in a lost bottom. And ultimately what troubled me most in this discovery is not so much the objects, the photo that represented her so young, but rather that precious thing,
shut here all these years, delicate confinement: her smell.
Cotton linters had its smell.
I treasured all this with the strange sensation of having profaned the sacred, to show them to her daughter, my mother, and then I slid back behind the drawer each element
in this double bottom almost inaccessible, where remains the smell of my grandmother. I do not know who will find all of this, who and when?
My black seasons were those of childhood, seasons plunged into darkness, where the time year after year always bury a little more. The photographed territory is in France, where I grew up, and landscapes are similar to my bedside table, they hide my memory, with all the smells, tastes, sensations that I was able to experience.
How do we go beyond the territory of childhood when it looks like to pens?
In my memory, it is bounded by some hills, some meadows, forest, village, countryside as a playground. And that's what we were, the country's children, the children of a landscape. I had the chance to grow in a protected environment, we were a few friends, animals with a territory. Young dogs peeing in the grass and mark their habitat. We had our huts, hiding places, secrets. This child then wrote my relationship to space and returning to those places is like being a kid, eternal, part of the earth. My black seasons are fields, peasants, the darkness of a church, the silence of the forest, mad dashes and lowing of cattle, the inexorable passage of time between my fingers.