Jean-Marie Périer on photographing Françoise Hardy, Salvador Dalí, Yves Saint Laurent and The Beatles

If anything said that post-war Paris was revitalised and hip to the times, it was the easy-going music of yé-yé pop. A meeting of rock ’n’ roll and French culture, yé-yé’s light-spirited songs could be heard on Dansette record players across the nation, bringing a poetic, sun-kissed backbeat into a grey boneyard Europe. They were performed by gamine young women in dresses with short hemlines, who sang about flirtations and schoolgirl crushes with a naivety so yearningly lovely that Jean Cocteau was moved to describe the voice of one of the biggest stars, Françoise Hardy, as ‘a luminous breeze’.

At the centre of yé-yé's charmed circle was the young photographer Jean-Marie Périer. He was the son of the celebrated actor François Périer, and his movie-star good looks enabled him to move easily in this blithe, peppy world, documenting its wistful ingénues for the magazine Salut les copains. Having been immersed in Paris’s bohemian world from a young age, he understood its language and translated its avant-garde ideas into sexy pictures with an oddball wit. As the 1960s continued, he swapped the Left Bank for patchouli-scented London and later downtown LA, travelling with the Rolling Stones, The Beatles and Bob Dylan, and becoming a witness to the decade's unfolding craziness.

With the exhibition Jean‑Marie Périer: Les belles années currently on show at Christie’s in Paris, the photographer and filmmaker talked to us about hanging out with Salvador Dalí, photographing Yves Saint Laurent — and what made the 1960s and 1970s such an unforgettable era.

You photographed some of the defining figures of the 1960s. Did it feel as though you were living through a cultural revolution, or did that only become clear in retrospect?

Yes, I realised from the very beginning that these young artists represented the ‘birth of adolescence’, thanks to the new music coming from the United States. Of course, they were singing American songs that had been translated into French by lyricists who were not exactly Marcel Proust. Françoise Hardy was the only one who wrote her own lyrics, and she continued to do so throughout her life.

What was wonderful for me was that we were all the same age, so there was a very direct contact. But I was especially struck by the fact that they all came from very disadvantaged backgrounds, whereas I, thanks to my father, enjoyed a very privileged life. Our house overlooking the Seine was constantly filled with celebrities who came for lunch or dinner: Louis Jouvet, Pierre Brasseur, Jean Cocteau, Jean Marais, Simone Signoret and Yves Montand, along with many foreign actors — it was a little world that enchanted my days and nights.

Your portraits of Yves Saint Laurent are very playful. What was he like when the camera wasn’t rolling, and what made him such an engaging subject to photograph?

As it happens, I had known him since the 1960s. He was the one I asked to create Françoise Hardy’s first tuxedo suit, le smoking. So I was delighted to reconnect with him in the 1990s through Elle magazine.

He was a discreet, very well-mannered man, but he always gave me the impression that, even when surrounded by friends or admirers, he was deeply alone, almost solitary. Working with him again was a real joy. He agreed to everything I suggested.

The last photograph I took of him was the one with the red curtain, shot in the studio. He was very ill and quite fragile at the time. I knew I would never see him again, so that photograph became a farewell. He was not seen publicly again before his death.

You began your career working for the photographer and jazz enthusiast Daniel Filipacchi, who was also a collector of Surrealist art. What was the most valuable lesson he taught you?

I first met him in Paris at the radio station Europe 1, where he hosted a jazz programme. I was 16, though I looked 12. Within three minutes, he had hired me, saying, ‘Come tomorrow at noon to the Marie Claire studio.’

Surprised by such an odd working hour, I asked why. He replied, ‘The future belongs to those who get up late!’

He was the publisher of a jazz magazine, and before long he lent me a Leica camera and sent me on tour with Dizzy Gillespie, Ella Fitzgerald and Miles Davis. That’s how I learned photography — entirely on my own, without ever attending school. The same was true of all the other professions I would later pursue: filmmaking, advertising, live shows, exhibitions, and writing numerous books and novels.

Tell us about the photograph of Françoise Hardy with Salvador Dalí. How did it come about?

Filipacchi knew Dalí and arranged a meeting at his principal house in Cadaqués, Spain. Dalí immediately took a liking to Françoise, and we spent two days there with his wife and friends. I hardly needed to come up with ideas for photographs — he was a living spectacle in his own right.

His house was like a village within the village of Cadaqués, filled with extraordinary objects, and Françoise and I simply had to follow him around. He truly was an extraordinary man. Françoise saw him again once or twice when he came to Paris and stayed at the Hôtel Meurice.

You dated Françoise Hardy and took many photographs of her. Would you say she was your muse?

She was my favourite subject, because we were living together. She was the first person I met after returning from my 28 months in the Algerian War. She was extremely shy and thought herself unattractive because her grandmother had told her that nonsense repeatedly throughout her childhood.

She lived with her mother and sister in a very small apartment. When their door first opened, I was literally struck by her beauty.

She was shy, and I immediately sensed the enormous difference between our childhoods. We wandered through Paris without daring to speak much to one another.

Within a few weeks, we were inseparable. She became my favourite person and remained so even after our separation four years later. She stayed my friend for the rest of her life, and I continued photographing her right up until her death.

Two years after we broke up, she introduced me to Jacques Dutronc [later to become her husband]. I fell in love with him immediately. How could I not love the person who loved the love of my life?

You made the film Dirty Dreamer with Dutronc. Can you tell me the inspiration behind the film?

Well, actually, I was so crazy about Dutronc, I left the magazine Salut les copains to manage him. And for many, many years he remained my best friend.

It has to be said that he was a very unusual character. When he started out in music, unlike everyone else — all heavily influenced by America, some even adopting American-sounding names — Jacques kept the name Dutronc and dressed in suits and ties, always impeccably elegant. As well as that, he was a truly rare artist because of his humour, his cheeky irreverence and his incredible nonchalance. Whenever we had lunch with friends in restaurants, you could be sure that by the end of the meal the owner’s wife would be dancing on a table with a saucepan on her head. He either attracted crazy people or drove them to become crazy.

I ended up spending more time with him than Françoise did, even though she was married to him. That’s life!

You also directed your father, François Périer, in the film Antoine et Sébastien. What was that like?

Antoine et Sébastien was also the first film I made with Jacques. I really enjoyed working with my father. I had already made a TV movie with him, and when Jacques came on board, it was obvious that I wanted to work with him again. My father was a major star of both the theatre and the cinema, so it was very reassuring to have him with me. As for Dutronc, who had never acted in a film before, he was excellent from the very first take.

Looking back at all the photographs you have taken, is there one image that still surprises you?

There are several. One is of Françoise during our first trip to Venice, where she is in fits of laughter. Then there are the ones of Johnny Hallyday and Sylvie Vartan — they had asked me to be a witness at their wedding, which was very kind of them. But on top of that, when they went on their honeymoon, they took me along with them. It was the three of us together, which is rather unusual, to say the least.

And then there is the one that shows Dutronc wearing headphones with the wire connected to a dead fish. What is wonderful is that, in reality, it meant absolutely nothing at all — it was just something we did for a laugh after a very jolly and rather well-lubricated lunch. You can’t imagine how many people tried to find a logical explanation for that photograph, when in fact there wasn’t one.

There are also the photos of The Beatles, and especially the Rolling Stones — but that would be too long a story to tell.

When people visit this exhibition, what do you hope they will see beyond the famous faces? Is there a feeling, an idea or a memory that you hope they will take away?

I hope it will remind people of a wonderful period in their youth, seeing the photographs they used to pin up on their bedroom walls. Those pictures were everywhere: whenever I looked up, I saw walls covered in my photographs. Honestly, the 1960s and 1970s will remain forever an unforgettable era.

Jean‑Marie Périer: Les belles années is on show at Christie’s in Paris, Monday to Friday, until 7 August 2026, then 20-28 August

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