Perched on his nose, Pierre Adrian wears round glasses that lend him the air of someone with everything still to prove. Make no mistake, however: not even thirty, he is already the author of five books. A bibliography whose protagonists live on the edge. From the streets of Rome to the French national highways, Pierre Adrian crafts meticulously paced adventures to notable acclaim, having already earned major honours, including the Prix des Deux Magots in 2016 for La Piste Pasolini. For Hast, the author reflects on why clothing matters in his writing and in life.
How much importance do you place on description in your books, and more specifically on depicting the silhouettes and bearing of your characters?
When my latest book, Les Bons Garçons, was published, a friend remarked that reading it felt like watching a film. I thought that was a wonderful compliment. I belong to a visual generation. People of my age draw heavily upon visual cues. In my novels, to bring a character into focus, I need to dwell on their silhouette, on their physique. That naturally involves moments devoted to describing their clothes. In Les Bons Garçons, my main characters are ragazzi from northern Rome, around Piazza Bologna, hailing from the local fascist bourgeoisie of the 1960s. These are profiles tied to a distinct political dress code. The pariolini, as they are known, had their own distinct wardrobe: a leather jacket and tight jeans, a polo shirt or a roll neck depending on the season, and ankle boots. They wore Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses—their signature mark. These details may seem trivial, but in the book they had to be staged precisely to get as close to reality as possible. In Les Bons Garçons, as in my other books, clothing always serves as a marker. It signals one’s social class, one’s movement.
For Les Bons Garçons, what kind of preparatory work did you do before writing to portray your characters as accurately as possible from a visual standpoint?
I spent a great deal of time researching at the National Library in Rome. I combed through old newspapers and collected piles of period photographs, especially of political rallies, where you could see the silhouettes of the people whose lives I wanted to tell. I also drew inspiration from 1960s and 1970s Italian cinema, such as the films of Ettore Scola, or Pasolini’s later work. I even listened to Italian podcasts on these subjects, where clothing is specifically discussed. Documentary research is absolutely essential.
To round off the Italian part of this conversation, let us turn for a moment to the book you devoted to director Pier Paolo Pasolini in 2015, La Piste Pasolini. The man was flamboyant, with an instantly recognisable style…
There is a real presence to Pasolini, an extraordinary charisma. He was a thoroughbred provincial who came up to Rome to make his career. In the early 50s, he wore shapeless wide-leg trousers and scruffy shirts. What is fascinating about Pasolini is that he was constantly driven by an anxiety about death and a passion for life, for youth. He refused to grow old, and that showed in his clothes. In his forties, he dressed as if he were twenty, in flared trousers, tight jeans, loose shirts, biker jackets, and those unchanging smoked-glass spectacles. At all costs, he wanted to remain appealing, to belong to what was young. More broadly, I also feel Italy is the ultimate home of the suit. Looking back at old photographs of Pasolini, Marcello Mastroianni, Alberto Sordi or Vittorio Gassman, there is a unique way of wearing a suit. On them, the jacket fits like a second skin. I am always captivated by people who know how to dress with elegance in countries where summers are scorching. I often think of a short story by Dino Buzzati, The Bewitched Jacket: the tale of a man who has a suit made by a local tailor, and every time he slips his hand into his pocket, he pulls out a banknote. That sums up Italy entirely.
Beyond Italy, another passion of yours is cycling. You ride at a good level and have even written on the subject, publishing the book Le Tour de France par deux enfants d’aujourd’hui in 2018. In the professional peloton, how can cyclists express individual style when they all wear the same uniform, from helmet to bib shorts?
In cycling, or on a bike, elegance goes far beyond what you wear. Above all, it is a matter of posture. Some riders are simply beautiful to watch pedalling. It all comes down to how you sit on the bike, how you rise on the pedals, or when you are out of the saddle on a climb. For instance, I think the young Dutchman Mathieu van der Poel is a magnificent cyclist. He has a feline quality. When standing out of the saddle, his shoulders remain perfectly straight, his upper body motionless. The same is true of the great Classics riders, in races like Paris-Roubaix and the Tour of Flanders. Those men move nothing but their hips as they ride; it is extraordinary. That is fundamental elegance. Conversely, Chris Froome, despite being a four-time winner of the Tour de France, offers nothing of interest from that standpoint. Froome is hunched over his machine. One must also look at the riders' physiques. In the past, they did not use the same gear ratios, and their bodies were more powerful to drive the bike forward. Today, because they spin at very high cadences, their physiques are wiry, and calf muscles have shrunk. It is rather curious. On the other hand, making helmets compulsory in 2003 erased the cyclist’s face, and I believe the peloton took it badly. It contributed to a kind of uniformisation of style, whereas until then, riders could stand out in other ways: I think, for instance, of Laurent Brochard’s long mane or Marco Pantani’s famous bandana. Today’s trend, if one had to name one, would be wearing a kind of visor mask to shield against the sun, like skiers. As a result, you can no longer see the athletes' faces at all—no expressions, no grimaces, no pain. Peloton trends naturally filter down to Sunday riders. When I cycle around the Longchamp racecourse on the outskirts of Paris, I cross paths with plenty of guys in full kit, wearing the mask, ultra-modern minimalist jerseys, and long, almost aerodynamic bib shorts. As for me, I remain very classic, old school, in short cycling shorts, Fausto Coppi style.
Do you feel you look like a writer? And indeed, could you define what a writer looks like?
Personally, I have a very urban style, somewhere between party life and football. When I attend literary events, like book fairs or award ceremonies, my way of dressing always stands out a bit. Once, at the Nîmes biography fair, I turned up to the opening reception in Air Max trainers and an oversized jumper, in a very stiff and formal setting. The author Gonzague Saint-Bris, with his aristocratic demeanour, looked me up and down with an unmistakable pout of disgust, as if I had no business being there. It made me laugh, though I can understand it: there are places and occasions where I really ought to make a bit more effort. That said, once Gonzague de Saint-Bris learned I had won the Prix des Deux Magots, he imtely became much more gracious. Today, I feel literature is moving away from the very hushed, traditional Parisian Left Bank towards the Right Bank. Writers of my generation have no qualms about looking like anyone else their age, and all the better for it. There is no need to play the Saint-Germain-des-Prés intellectual to write. And one shouldn't forget that among the most acclaimed writers, some have virtually no style at all: Houellebecq, for one, is hardly a picture of elegance.
How are you dressed when it comes to sitting down to write?
When it comes to writing, I am a morning person. I am always at my sharpest just after waking up. As a result, I often find myself writing in pyjamas or a Sergio Tacchini tracksuit. Wearing Birkenstocks. Comfort comes first. I only really get dressed late in the morning, after clearing my head on the bike. Before that, I write. Ciao ragazzi!