In the summer of 1980, Alix Cléo Roubaud spent her vacation in Saint-Félix, a village in southwestern France where her husband, the poet Jacques Roubaud, had a family home. Her brother-in-law, the painter Pierre Getzler, had set up a studio in a large room above the home’s main stonework, and allowed her to make use of it while he was away. Alix spent every day there during the month of August, working under the scorching midday sun. The room was almost entirely lit by a single window. She had several rolls of film with her, and wanted to experiment with a new way of photographing herself. She sought a form of asceticism, which she described in her diary: “the daily practice of photographing myself that must always begin again¹.”

For at least ten days, she devoted herself entirely to taking photographs. Her camera was mounted on a tripod; she marked the edges of the frame on the floor. Within this space, at once real and photographic, she performed completely naked. Her body…