women and men, and declared that he would make equality of the sexes a major objective. In the first year of his presidency he announced policies of immediate fines for anyone caught engaging in gender-based insults in the street, of increased provision of refuges for victims of domestic violence, of a national online service for those (i.e. 1 A splendid word meaning the rush of seawater up a beach, driven by the breaking of a wave.

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women) suffering sexual discrimination or harassment, of a lengthening of paternity leave (see Chapter 4) and of sanctions for firms who fail to remedy the gender pay gap. He also promised that every educational institution will have a designated equalities officer. Such a raft of state policies would have been unthinkable 50 years ago and all of these initiatives address issues raised by the second wave women’s movement. Macron’s good faith in making women’s equality a flagship of his presidency has been extensively questioned by feminists: a substantial critique in the webzine deuxième page (collectively written by several women, as was Les Femmes s’entêtent) echoes the doubts of many feminist groups when it points out how many of these policies are as yet no more than promises, how Macron’s economic policies threaten the livelihoods of the poorest – a category disproportionately composed of women – and the inadequacy of the budget allocated to Giroud’s most recent successor Marlène Schiappa, secretary of state for gender equality (Myroie et al., 2017). Macron’s declaration of reverence for women’s ‘alterity’ (‘J’aime ce qu’il y a d’irréductible dans l’autre qu’est la femme’ [‘I love the irreducible otherness of woman’]) led the left-leaning news magazine Marianne to call him the ‘Julio Iglesias of feminism’ (Girard, 2017), referencing the cheesy romanticism of the Spanish singer and the binary, heteronormative model of gender on which the gallant appreciation of women as men’s ‘other’ is based. But, despite feminists’ healthy scepticism, the very presentation of gender equality as a burning issue and a goal crucial to society’s wellbeing demonstrates how women have succeeded in shifting the national agenda. For this book has shown how second wave feminism picked up the threads of the quieter, more pragmatic campaigns for social equality that (as Siân Reynolds explores above in Chapter 1) had persisted since the early days of suffragism and carried these onto the public stage with renewed passion, anger and theatricality. The contributors reveal the centrality of certain themes and causes in both feminist activism and its (inseparable) cultural manifestations, and demonstrate how these have altered both institutions and collective assumptions about gender. From the start, the MLF fought for women’s right to choose – or not – to conceive and give birth, to refuse the objectification of their bodies and to express their own sexual desires and agency. This was a multi-lateral campaign that extended across the spheres of legislative reform, medical provision and representation in all media – including the articulation of a hitherto muted female sexuality in the literature of writers such as Marie Cardinal, Hélène Cixous, Annie Ernaux, Benôite Groult and

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Annie Leclerc (see Chapters 2, 10, 13, 12, 11), and Delphine Seyrig’s challenge to the objectification of female actors (Chapter 3): it produced a greater degree of sexual and reproductive freedom for most women and, however imperfectly, it broke the constricting mould of a femininity defined and evaluated almost solely in terms of heterosexual appeal and maternity. The second underpinning theme here is that of space and presence. What the second wave and its eddying ripples achieved was the progressive entry of women into hitherto virtually male-only public spaces, both literal and figurative. Without the noise created by the MLF, it is unlikely that Giscard would have thought it politic in 1975 to introduce a secretary of state for women into the government (see Chapter 2). Loud, indecorous feminist demonstrations invaded the streets that had long been ‘the place where we learn fear, trepidation and anger’ (Les Femmes s’entêtent, 319) and women-only spaces were created not only in the form of refuges from male violence but also in the lighter-hearted form of cafes, bookshops and convivial gatherings of all kinds. Maggie Allison and Fanny Mazzone chart the establishment in the press and the publishing industry of a highly visible female and feminist presence and, as Alison Fell shows, the male-only character of sites of national memory was contested and the legacy of ‘great women’, at least to some small extent, publicly affirmed. When the new Museum of European and Mediterranean Civilisations opened in Marseille in 2013, the significance of gender – and more explicitly of second wave feminism – to the region’s history was recognised by an inaugural exhibition (see Chapter 9). Thus the appropriation of physical space was matched by that of cultural space, with lasting effects. The chapters above show how in the 1970s women founded magazines and publishing houses, satirised complacently patriarchal TV shows (Les Insoumuses, Chapter 3), made films in which women were diegetically and thematically central rather than decorative and stretched the possibilities of language with a formal inventiveness fuelled by anger and the joy of released creativity. For language is the third connecting theme of second wave feminism, and of this book. In a nice play on words, the title of Les Femmes s’entêtent turns on its head (pun intended) the stereotypes of the irrational, obstinate woman and of women as being ‘headless’ in the sense of brainless. As we aimed to show in Chapter 2, 1970s feminism recognised and made perceptible the androcentric nature of what purported to be neutral rules of grammar and of the casual, taken-for-granted sexism

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(itself a word newly coined) of everyday discourse. In Hélène Cixous’s memorable image, women stole back language and used it to fly, and a veritable wave of writing appeared (see Chapter 5 and Chapters 10–13)2 that went on to enter the informal canon of feminist literature. Nonetheless, as Beauvoir warned, ‘These rights are never won once and for all. You must remain vigilant for the rest of your lives’ (Monteil, 2006). The first section of Les Femmes s’entêtent is entitled ‘encirclement’, and the second ‘breaking the circle’: in the twenty-first century women are ‘encircled’ by all the old dangers, and by some new ones. We have seen – in France as elsewhere – the feminisation of poverty under an increasingly globalised capitalism (see, for example, Goldberg, 2009), the rise of profoundly misogynist fundamentalism both on the far right and in a particularly regressive form of Islam, and hard-won abortion rights again under threat from minority but increasingly vocal conservative and religious groups. Prominent feminist intellectual Elisabeth Badinter quoted both Beauvoir and Groult in an April 2018 article in Le Monde, warning of the ‘holy alliance of reactionaries’ currently campaigning to reverse many of the freedoms won by women over the past half century: ‘We must keep in mind the warnings of Simone de Beauvoir and Benoîte Groult: women’s rights are not set in stone and can always be reversed’ (Badinter, 2018). The MeToo/BalanceTonPorc campaign in the wake of the Weinstein revelations (and in France the earlier Strauss-Kahn scandal3) has illuminated the sheer scale of sexual harassment and violence that serves to keep women ‘in their place’. As Bronwyn Winter argues (Chapter 9), if the wider awareness of gender as a complex, fluid dimension of identity is to be welcomed, there is also a danger of redefining gender as a lifestyle choice and losing sight of feminism’s political analysis of the power relations that structure sexual inequality. Thus, despite the gains achieved, the central themes of feminist campaigning show more continuity than change: economic and social inequality remain urgently real issues, reproductive rights are fragile and need constantly defending, and the right to freedom from harassment and violence is denied in practice at all levels, from everyday nuisance to murder: in France ‘conjugal violence’ kills one woman every three days (Le Parisien, 2017). The anxiety evidenced in 1975 (see Chapter 2) over 2 The explosion of imaginative, theoretical and cultural writings produced in the wake of 1970s feminism is the central focus of the other volume inspired by the 2015 Women in French conference: Atack et al., 2018. 3 See Chapter 14, footnote 6.

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the relationship between radical and state feminism – for, while state policy reform is needed to achieve feminist goals, it also often means their dilution and distortion – is highly visible in the feminist scepticism that has greeted Macron’s declared intention to make gender equality a central aim of his presidency. As the postface to Les Femmes s’entêtent warned, ‘Cours petite soeur, la récuperation est derrière toi’ (‘Run, little sister, or they’ll co-opt [and by implication water down] your ideas’). Continuity with the second wave is evident too in the ongoing interest in and scholarship on writers such as Cixous and Ernaux (Chapters 10 and 13) and in the celebration of the legacy of Leclerc and Groult in recent feminist works that are thoroughly twenty-first century in form (Chapters 11 and 12). Second wave style and tactics are also discernible in contemporary feminist campaigning. The MLF rejoiced in performing their opposition to a patriarchal culture loudly and ludically, discovering in demonstrations and colourfully subversive cultural production not only the importance of public impact for the spreading of ideas but also the sheer elation of visibly smashing, rather than merely contesting, repressive taboos. Humour and a ‘politics of pleasure’, in Tamara Chaplin’s words (Chapter 7), formed a vital current of second wave feminism, and this is visible now in (for example) La Barbe’s gate-crashing of public events (political, economic, cultural) wearing fake beards to stand among the besuited men and thus bear silent witness to the continuing dominance of power and public spaces by the male sex, before distributing humorous flyers to the public. It is apparent, too, in the international feminist adoption of the ‘pussy hat’, worn at demonstrations in response to Donald Trump’s contemptuous boasting about his entitlement to ‘grab women by the pussy’, and in the dark, grating humour of the currently bestselling French feminist author Virginie Despentes. In the words of Hélène Cixous (see Chapter 10), ‘La note musicale et rieuse résonne toujours’ (the musical and laughing note still resonates) (Cixous, 2010, 27). But the new waves of feminism have also modified and amplified feminist analysis and modes of contestation. The feminism of the 1970s did not, as the caricatural version would have it, reduce women’s diversity to the singular ‘woman’, presumed white, educated and middle class. Social class, ethnic origin and sexual orientation were always there in both activism and theory. Subsequent waves, however, have developed more detailed awareness of the multiple and intersecting dimensions of identity and of oppression (as Lyn Thomas’s chapter in particular explores), and this is evident both in campaigning (see Schaal, Chapter

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14), and in cultural production. Intersectionality has become a more imperative and central dimension of feminism, and the development of queer theory has also deepened and enriched analysis of the relationship between sex and gender. The waves roll on, ebb and flow, eroding and constructing anew. Their work of reshaping the social landscape matters intensely to women’s lives. This volume has traced the potency of second wave feminism, its multiple currents and transformative impact, tangibly felt even as the twenty-first century demands new analyses and new strategies. Making waves means making trouble, rocking the boat, upsetting the established order – maintaining, in other words, the headstrong non-compliant stance of the ‘femmes qui s’entêtent’ of 1975 who inspired our 40-year-on conference and the collective project of our book.

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Notes on Contributors Notes on Contributors

Maggie Allison is Honorary Senior Research Fellow at the University of Bradford. Addressing issues such as workplace sexual harassment and the role of women in politics and journalism, her research and publications focus on gender and media representation in France, ranging from the political journalism of Hubertine Auclert (1848–1914) to Ségolène Royal’s presidential campaign of 2007. Having worked on pioneer women journalists such as Christine Ockrent, she is now addressing current gender (im)balance in French media, highlighting successful women broadcasters such as Caroline Roux. Her co-edited volumes include several resulting from Women in French Conferences. Grace An is Associate Professor of Cinema Studies and French at Oberlin College, where she has recently finished a term as Director of the Cinema Studies programme. She has published on directors Olivier Assayas, Alain Resnais, Chris Marker and Jean-Luc Godard. Her teaching and research interests include 1968, the documentary and essay film, militant cinema, the history of the film actor and French feminisms. Her book in progress is titled Disobedient Muse: Delphine Seyrig, Feminism, and The Cinema. Margaret Atack is Professor of French at the University of Leeds. Author of Literature and the French Resistance (1989) and May 68 in French Literature and Film (1999), she has written widely on the literature and culture of France in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, including most recently Framing Narratives of the Second World War in France (2012 edited with Christopher Lloyd) and French Feminisms 1975 and After (2018 edited with Alison Fell, Diana Holmes and Imogen Long). She is currently working on a book on Jean-François Vilar, Theatres of Crime.

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Tamara Chaplin is Associate Professor of Modern European History at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Her first book was Turning On the Mind: French Philosophers on Television (University of Chicago Press, 2007). With support from the National Endowment for the Humanities and Camargo Foundation, she is now completing a manuscript on lesbian life in France, 1930–2013. Her publications include articles in French Historical Studies, the Journal of the History of Ideas and the Journal of the History of Sexuality. Her co-edited volume (with Jadwiga E. Pieper-Mooney), The Global Sixties: Convention, Contest, and Counterculture, appeared with Routledge in 2017. Alison S. Fell is Professor of French Cultural History and Director of the Leeds Arts and Humanities Research Institute at the University of Leeds. She is also one of the Co-Investigators of the AHRC Gateways to the First World War Public Engagement Centre, based at the University of Kent. She has published on the history of French feminism and on French and British women’s responses to the First World War. Her most recent book, Women as Veterans in Britain and France after the First World War, was published by Cambridge University Press in 2018. Mairéad Hanrahan is Professor of French at UCL. She has published extensively on twentieth-century and contemporary French literature, with a particular focus on issues of gender and sexuality, and on the relationship between art and politics. Her most recent book is Cixous’s Semi-Fictions: Thinking at the Borders of Fiction (Edinburgh University Press, 2014). She is currently preparing a book for the French Legenda series entitled Genet’s Genres of Politics. Diana Holmes is Professor of French at the University of Leeds. She has published widely on French women’s writing and reading from the late nineteenth century to the present, ranging across the hierarchy of culture from ‘high’ to ‘low’ brow. Her latest book, Middlebrow Matters: Women’s Reading and the Literary Canon in France since the Belle Époque, was published in 2018 with Liverpool University Press. She also co-edits the major film series French Film Directors (Manchester University Press, 50 volumes so far). Imogen Long is Lecturer in French at the University of Hull and is the author of Petitions and Polemics: Women Intellectuals in Post-68 France (Palgrave Macmillan, 2013). She has published widely on writing by French feminists from the second wave women’s movement and on the fiction and life-writing of Benoîte Groult in particular.

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Fanny Mazzone is Lecturer in Information and Communication Sciences at the University of Toulouse Jean-Jaurès (France). She was awarded a PhD in French language and literature from the University of Metz Paul-Verlaine in 2007, with a thesis on feminist publishing (1968–2001). Her works concern the socio-economic dimension of book history, particularly in its relation to feminist activism, from the 1960s to the twenty-first century. Siân Reynolds is Emerita Professor of French at the University of Stirling. Her doctorate (1981, Paris-VII) was supervised by Michelle Perrot, and since then she has published widely on women’s and gender history in France. Her latest book is Marriage and Revolution: Monsieur and Madame Roland (Oxford University Press 2012, R. H. Gapper Prize 2013), and she is a contributor to Christine Bard (ed.) Les Féministes de la première vague (PUR 2015). As a translator, she is currently editor of the English-language online edition of the journal Clio: Femmes, Genre, Histoire. Michèle A. Schaal is Associate Professor of French and Women’s and Gender Studies at Iowa State University. A specialist of twentyfirst-century French and Francophone women writers, as well as contemporary French and American feminisms, she has published articles on authors Isabelle Flükiger, Marie Hélène Poitras, Claire Legendre, Marie Darrieussecq, and Virginie Despentes. Dr. Schaal is the author of Une Troisième vague féministe et littéraire (Brill, 2017) and the co-editor, with Dr. Arline Cravens, of the first scholarly volume dedicated to Virginie Despentes (Rocky Mountain Review, 72.1, 2018). Her current research focuses on contemporary French feminist manifestos and essays. Lyn Thomas is a writer and Professor Emerita of Cultural Studies at London Metropolitan and Sussex University, where she continues to work with the Centre for Life History and Life Writing Research, most notably as Editor of Life Writing Projects: http://reframe.sussex. ac.uk/lifewritingprojects/. She has published widely on Annie Ernaux, including two books: Annie Ernaux, an introduction to the writer and her audience (Berg 1999) and Annie Ernaux, à la première personne (Stock 2005). She has also published on fan cultures, The Archers, ‘suspect communities’ in Britain, and religion and media. Her creative writing includes a memoir, Clothes Pegs: A Woman’s Life in 30 Outfits at http://www.clothespegs.net/.

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Jan Windebank is Professor of French and European Societies in the School of Languages and Cultures at the University of Sheffield. Her research focuses on gender and domestic and care work, on the one hand, and undeclared work and social exclusion on the other in the context of France, Franco-British cross-national comparisons and more widely across Europe and the advanced economies. Her major publications include The Informal Economy in France (Avebury 1988); Women and work in France and Britain: practice, theory and policy (with Abigail Gregory, Palgrave Macmillan 2000) and Informal Employment in the Advanced Economies: implications for work and welfare (with Colin C. Williams, Routledge 1998). Bronwyn Winter is Deputy Director of the European Studies Program at the University of Sydney. Her research addresses a range of global theoretical and political issues that lie at the intersections of gender, sexuality, ethnicity, religion, globalisation, militarisation and the state. Publications include Hijab and the Republic: Uncovering the French Headscarf Debate (Syracuse University Press 2008), Women, Insecurity and Violence in a Post-9/11 World (Syracuse University Press 2017) and Global Perspectives on Same-Sex Marriage: A Neo-Institutional Approach (lead editor, Palgrave 2018). Most recently, she has contributed a chapter to the anthology, Eurovision and Australia: Interdisciplinary Perspectives from Down Under (Hay and Carniel eds, Palgrave), and is lead editor of the forthcoming anthology Reform, Revolution and Crisis in Europe: Landmarks in History, Memory and Thought (Routledge, in press). She is currently preparing a monograph on the political economy of same-sex marriage (under contract with Routledge).

Index Index

Abensour, Miguel 119 abortion 27, 30–1, 37–8, 44, 49, 53, 105, 107, 147, 186–7, 189, 217–19, 232 see also ‘Manifeste des 343 salopes’; Mouvement pour la Liberté de l’Avortement et de la Contraception (MLAC); Simone Veil and Annie Ernaux 201–2 legalisation of 11, 36, 38, 44 in the Vichy period 133 Académie Française 92–3 feminisation of job titles 186 inclusive language controversy 40–1n14 Actes Sud 89, 96 Adler, Laure Les Femmes qui lisent sont dangereuses 101 age 23, 30–1, 34, 44, 47n19, 49, 66, 74, 81, 85, 151, 184, 202, 223 Agutter, Jenny 64 Akerman, Chantal 5, 36, 52 Jeanne Dielmann, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles 39, 42, 69 Akim 194–5 Albania 143, 145 sworn virgins 149 Albarracín, Pilar 154

Algeria 24, 143, 151, 187n8, 191, 212–13 Algiers 143 population 212 question 213 War 14, 24, 26, 30, 44, 206, 212–13 Allison, Maggie 12, 101–14, 231 Allocation parentale d’éducation (APE) 77 Almutawakel, Boushra 148 Alonso, Isabelle Pourquoi je suis chienne de garde 217 Althusser, Louis 85 Amara, Fadela 217 see also Ni putes ni soumises Amiens 125 An, Grace 11, 51–70 Andreas Salomé, Lou 94 Anger 5, 7, 34, 39, 47, 50, 120–4, 180–1, 213, 230–1 Angers 114, 119, 131 Anglophone (context) 91, 203, 205–6, 221 Angoulême bande dessinée festival 188–9, 198, 216 Apostrophes 11, 48, 59–61 Arab 206, 208, 212 ‘Arab Spring’ 147 Arc, L’ 90, 158 Archives du féminisme, Angers 114n15, 131 Artémisa prize 188–9 Asia 146, 162

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Assemblée Nationale 104n3, 105 Association contre les violences faites aux femmes au travail (AVFT) 105, 113 Association des femmes journalistes (AFJ) 105, 111 Atack, Margaret 1–15, 229–34 Au Bazar du Genre: Féminin/Masculin en Méditerranée exhibition 141–54 Auchan 208, 210 Auclair, Hubertine 187 Audé, Françoise 54 audio books 96–7 exhibit 147–8, 151 Audoux, Marguerite 92n2 Audry, Colette 25, 30 Auffret, Sévérine 177 Autain, Clémentine 216, 225 Ne me libère pas, je m’en charge 225 authorship 57, 59, 177 Autrement dites collection 89 Bachelot, Roselyne 82 Badinter, Elisabeth 204, 232 Baetens, Jan 192 Bagdam Espace Lesbien 117, 123–7 Baker, Josephine 183n1, 190, 198 Bakhtin, Mikhail carnavalesque 154 #BalanceTonPorc 7–10, 232 see also #MeToo bande dessinée 12, 14, 184–5, 188–200, 216 see also graphic novel banlieue 61, 102, 211, 215n2 Bantegnie, Gaëlle 217 14 femmes pour un féminisme pragmatique 217–20, 222–4, 226 Barbe, La 8, 10, 217, 220, 222, 224–6, 233 La Barbe! Cinq ans d’activisme féministe 217 Barcelona Process 143

Bard, Christine 2, 10, 23, 114n15, 131, 187n7, 224 Les Féministes de la première vague 2 Les Féministes de la deuxième vague 2 Les Insoumises 224 ‘Le succès médiatique d’Ainsi soit-elle’ 186 Barney, Natalie 123 Bas, Marie-Noëlle 106–7 Bataille, Christophe 200n14 Bataille, Georges 41–2, 175 Bates, Laura 190 Beaumont, Germaine 174 Beauvoir, Simone de 3, 5, 7, 13, 19, 21, 26–8, 30, 34–5, 41–2, 48, 60, 105, 134, 137–8, 158n2, 171, 186, 190, 195n13, 206, 222, 227, 232 1970s campaigns 27–8 attack by Françoise Giroud 45 ‘Les belles histoires de Ghena Goudou’ 117–18 campaigns for abortion and contraception 27 Centre audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir 51, 54 Le Deuxième Sexe/The Second Sex 20–1, 24, 26–7, 50, 138, 172, 176, 222 Françoise Picq’s reading 27 reception of 26 ‘everyday sexism’ column in Les Temps modernes 41 Les Femmes s’entêtent 27, 28n13, 36, 40, 73, 102, 115, 117, 200, 223 the MLF 27 opposition to 19–20 Passerelle Simone de Beauvoir 13, 132, 137–8 rejection of motherhood 27 rift with Annie Leclerc 171–3, 175 role model 27 Sartre 27

Index Bécassine 194–5 Bechdel, Alison Dykes to Watch Out For 147 Beckett, Samuel 175 Beirut 147 Belgium 122 ‘Belles histoires de Ghena Goudou, Les’ 40, 115–20, 124 Bengell, Norman 67 Benhamed Daho, Yamina 217 Berthelot, Marcellin 136 Berthelot, Sophie 136 Berto, Juliette 66 Bertolucci, Bernardo 65 Bessin, Marc 220 Bessis, Sophie 148 Best, Francine 212 Bettignies, Louise de 130 Bibliothèque Marguerite Durand 114n15 Bibliothèque des Voix 96–7, 110 Bienne, Gisèle 98 biography 171, 191, 194, 200 biology 157, 172, 182, 221–2 birth 75, 166, 172–3, 178, 230 control see contraception pro-natalist policies 34, 133 rate 37–8 Blake, William 160 Bloom, Harold 177 Bobigny 105, 187 Bocquet, Jose-Louis 183n1, 184, 191 body, bodies 5, 9, 23, 37–41, 44, 67, 91, 94, 103, 107–8, 116, 158–9, 164n3, 166, 174, 178–9, 181, 203, 205–6, 213, 220 lesbian 115–16 mind/body dualism 179 objectification of women’s 230 women’s control of their own 5, 11, 36, 38, 103, 105–8, 229, 232 Boétie La, Etienne de 174 Bois, Hélène du 64 Boissonnas, Sylvina 110 Bon de Beauvoir, Sylvie Le 138

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book fair 94–5 bookshop 5–6, 12, 28, 36, 108–11, 113, 231 Bosnia and Herzegovina 143, 145 Boucheron, Brigitte 123 Bouilhac, Clare 183n1 Bourdieu, Pierre 12, 85, 87, 89 Brando, Marlon 65 Brazil 94 political prisoners 53 President 67 Bretécher, Claire Agrippine 194 Les Frustrés 188 Buenos Aires 57 Bulletin d’information des liaisons et d’échanges du réseau féministe 108–9 Buñuel, Luis Charme discret de la bourgeoisie, La 51n1 Burnstyn, Ellen 64, 65n10 Butler, Judith 14, 154, 222 café 6, 36, 109, 113, 117, 123–7, 231 Cahen, Monique 89 Canova, Nicole 94 capitalism 73, 174, 232 see also class Carabosse 110–11 Cardinal, Marie 5, 230 Les Mots pour le dire 36, 38, 42, 90, 197 Casanova, Pascale 93 Castelbon, Philippe 151 Catel 13, 14, 171, 183–200 Ainsi soit Benoîte Groult 183–6, 189–200 Catholicism/Catholic Church 22, 26, 34, 45, 57, 192 countries 147 relationship with women’s movement 24 women’s associations 23 Causette 184 censorship 10, 37

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Centre audiovisuel Simone de Beauvoir 51, 54 Centre for Feminist Studies 89 Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS) 28 Cergy-Pontoise 206, 211–12 Cerisaie, La 89 Certeau, Michel de 96 Chaperon, Sylvie 3, 21, 23–4, 31 Les Années Beauvoir 3 Chaplin, Tamara 12, 115–28, 233 Charlie Hebdo 180 Chawaf, Chantal Retable 98 Chetcuti, Natacha 154 Chevallier, Denis 13, 141, 150, 152 Chiennes de garde, Les 105–7 children 29, 36, 37n7, 104, 111, 136, 163, 176n7, 181, 191 bearing of 36, 38, 75, 103, 119, 172–3 see also birth books 89, 95–7, 183n1 care of 73–82, 112, 133, 172, 176, 178 childhood 136, 179, 212, 221n17 China 109, 146 radical feminists 139 Chirac, Jacques 43, 47, 49 Choisir 47, 187, 201 Chombart de Lauwe, Marie-José 28 Chroniques aiguës et graves, publication bimensuelle de Diabol’amantes 122 cinema see film Cioran, Emil 175 circumcision 38 Civil code, the 22 Cixous, Hélène 5, 13, 38, 40, 42, 89, 91, 97, 157–71, 223, 230, 232–3 Angst 97 Centre for Feminist Studies 89 Dedans 90 ‘Un effet d’épine rose’/‘A Pink-thorn effect’ 158–9 Féminin Futur collection 89–90

La Jeune Née/The Newly Born Woman 90, 158, 167n4 Le Rire de la Méduse/The Laugh of the Medusa 5, 36, 90, 157–71, 223, 232 Le Rire de la Méduse et autres ironies/The Laugh of the Medusa and Other Ironies 158, 166 ‘Sorties’ 158–61 Souffles 161 Clark, Pascale 210 class 35, 47, 121, 132, 182, 202–4, 207, 211, 214, 223–4, 233 Clayburgh, Jill 66 Clément, Catherine 5, 89, 158n2 La Jeune Née/The Newly Born Woman 90 Clermont-Dion, Léa 8, 10 Clio 131 Code Pénal 105n4 Code du Travail 105n4 Cohen, Pierre 126 Cold War 24 Colette, Sidonie-Gabrielle L’Étoile vesper 174n6 Le Fanal bleu 174n6 Collectif 8 mars pour tout.e.s 215 Collectif de 100 Femmes 8–9 see also #BalanceTonPorc; Catherine Deneuve; #MeToo Collectif des créatrices de bande dessinée contre le sexisme 216 see also bande dessinée colonialism 213 decolonisation 212 histories 208, 211 legacies 14 nations 93 postcolonial 17, 212 stereotypes 205 subject 35, 208 wars 14, 24, 26, 30, 44, 206, 212–13 Colosimo, Anastasia 8–9

Index Communism see Parti Communiste Français Complément de libre choix d’activité (CLCA) 77, 81–2 Confédération Général du Travail (CGT) 47 Congrès international du mouvement de la libération des femmes, Frankfurt 68 Conseil National des Femmes Françaises (CNFF) 23 Constitution, French 21 contraception 25, 27, 31, 34, 37, 44, 107, 147, 172, 186, 218 see also abortion; Simone Veil International Women’s Year focus on 45 legalisation of 105, 134 Maternité heureuse 25 Mouvement Français pour le Planning Familial (MFPF) 25, 30, 107, 113 Mouvement pour la Liberté de l’Avortement et de la Contraception (MLAC) 42, 47, 108, 187, 201 Neuwirth Law 25, 187n6 PCF attitude towards 26 Coordination lesbienne nationale 89 Coppock, Vicki 2 Corsica 144 Cotta, Michèle 48 Création étouffée, La 90 creativity 5, 15, 38, 86, 91, 110, 125, 165, 170, 177, 231 Cresson, Edith 50 culture 2, 5, 8, 10, 37, 40, 46, 50, 86, 123, 130, 136, 151–2, 172–3, 176, 181–2, 190, 202, 206, 218 androcentric 40 capital of 141, 144 consumer 34 dominant 213 European 211 female biker 148

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feminist 36, 50 high 94 masculine 176–7 material 142, 150 memory 131, 139 meridional 144 migrant women’s 205 minister of 49, 86, 143 museum 150 patriarchal 11, 43, 233 phallocentric 36 popular 37, 146 ‘traditional’ 142 Western 204 youth 34 Curie, Marie 13 transferral to the Pantheon 132, 135–6, 139 ‘daddy quota’ 75, 79 Dalla parte delle Bambine 95–6 D’Arbanville, Pat 64–5 deconstruction 162 De Gaulle, Charles 45n18, 76 Delanoë, Bertrand 137 Delap, Lucy 101 Delessert, Thierry 2 Delphy, Christine 5, 73, 120n8, 173–4, 182, 203–6, 213 L’Ennemi principal 204 ‘Pour un féminisme matérialiste’ 5 ‘Proto-féminisme et anti-féminisme’ 173, 176n7 Un Troussage de domestique 216 Demy, Jacques Peau d’âne 51n1 Deneuve, Catherine 8 see also #BalanceTonPorc; #MeToo Denis, Marie 187 Denmark 74 Deraismes, Maria 13, 132, 134–5 Derrida, Jacques 169n5 Glas 161 desire 5, 7–9, 37, 116, 164, 179, 208, 230

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Despentes, Virginie 233 King Kong théorie 217 deuxième page 230 Di Gregorio, Rose 65 Diab, Mohamed The Women of Bus 678 149 Diallo, Nafissatou 216 Dictionnaire universel des créatrices 110 Dietmar Feichtinger 137 difference 38, 45, 74, 91, 93, 96, 104, 142, 151, 162, 167, 169, 174, 190n10, 193, 203, 209, 222 see also ‘difference’ feminism between sex and gender 222 bodily 171, 178, 181 see also biology feminine 206 gender 203–4 racial/ethnic 203, 209, 213 see also race sexual 11, 36, 45, 89, 157–8, 171–2, 174, 182, 203–6 divorce 45, 47n19 Dorlin, Elsa 220 Double Interligne 89 Drevet, Danielle 73 Du côté des (petites) filles 95 Dubesset, Mathilde 24 Dublin 57 Dubois, Marie 67 Duby, Georges 136 Duchen, Claire 3, 21, 24, 43, 50 Women’s Rights and Women’s Lives in France 1944–1968 21–2 Duguet, Anne Marie 55, 62 Video: la Mémoire au poing 55 Durand, Marguerite 131 see also Bibliothèque Marguerite Durand Duras, Marguerite 30, 36, 52, 92n2, 179 La Création étouffée 90 India Song 43, 52, 57 Les Parleuses 90 Durastanti, Sylvie 94

Eaubonne, Françoise d’ 30 Ecole des Loisirs 89 écriture féminine 90–1, 159–60 Éditions Epel 89 Éditions des femmes 87–8, 90–2, 94–6, 98, 103, 110 Éditions de Minuit 86, 90 Éditions du Seuil 89 Éditions Tierce 87–9 education 106, 131, 135, 230 contribution to second wave feminism 30 feminisation of the syllabus 93, 132, 197 of girls and women 23–4, 138 teaching of gender history and theory 131, 150, 221 Egypt 143, 147–9 Elle 44, 50 Encore féministes! 106 equality 3, 74–5, 79–80, 107, 112, 130, 137, 220–1, 225–7, 229–30, 232–3 see also inequality; parity ‘equality’ feminist 184 ‘Equality now!’ 217 legal 220, 225 linguistic 44 pay 29, 119, 219, 230 Women’s Strike for Equality, US 129 Ernaux, Annie 201–14, 230, 233 Les Années 211, 213 Les Armoires vides 201 L’Evénement 201 Une Femme 201 La Femme gelée 201 La Honte 201, 210 Je ne suis pas sortie de ma nuit 201 Journal du dehors 207–8 Mémoire de fille 201, 213 L’Occupation 201 Passion simple 201, 213–14 La Place 207–8

Index Regarde les lumières mon amour 208–11 Se perdre 201 La Vie extérieure 207 Espace des femmes 108–10 Espaces 122 essentialism 131, 206, 218, 221n17 Euro-Mediterranean partnership 143 Euroméditerranée 142–3 Europe 95, 143–4, 150 European Capital of Culture (ECOC) 144–5 European Union 78–9, 81, 143–4 exhibitions 6, 13 ‘Au Bazar du Genre’ 13, 141–54, 231 Express, L’ demonstrations against 40 Françoise Giroud editorship 44 Madame Express 44–5 publication of Histoire d’O 48 Eyquem, Marie-Thérèse 25 F-Magazine 92, 184 family 12, 25, 28, 30–1, 37, 46, 57, 67–8, 105, 130, 148–9, 194, 198, 216, 221n17 law 23, 2 planning 25–6, 106–7, 109, 147 see also abortion; contraception pro-family groups 80, 106 secretary of state for 81 values 24 women’s role 73–83 Fargier, Jean-Paul 55 Fassin, Eric 151 Faure-Fraisse, Anne Marie 56 Fée des lilas, la 51 Feldman, Jacqueline 29 Fell, Alison S. 1–15, 129–40, 229–34 Femen 106, 108, 110, 113, 193 Féminin Masculin Avenir (FMA) 29, 31, 35

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feminism (French) 1–6, 8, 12, 22, 24, 26–7, 31, 41, 52–3, 56–7, 69, 87–8, 90–1, 93–5, 98–9, 105–6, 109, 117–18, 121, 131–2, 134, 138–40, 147, 150, 152, 157, 158n1, 163, 165, 171–2, 175, 181–2, 184, 187–8, 190–1, 200–6, 213, 218, 220–1, 223–5, 229–30, 232–4 1960s 9–10, 30–1 1970s 4–7, 9, 13, 50–1, 147, 162, 171, 202, 231, 232n2 1980s 206 anti-feminism 10, 134, 173–4, 182 ‘difference’ feminism 3, 13, 93–4, 172, 182 differentialist 91, 223 ‘equality’ feminism 3, 93 ‘féminisme de maman’ 31 first wave 2, 21–2, 91 histories of 2–3, 6, 21, 49–50, 56, 131, 135, 137, 139, 142, 162, 183, 187 lesbian 90, 120–2 marketing of 109 materialist 5, 73, 75, 83, 91, 173, 203–4, 206, 223 radical 11, 33, 120–22, 184, 192, 200, 226, 233 second wave 2–3, 6, 10, 14, 20, 22, 30, 33, 73, 85, 90–1, 93, 95, 103, 129, 132, 134, 140–2, 147, 150, 152, 171, 182, 190, 202, 217–18, 223, 230–1, 233–4 state-endorsed 11, 33, 43, 75, 83, 230, 233 third wave 2, 6, 10, 14, 172, 215–16, 220, 223–7 see also intersectionality Western 204–5 Féministes en mouvement 215, 221, 224–7 Femmes en lutte 93, 102 Femmes en mouvement 90, 92

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Femmes en mouvement hebdo 95, 104, 110 Femmes Interdites de Bande Dessinée 216 see also bande dessinée Femmes s’entêtent, Les 5, 7, 14, 19, 27, 28n13, 31, 33, 36–7, 39, 42–3, 47, 73, 102, 113–15, 117, 174, 176, 186–8, 200, 216–18, 223, 225–6, 230, 232–3 femmes tondues 24n8 Féraud, Marc 60 Fernandez Ferrer, Nicole 54 Ferrand, Louis 60 Ferré, Léo 67 film 5, 6, 7, 11, 13, 34, 36, 42–3, 146, 149, 151, 231 see also individual directors’ names auteur cinema 51–4, 55n6 Cinéma Militant 55 Cinéthique 55 French New Wave 51, 55n6, 66 Left Bank filmmakers 51 Musidora of the MLF 36, 42 pornographic 37 Finland 74 First World War 3, 22, 30, 130, 133, 139 Fishman, Sarah 20 Flamant, Françoise 117 Women’s Lands 126 Florian, Catherine 111 Fonda, Jane 64–5 Forest, Eva 94 Forrester, Viviane 94 Fort, Pierre-Louis 206, 211 Fouque, Antoinette 91, 94–5, 97 Editions des femmes 88, 110 ‘Manifeste des 343 salopes’ 31 Fourmi ailée, La 108–9, 111 Fourth Republic 23 Francesconi, Sylviane 124 Frankenberg, Ruth Displacing Whiteness 202 Frappat, Bernard 48

freedom 9, 27, 34, 65, 79, 103, 138, 172, 176, 191, 193, 232 of expression 9–10, 56 sexual 10, 204, 231 Frei, Sami 57 Freud, Sigmund 41, 47 Frey, Hugo 192 Friedan, Betty 45 The Feminine Mystique 29 friendship 14, 43, 67, 166, 171, 174, 181, 183, 197–8 Froissart, Janine 46 Front des lesbiennes radicales (FLR)/ Lesbian Radical Front 117, 120–2 Front libertaire 48 ‘gaiety’ 116–17, 123, 127–8 Gallimard 115, 214 Garcia, Irma Promenade femmilière 97 Gaulle-Anthonioz, Geneviève de 137 Gauthier, Xavière 90, 92 Rose Saignée 97 Geisel, General Ernesto 67–8 gender 12–13, 22, 34, 89, 92–3, 99, 102, 109, 121, 130–2, 141–2, 146, 148–50, 152, 154, 157–8, 164, 171, 190, 202–4, 206–7, 209, 211, 213–14, 215n3n4, 217–18, 220–5, 227, 230–4 see also difference; essentialism; intersectionality discrimination 215, 219, 220n13, 222–3, 229 see also discrimination at work ‘gender-blind’ approach 137 history 131, 137, 139, 221, 225 identity 91, 154, 215, 222 language 40, 41n14, 93, 118–19 pay gap 80, 230 performance 182, 222 see also Judith Butler

Index politics 45, 53, 140, 222–3, 226 roles 34, 74–6, 78, 134, 222 space 102, 113 state initiatives 45, 47, 221 subversion 119, 124, 147, 149, 151, 154, 222 theory 150, 157–8, 207, 221 writing 91, 93, 158 generation 3, 23, 26, 86, 133, 135, 175, 205, 213, 219 1940s–1950s 3 1960s 9 1968 10, 20, 27, 29–32 difference 8–9, 15, 107 inter-generational relationships 14, 183–4, 189–90, 197–8, 200, 227 see also friendship ‘millennials’ 10 post-1968 105 Germain, Isabelle 111–12 Germain, Sylvie 110 Germany 75, 79, 112 Gianini, Elena 95 Gibraltar 145 Gilbert, Sandra 177 Giroud, Françoise 5, 11, 36, 40, 42–50, 59–61, 230 Giscard d’Estaing, Valéry 11, 36–7, 43–4, 46, 49, 76, 105, 231 globalisation 85–6, 93 Godard, Jean-Luc 54 Godon, Caroline 123–5 Gonnard, Catherine 122 Gouges, Olympe de 136–9, 183n1, 187, 189, 191, 197–8 Gouines Rouges 115 graphic novel 13, 183, 191–2 see also bande dessinée Grasset 200 Greece 147 Greer, Germaine 29 Grenoble 47 Grésy, Brigitte 82 Grever, Maria 131

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Groult, Benoîte 5, 13–14, 46, 171, 183–200, 230, 232–3 see also Catel Ainsi soit-elle 36, 38, 41 campaign for linguistic equality 44 F-Magazine 92 Le Féminin pluriel 186 Il était deux fois 186 Journal à quatre mains 186 Mon évasion 186, 194 mother figure to the MLF 41 La Touche étoile 186 Groult, Flora Le Féminin pluriel 186 Il était deux fois 186 Journal à quatre mains 186 Groupe de Jussieu 121 Gubar, Susan 177 Guélaud-Léridon, Françoise 28 Guilly, Christophe La France périphérique 102 Guimard, Paul 194 Güres, Nilbar 148 Gutman, Claude 97 Gutman, Evelyne 97 Guy, Christian 60 Guzner, Susana 110 Hajjaj, Hassan 148 Halberstam, J. Jack Gaga Feminism 225 Halimi, Gisèle 30, 39, 47–8, 105, 187 Hancock, Claire 102 Hanrahan, Mairéad 13, 157–70 Haut Conseil de la Femme 81–2 Haydon, Deena 1 headscarf/veil 148, 204–5, 209–11 Affaire du Foulard 148 Heathcote, Sally 190 Hébert, Anne 92n2 Hegel, Friedrich 161 Hewitt, Nancy 3 Hikok McCormick, Jean 69 Histoire d’elles 92

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Histoire d’O 40 Hollande, François 82, 106, 221n17 Holmes, Diana 1–15, 33–50, 171–82, 229–34 Holocaust 121, 139 Horay, Pierre 90 Houellebecq, Michel 175, 195 Humanité, L’ 201 humour 11–12, 35, 50, 62, 64, 114, 116–20, 123–30, 175, 180–2, 184, 188, 233 Hunt, Karen 139 Husson, Anne-Charlotte Le féminisme 189 Huston, Nancy 13, 171–82 Passions d’Annie Leclerc 171–82 Professeurs de désespoir 175, 177, 180 Reflets dans un œil d’homme 171, 182 Hyvrard, Jeanne 98

Jagose, Annamarie 115–16 Japan 94 Jarno, S. 190 Jefferson, Thomas 69 Jeunes Femmes 24, 25n9 Jews 136 Johnson, Virginia Human Sexual Response 29 Jonsson, Terese 203 Jordan 143, 152 Jospin, Lionel 143 jouissance 169, 172 Journal des femmes 81 journalism 5, 12, 111–12, 117, 129, 189, 194, 211 see also media; Les Nouvelles News Association des femmes journalistes (AFJ) 105, 111 Julian, Marcel 60 Julien, Jacqueline 123–5 Jurt, Joseph 97

Idels, Michèle 103, 110 Iglesias, Julio 230 immigrant 144, 209, 212 Indochina 24 inequality 35, 50, 78, 149, 182, 221, 232 INSEE 219 Insoumuses, Les 5, 11, 43, 51–70 see also Maso et Miso vont en bateau International Women’s Day 106, 112–13, 135–6, 139 International Women’s Year 11, 33, 46 intersectionality 5–6, 14, 102, 202–15, 223–4, 227, 234 Irigaray, Luce 89, 91–2 Speculum de l’autre femme 90 Islam 205, 232 fundamentalism 148, 232 Islamophobia 14, 210–11 Muslim women 204–5, 209, 214 Israel 143, 145, 151

Kahn, Jean-François 216n6 Kamuf, Peggy 164–5 Kandel, Liliane 130 Karman, Harvey 53 Kata Tjinta Media 89 Keller, Frank 106 Kergoat, Danièle ‘consubstantialité’ 223 Kihm, Christophe 105 Klein, William 52 Mister Freedom 52n2 Qui êtes-vous, Polly Magoo? 52n2 Koran, the 211 Korea 162–3 Kosciusko-Morizet, Nathalie 104n3 Kristeva, Julia 91–2, 164 Des Chinoises 91 Polylogue 91 Kundera, Milan 175 Laboratoire d’égalité 80 Lacan, Jacques 85, 89

Index Lang, Jack 86, 144 language 1, 5, 6, 36, 42, 44, 93, 102, 189, 218, 226, 231 see also écriture féminine; writing experimentation 5, 40–2, 91 inclusivity 40–1 innovation 42, 118, 161, 164 playfulness 60, 124 subversion 88–9, 91 Last Tango in Paris 65–6 Latin America 162–3 laughter 157, 166, 175, 180–2 Laurencin, Marie 194 LeBrun, Albert 133 Le Mans 122 Le Pen, Marine 193 Lebanon 143 Leclerc, Annie 13, 102, 171–82, 231, 233 Parole de femme 37, 41, 90, 171–2, 176–7, 180, 182, 206 Leduc, Violette 30 Leiris, Michel 42 Lemoine, Christine 111 Lemsine, Aicha 97 Lépinard, Eléonore 203–5 Lépine, Marc 106 Lesbia 122 lesbian 107, 154 see also sexuality; LGBT; LGBTIQA+ activism 12, 115–27 Archives recherches culturelles lesbiennes (ARCL) 122 body 115–16 bookshop 111, 113 Coordination lesbienne nationale 89 culture 12, 111, 147 Front des lesbiennes radicales (FLR)/Lesbian Radical Front 117, 120–2 Lesbia 122 lesbophobia 218 love 40 movement 89, 115

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perspective 89 publications 92 publishing house 89, 125 studies 99 utopias 115–20 Leventhal, Con 175 Levitas, Ruth 127 LGBT 89–90, 116n2, 146, 190 LGBTIQA+ 216 Liberation, the 23 Libération 8, 46 Librairie des femmes/Espace des femmes 108–10 libraries 6, 96–7, 110, 114n15, 207 Libre à Elles collection 89 Libya 143 lieux de mémoire see sites of national memory Ligue du Droit des femmes (LDF) 35, 39, 42, 48 Ligue Française des Droits des Femmes (LFDF) 23 Lindon, Jerôme 86 Lispector, Clarice 94 literature 86, 91–7, 167–9, 180, 182, 187n6, 192, 195, 197, 211–12, 230, 232 Long, Imogen 1–15, 33–50, 183–200, 229–34 Longitude femme, latitude lesbienne 123–5 Loren, Sophia 149 love 34n2, 38, 40, 64–5, 67, 73, 119–20, 140, 146, 149, 154, 193 Love, Heather 127 Lutte ouvrière 43 Lyon 39, 46, 143 MacLaine, Shirley 64 Macron, Emmanuel 104n3, 139, 221, 229–30, 233 Maghreb 144–6, 151–2, 205, 215n2 Mais qu’est-ce qu’elles veulent encore! 215, 221, 226 Maison des femmes 108–9

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Malle, Mirion Commando Culotte 190 Malraux, Clara 25 Malt, Carol 152 Mangolte, Babette 69 Manif pour Tous 106 Manifeste des 313 216 ‘Manifeste des 343 salopes’ 27, 30–1, 53, 119, 201–2, 217, 219 manifesto 14, 115–20, 123–5, 150, 169, 208, 216–27 Marand-Fouquet, Catherine 136 Marchais, Georges 49 ‘Mariage pour tous’ 151 Marianne 230 Marie Claire 50 marriage 44, 65, 106, 125, 147, 149, 151, 186, 201 Marseilles 13, 39, 125, 141–5, 150, 152, 231 Martin, Jacques 60 Marx, Karl 225 Marxism analysis of feminism 119 Marxist feminists 73 relationship with women’s movement 24 Maso et Miso vont en bateau 11, 48, 52, 56, 59 Masters, William 29 Mastroianni, Marcello 149 maternity 37–8, 46, 132, 147, 218, 222, 231 see also motherhood leave 74, 78–9, 82 Maternité heureuse 25 Mathieu, Thomas Crocodiles 190 Le féminisme 189 Mauritania 143 May 1968 4, 6, 10, 20, 25, 27, 29, 31, 34–5, 49, 53, 54, 102–5, 107 Mazzone, Fanny 12, 85–99, 231 McClintock, Barbara 131 McGrath, Maria 101

media 34, 36, 42n17, 91, 106–7, 111, 190, 216, 218, 230–1 see also journalism; Les Nouvelles News Mediterranean 141–2, 145–6, 151 memorialization 130, 133, 151 of French women 130, 132–3, 138–9 of the French women’s movement 12–13, 56, 69, 132, 138–40, 152 see also sites of national memory men 4, 6–7, 9–10, 12, 172, 174–5, 178–80, 186, 188, 190–1, 205, 213, 219, 220n13, 221–2, 224, 229–30 domestic role 74–6, 78–9, 82–3 feminist views on relations with 36, 39 left-wing activism 35 powerlessness 24n8 Mendès France, Pierre 43, 45 menstruation 37–8, 172–3 Mercouri, Merlina 144 #MeToo 7–10, 14, 39n9, 232 see also #BalanceTonPorc; sexual harassment; Harvey Weinstein Meute, La 106 Michel, Andrée Condition de la Française aujourd’hui 28 Michel, Louise 135 Middle East 152 Milan 91, 95 Miller, Ann 195 Millet, Catherine 8 Millet, Richard 211 Millett, Kate 29, 45, 110 misogyny 12, 41–2, 91, 126, 128, 181, 223, 232 Dominique Strauss-Kahn case 216 highlighted by MLAC 42 presence in the French media 111, 216n6 see also Les Nouvelles News

Index presence in French TV and cinema 54–70 see also Les Insoumuses; Maso et Miso vont en bateau Mitchell, Juliet 110 Mitterrand, François 135–6, 139 1965 presidential election 11, 25 1981 presidential election 104 appointment of Françoise Giroud 43–4 appointment of Yvette Roudy 135 Mix-Cité 216 Mnesonyme 130–1 Mohanty, Chandra 205 Moi, Toril Sexual/Textual Politics 164 Moiroud, Marque and Marcel 55 Mollier, Jean-Yves 85 Monaco 143 Monde, Le 8, 9, 106, 211, 232 Montaigne, Michel de 174 Monteil, Claudine 129 The Beauvoir Sisters 227 Montellier, Chantal Sorcières, mes sœurs 188 Montenegro 143 Montparnasse, Kiki de 183n1, 189, 197 Montreal 106 Montreynaud, Florence 106–7 Monument aux mères françaises 133–4, 139 Morano, Nadine 81 Moreau, Jeanne 42 Moreno, Marguerite 174 Morocco 143, 148, 151–2 motherhood 3, 12, 24, 27, 34, 37–8, 74, 91, 133–4, 139, 148, 164, 174–5, 178, 181–2, 201–2, 216 see also maternity feminist foremothers 15, 26, 41, 177 relationship with daughters 19, 38, 195, 198, 201, 210 Republican Motherhood 134 working mothers 12, 78–83, 192, 218 Mots à la bouche, Les 111

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Moulinex 23, 47 Mouvement Démocratique Féminin (MDF) 25, 30 Mouvement Français pour le Planning Familial (MFPF) 25, 30, 107, 113 Mouvement de Libération des Femmes (MLF) 2, 4, 11, 13, 19, 26, 27n11, 28–9, 31, 33–50, 53–4, 85–6, 88, 91, 93, 97–8, 103–5, 107, 110, 120, 129–34, 186–7, 206, 230–1, 233 see also Le Torchon brûle Benoîte Groult 41 Histoires du MLF 19 naming of 35 origins of 20, 29–32 relationship with state initiatives 33 Mouvement pour la Liberté de l’Avortement et de la Contraception (MLAC) 42, 47, 108, 187, 201 Mouvement Républicain Populaire 23 Muel-Dreyfus, Francine 133 Muller, Catel see ‘Catel’ Muñoz, José Esteban 128 Musée des Civilisations de l’Europe et de la Méditerrannée, Marseille (MuCEM) 13, 141–3, 145–6, 150–2, 154, 231 Musée national des arts et traditions populaires (MNATP) 141–3 Nantes 119 Napoleonic Code 22 ‘New Girl’ 222–3 New York 107, 216 Ni putes ni soumises 50, 204, 215, 217 Noailles, Anna de 92n2 Nora, Olivier 194 Nora, Pierre 130, 131–2 Nord-Pas de Calais 144 Norman, Mady 65–6 Norway 74 Notéris, Emilie 111

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Nouvel Observateur Le 30, 105, 188, 217 Nouvelles News, Les 12, 101–2, 108m 111–14 Nouvelles Questions Féministes 204 Ockrent, Christine 48, 50 Octaviennes 89 Olympique-Entrepôt, L’ 56, 60 Osez le féminisme! 14, 106–7, 200, 217–18, 225–6 ‘Egalité maintenant! L’’ 217–18 ‘FémiCité’ campaign 131–2, 138 Ottinger, Ulrike 52 Page, Marion 121n10 Palestine 143, 145 Pankhurst sisters 190 Pantheon, the 13, 132, 135–7 Paris 8, 13, 20, 25, 30, 35–6, 39, 42, 47, 53, 63, 89, 102, 105–6, 108, 110–11, 113–14, 119–21, 125, 131–2, 134–5, 137–9, 141–4, 184, 202, 206, 211–12 Commune 53 parity (political) 107, 137, 204, 219 law 104 Parti Communiste Francais (PCF) 24, 46, 49, 201 objections to family planning 26 Union des Femmes Françaises (UFF) 23–4 Partisans 2, 21 Pasquier, Nicole 50 Pastre, Geneviève 89 paternity leave 79, 230 patriarchy 11, 35, 38, 43, 73, 91, 120n9, 121, 126, 136, 204, 220, 222, 226, 233 Paturier, Françoise 45 Pavard, Bibia 30–1 see also ‘Manifeste des 343 salopes’ Pécresse, Valérie 81 Penelope, the wife of Odysseus 113, 175

Pénélopes, Les 105 Perkins, Millie 64–6 Perrot, Michelle 9–10, 13, 136, 141, 146 ‘Pétroleuse’ 53 Philippe, Edouard 104n3 Philippe, Gérard 67n12 photography 51, 147–8, 151, 154, 208 Piaf, Edith 183n1 Picard, Hélène 174 Picq, Françoise 27–8 see also The Second Sex 1980s survey of grassroot MLF activists 29–30 Pinel, Sylvia 104n3 Pisan, Anne de 19 Pivot, Bernard 11, 48, 59–60 pleasure 12, 40, 115–20, 123–8, 181–2, 233 Poggi, Dominique 56 politics 19, 22–3, 31, 92, 116, 119, 154, 158, 221, 226 cultural 87 far-right 227 feminist 37, 51–2, 98, 117, 121, 187, 217 in film 52 gender 45, 53, 140, 222, 227 leftist 34 lesbian 123, 128 lesbian radical 115, 117, 121–2, 127–8 performance 220 of pleasure 116, 119, 127, 233 sexual 157, 164, 187 textual 164–5 women in 21n3, 45, 73, 190 Pollack, Emmanuelle 183n1 Popular Front, the 22, 133 pornography 37, 48 power 9, 61, 66, 79, 103, 111, 115, 118, 121, 136, 139, 148, 157–8, 160, 173, 222, 224–5, 232–3 see also patriarchy exclusion of women 50, 158, 220

Index gendered power dynamics 34, 232 lesbian 126 patriarchal 220 political 46, 87, 128 procreation as 176 relations in the home 73 pregnancy 37–8, 42, 47n19, 149, 178 Prestation d’accueil du jeune enfant (PAJE) 78 Prestation partagée d’éducation de l’enfant (PreParE) 79–83 Prin, Alice see Kiki de Montparnasse Printemps Lesbien, Toulouse 126 Prix Citron 67 Prix Macho de l’année 106 property (women’s) 25 Prost, Antoine 130 prostitution 61 prostitute strikes 36, 39 working conditions 48 Protestantism/Protestant groups 24, 28, 57 Psych et Po 36, 88, 91–2, 105, 110, 120, 174, 203 publishing 5–6, 12, 147, 166 children’s 95–6 houses 5, 36, 86–9, 94–5, 98, 103–4, 110–11, 113, 231 industry 12, 85–99, 231 international 93 lesbian-themed 89, 125 Quebec 63, 93n3, 106, 122 queer theory 5, 7, 14, 127–8, 221, 234 see also sexuality; LGBT; LGBTIQA+ queer identities 6 Questions féministes 89, 120 Quotidien des femmes, Le 36, 88, 104 race 6, 14, 182, 202–4, 206–9, 211, 213, 215n3, 223 see also whiteness

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racism 14, 203, 207, 210–13 radical feminism 4–5, 11, 24, 26, 33, 35, 37, 44, 46, 48–9, 53, 62, 74, 103, 115, 117, 120–3, 126–8, 130, 135, 139–40, 142, 147–8, 154, 184, 186–7, 202, 226, 233 Radio France Internationale 150 rape 39, 48, 105, 186, 216 crisis centres 9, 36 SOS Femmes-Alternative 39 Rapper, Gilles de 149 Rayon Gay 89 reclaiming the street 6 Renoir, Rita 65–7 Republicanism (French) 3, 22, 131–2, 134, 137, 204 see also universalism Republican Motherhood 134 Resistance, the 23, 24n8, 30, 133 Résistantes 130, 135–7, 183n1 Resnais, Alain 51 L’Année dernière à Marienbad / Last Year at Marienbad 51–2, 57, 69 Muriel 51n1 Revue d’en face 73 Reynolds, Siân 10–11, 19–32 Ricciotti, Rudy 142–3 Richter, Ingrid 1 Ringart, Nadja 56, 61 Riot-Sarcey, Michèle 9, 10, 139 Rivette, Jacques Céline et Julie vont en bateau 66 Rivière, Georges Henri 142 Robinson, Hilary 152 Rocheblave-Spenlé, Anne-Marie 28 Rochedereux, Evelyne 115–20, 126 Rochefort, Christiane 30 Petits enfants du siècle 37n7 Rochefoucauld, Edmée de la 92n2 Roland, Madame 187n8 Roland, Pauline 187, 191 Romeu Etienne, Inês 67–8 Ronell, Avital 56n8

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Roudy, Yvette 9, 10, 25, 29–30, 42, 44, 50, 135 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques 175 Rousset-Gillet, Isabelle 209 Roussopoulos, Carole 51, 54–7, 64 Rowbotham, Sheila 29 Royal, Ségolène 50, 217 Rugy, François de 104n3 Rupp, Leila J. 4 Sachs, Nelly 92n2 Sade 41 Sallenave, Daniele Nous on n’aime pas lire 195 Sand, Georgette 215 Santos, Emma Théâtre 97 Sarkozy, Nicolas 81–3, 107, 217 Sarrasin, Albertine 92n2 Sartre, Jean-Paul 27, 45, 86, 175–6, 178 Satrapi, Marjane Persepolis 188 Scandinavia 74 comparison with France 74, 76, 79, 82 Schaal, Michèle A. 14–15, 215–27 Schiappa, Marlène 221, 230 Schiffrin, André 87 Schneider, Maria 65–6 Schopenhauer, Arthur 175 Sciences Potiches se Rebellent, Les 215 Scott, Joan 3, 139, 204–5 S.C.U.M. Manifesto 56, 57–9 Second World War 3, 10–11, 19, 22, 37n7, 121, 133, 136, 212 Secretary of state for the family 81 for gender equality 230–1 for women 5, 11, 36, 44, 59, 80, 221, 231 secularisation 75 seduction 38 Seksik, Laurent 195

self-expression 12, 107–8 Sellier, Geneviève 56 Senate, the 25, 79, 135 Servan-Schreiber, Claude 92, 184n4 sex 9, 36–7, 41, 99, 146, 157, 172, 182, 204, 218–19, 222, 234 sexism 7, 40, 41, 60, 106, 111, 190, 198, 216, 229, 231 ‘Everyday Sexism’ project 190 sexuality 5, 9–10, 36, 146–7, 154, 168, 172, 182, 186, 201–2, 230 see also lesbian; LGBT; LGBTIQA+; queer theory; trans identities gay 89, 106, 111, 126, 146, 149, 151 guilt 9 ‘hétérocentrisme’ 187n7 heterosexuality 120–1, 125, 149, 154, 223, 231 ‘homoliberalism’ 127–8 homonormativity 12 homophobia 12, 127 homosexuality 64, 149, 151, 154 orientation 36, 114, 215, 224, 233 relationships 7, 10, 176 Seyrig, Delphine 5, 11, 39, 43, 51–70, 105, 231 Calamity Jane, 69 Inês 53, 67–8 Sois belle et tais-toi 53, 63, 66 Sica, Vittorio de 149 Signoret, Simone 67 Simone, Nina 131 Sinclair, Anne 60, 69 sites of national memory 6, 13, 129–40, 231 see also memorialization Situationists, the 34 Smith, Paul 22 Sniter, Christel 132 social class see class social media 7–8, 63, 148, 151 see also #BalanceTonPorc; #MeToo Socialism 28, 187n8 Parti Socialiste 25, 43, 77, 80, 86, 104n3, 138, 143

Index sociology 202–3 relationship with women’s movement 28 sociologists of ‘the female condition’ 28 Solanas, Valerie 56–7, 59, 225 Sorcières 90, 92, 179 Sorman, Joy 217 South Africa 203 space 6, 12, 36, 42, 57, 59, 62–3, 85, 92–5, 102, 106–11, 113, 130–1, 140, 142, 145–7, 151–2, 154, 179, 207–8, 231 see also sites of national memory public 5, 102, 105–6, 113, 132, 138, 229, 233 women-only 5, 101–2, 108, 114, 126, 231 Spain 94, 145 Civil War 22 state, the (French) 45, 55, 77, 81, 86–7, 96, 105, 117, 150, 213 state-endorsed feminism 11, 33, 43, 75, 83, 230, 233 state familialism 12, 37, 75–6, 83 see also birth Steele, Barbara 65 Steinem, Gloria 190 Storti, Martine 46 Strauss-Kahn, Dominique 107, 216 structuralism 34 suffrage 21–2, 31, 44, 102, 108, 139, 147, 190, 200, 220, 230 see also parity United States 129 Sullerot, Evelyne 25, 29 Sweden 74 Switzerland 122 Syria 143, 145, 151 Syros Jeunesse 89 Tabard, Fabienne 51 Tandon, Neeru 2 Tasca, Catherine 143 Taylor, Verta 4

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television 55, 57–63, 231 Temps modernes, Les 27, 36, 41–2, 115, 117, 171, 173, 200 Texier, Geneviève Condition de la Française aujourd’hui 28 text 5, 29n15, 42, 48, 56–7, 94, 96–8, 114, 118, 132, 151, 157, 158–234, 167–70, 173–5, 177, 179–80, 186, 189–90, 193–4, 197, 208–9 theatre 52, 56, 126, 163–4 Thébaud, Françoise 137 Thérame, Victoria 97 Thévenot, Simone 51n1 Third Republic 132, 134 ‘third world’ 205 Thomas, Lyn 14, 201–14, 233 Ticineto Clough, Patricia 116 Tillon, Germaine 137 Tomb of the Unknown Soldier 20, 129, 131–2, 134 Toranian, Valérie Pour en finir avec la femme 217 Torchon brûle, Le 12, 91, 101–7, 110, 113–14, 147 totalitarianism 10 Touati, Aïcha 205 Toulouse 119, 122–3, 125–7 trans identities 6, 149, 222, see also sexuality; LGBT; LGBTIQA+ trans studies 7 translation 1, 216n5 in Cixous 158, 164, 169 feminist publishing 93–5, 97–8 feminist works 29, 110 transnationalism 4, 6, 95, 130–2, 138, 190, 198 ‘Trente glorieuses’ 23 Tristan, Anne 19 Tristan, Flora 135, 187 Truffaut, François Baisers volés 51n1 Trump, Donald anti-Trump demonstrations 50, 233

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TumulTueuses, Les 216n6 Tunisia 143, 148, 151 Turin, Adela 95 Turkey 143, 145 Twitter 62–3 Ukraine 106 see also Femen UNESCO 150–1, 191 Union des Démocrates pour la République (UDR) 43 Union Féminine Civique et Sociale (UFCS) 23 Union for the Mediterranean (UfM) 143 Union pour un Mouvement Populaire (UMP) 81, 106 Union Nationale des Associations Familiales (UNAF) 80 Union Nationale des Étudiants Français (UNEF) 107 United Kingdom (UK) 1, 2, 5, 20, 22, 26, 75–6, 114, 122, 132, 139, 203 United Nations 11, 33, 36, 46, 59 United States (US) Deep South 203 film industry 7 Franco-American feminist memory culture 131 Françoise Giroud 45 feminist utopia 126 Hollywood 63, 66 ‘Women’s lib’ 35, 38, 129 universalism 3, 27, 40n14, 130–1, 139–40, 202–4, 225 Unknown Soldier, the 20, 129–31, 133–4, 140 USSR 57 utopia 115–28, 164, 226 Valland, Rose 183n1 Vallaud-Belkacem, Najat 79, 106, 150 Varda, Agnès 36, 51 La Création étouffée 90 Daguerréotypes 42 Réponse de femmes 30, 40

Variety 65 Veil, Simone 37, 49, 105 admittance to the Pantheon 139–40 Verdier, Paule 92n2 Verlanger, Julia, 92n2 Vichy regime 133 victimization 10 VIDEA 55–6 Vidéaste 51, 54–5, 62 video 11, 43, 51, 53–7, 59–62, 64, 67–9, 146, 148, 151 Vignes, Lucette des 92n2 Vincennes campus 35, 56 Vincent, Stéphanie 217 violence 38–9, 48, 121, 191, 212–13, 231, 232 against women 48, 59, 64–5, 109, 139–40, 147–8, 151, 190, 218, 229, 231–2 sexual harassment 7, 9–10, 37, 39, 50, 105n4, 114, 149, 230, 232 sexual violence 8–10, 37, 39, 50, 59, 109, 213, 219, 232 Violette & Co 108, 111 Viva 64 Vivien, Renée 138 Vlasta 88–9 Voix off 88 vote see suffrage Ward-Jouve, Nicole 97 Warhol, Andy 56, 64 Warner, Sara 116 ‘homoliberalism’ 127–8 Weill-Hallé Marie-André 25 Weinstein, Harvey 7, 232 see also sexual harassment whiteness 14, 202–3, 207–14, 223–5, 233 see also race Wiazemsky, Anne 66–7 Wieder, Ioana 51, 54–6 Wieviorka, Annette 151 Williams, Cindy 64 Williams Crenshaw, Kimberlé 223 Windebank, Jan 12, 73–83

Index Winter, Bronwyn 12–13, 137, 141–54, 232 Wittig, Monique Brouillon pour un dictionnaire des amantes 118 Les Guérillères 90, 115n1, 119n5 ‘Manifeste des 343 salopes’ 31 L’Opoponax 90 La Pensée Straight/The Straight Mind 89, 120 Woolf, Virginia 26, 94, 109 work 34, 53, 67, 172 Association contre les violences faites aux femmes au travail (AVFT) 105, 113 Code du Travail 105n4 discrimination at work 27–8, 47, 111, 215–16, 218–19, 220n13, 221–4, 227, 230 domestic, women’s 12, 73–83, 173, 218–19 and family life 12, 74–83

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part-time 75, 77–8 sexual harassment in the workplace 105n4 working conditions, women’s 11, 47 writing 91, 157, 160–2, 164, 166, 169, 174–5, 178, 180, 186, 191, 197, 201–3, 206–9, 226, 232 see also écriture féminine; language experimental 90–1 women’s 93, 111, 159 Yourcenar, Marguerite 92 Yousufzaï, Malala 138 Zappi, Sylvia 217 Zeig, Sande 118 Zelinski, Anne 28–9, 31 ‘Manifeste des 343 salopes’ 31 Zimmermann, Marie-Jo 136 Zweig, Stefan 195