Sophie Calle

Sophie Calle
*1953 in Paris; lives in Paris and New York City
I don't know him. A common friend suggested I call him up. He agrees to come on Saturday, April 7th, from 3 to 11 p.m. He arrives, drunk, at 6 p.m. He finds an empty bed, Marino Vagliano having left at the agreed time. He's exhausted. He goes to bed immediately without changing the sheets. He clamors for television; just the sound. I let him sleep. He speaks to me through the intermediary of the tape recorder. He describes his night, the alcohol... he says: "Ah! It was fine believing it. I like being in this bed... I watch television. I’ve got no spooks, but in fact, that's all I do have..." 6:30 he falls into a laden sleep. He uncovers himself constantly. At 11 I awaken him with a meal: ham, eggs, noodles. He declares himself "rested". He wants to get up. At 11:40 he crosses Andrew Granmore who takes the next shift. They recognize each other, say hi. Afterwards I accompany Jean-Yves Le Gavre to the door and thank him for coming. He says: “it’s been the first moment of peace I’ve had in a long time.”