This bedside table is part of the furniture to which I am attached and where my maternal grandmother, who died in 2008 had left inadvertently these few items, hidden for 60 years. The most disturbing in this discovery was not the papers or the photography for that matter, but rather that thing so valuable, locked away all these years... delicate confinement: its smell.
The cotton flock contained her scent.
I have kept safe all this to show them to her daughter, my mother, before slipping again each element behind the drawer, in the heart of this false bottom almost inaccessible, where remains circumscribed the smell of my grandmother.
My black seasons are those of childhood, seasons shrouded in darkness that the time covers each day more. The territory pictured is a French countryside where I grew up and whose landscapes, similar to the bedside table, hiding my memory, all the smells and tastes that gradually formed me, the sensations, hard life, season after season.